Jude Bellingham

You broke up with your ex last night.

Not even twenty-four hours ago.

Which is why, admittedly, going to Jude’s match today probably wasn’t your smartest decision.

But Jude had asked you weeks ago.

And despite everything that happened last night—the argument, the final we’re done, the crying until your eyes hurt—you didn’t want to sit alone in your apartment feeling miserable.

So now you’re tucked into your seat in the stands, coat pulled around you, trying to lose yourself in the match.

Jude knows you came.

Of course he does.

He found you during warm-ups almost immediately.

One glance into the section where he knew your seat would be, and there you were.

And even from this far away, you saw it.

That tiny change in his face.

His eyebrows lifting.

His mouth twitching upward.

You’d rolled your eyes when he gave you the smallest wave.

What you didn’t know was that Jude had also found out about the breakup this morning.

Because Jobe had told him.

And apparently, Jude Bellingham had absolutely no ability to behave normally with this information.

The match is tight until the second half.

Then Jude gets the ball.

One touch.

Another.

A burst into the box—

Goal.

The entire stadium explodes.

You shoot to your feet instinctively with everyone else, hands flying to your mouth as Jude races away from the goal.

His teammates chase him.

The crowd is roaring.

Jude looks ecstatic.

Almost—

Suspiciously ecstatic.

He runs toward the corner flag, drops into a knee slide, and when he gets back onto his feet, he looks toward the camera.

Then raises both hands.

And makes a heart.

You blink.

A heart?

You actually smile at first.

Cute.

Probably for the supporters.

Except—

Jude isn’t looking into the camera anymore.

His head turns.

His eyes travel upward.

Toward your section.

Toward—

you.

Your smile disappears.

“No.”

Even from several rows up, you swear you see his grin get bigger.

“No, no, no—”

His teammates crash into him from behind, laughing and grabbing at his shoulders, but Jude keeps that stupid heart held in front of his chest for another second.

Directly toward you.

You immediately shake your head.

Jude laughs.

Actually laughs.

On the pitch.

In front of thousands of people.

You sink back into your seat, covering half your face while the giant screen replays his celebration.

The commentators are eating it up.

“A little love for the supporters from Bellingham!”

Supporters.

Right.

Your phone vibrates.

You glance down.

Jobe: Don’t.

Your eyebrows knit.

Another message arrives.

Jobe: Whatever you do, don’t encourage him.

You type rapidly.

You: ????

The typing bubble appears.

Jobe: He found out this morning.

Your stomach drops.

You: about what

There’s a painfully long pause.

Then—

Jobe: You know exactly what.

Your eyes slowly lift toward the pitch.

Jude is jogging back into position.

And somehow, as though he can physically feel you glaring at him from hundreds of feet away, he turns his head.

Finds you again.

You really should’ve known Jude was going to be unbearable about your breakup.

He’d been suspiciously well-behaved when you told him.

Almost too well-behaved.

You’d been curled into the corner of his sofa, exhausted after explaining that you and your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, now—had finally ended things.

Jude had listened quietly.

No smug comments.

No I told you so.

He’d just handed you tissues, pulled the blanket higher over your legs and murmured,

“Probably for the best, yeah?”

Very mature.

Very supportive.

Very unlike Jude.

What you didn’t realize was that internally?

The man was probably setting off fireworks.

Because three days later, you’re watching his match from home.

And Jude knows you’re watching.

He’d made sure of it.

Jude: you watching tonight?

You: probably

Jude: probably isn’t yes

You: yes jude 😭

Jude: good

That should’ve been your warning.

—

It’s late in the second half when Jude scores.

A beautiful goal, too.

The kind that has you jumping off the sofa before you even realize you’re doing it.

“Yes!”

The stadium erupts through your television.

Jude tears away toward the corner, adrenaline written all over him, teammates sprinting after him.

You’re smiling.

Proud.

Until he changes direction.

Toward the broadcast camera.

“Oh, don’t—”

Jude grabs either side of the camera.

His face fills your entire television screen.

Hair messy.

Chest heaving.

Eyes bright.

That ridiculously happy grin spreading across his face.

And then—

He leans forward.

Mwah.

A kiss directly against the lens.

You freeze.

Jude pulls away laughing, points at the camera—

and winks.

Your jaw drops.

“No.”

The replay starts immediately.

“No, no, absolutely not.”

There it is again.

Goal.

Run.

Camera.

Kiss.

Wink.

And somehow it’s even worse in slow motion.

Your phone starts vibrating across the coffee table.

One friend.

Another.

Then another.

Friend: GIRL????????

Friend: THAT WAS FOR YOU.

Friend: HE IS NOT EVEN HIDING IT ANYMORE 😭

You refuse to respond.

Because no.

Maybe it’s just a celebration.

Footballers kiss cameras all the time.

It could mean anything.

Except your phone buzzes again.

Jobe: sorry about him

You stare at the message.

Oh, for God’s sake.

—

Twenty minutes later, the final whistle goes.

You’re deliberately avoiding your phone now.

You know Jude.

You know exactly what’s coming.

Sure enough—

Jude: you see my goal?

You leave him on delivered.

Thirty seconds.

Another message.

Jude: ???

Then:

Jude: don’t act busy now

You bite back a smile.

You: Yes. I saw your goal.

His reply comes instantly.

Jude: good wasn’t it

You: Very good.

You hope that’s enough.

It isn’t.

Obviously.

Jude: celebration?

Your face heats.

You: What about it?

Jude: you liked it?

You: It was embarrassing.

Three dots appear immediately.

Jude: liar

You roll your eyes.

You: Who was that even supposed to be for?

This time, he doesn’t answer immediately.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Then your phone lights up.

Jude: who do you think

Your stomach does something deeply inconvenient.

You stare at those four words before typing.

You: Jude.

Jude: what

You: I literally JUST became single.

His typing bubble appears.

Stops.

Appears again.

Jude: i know

Another message follows.

Jude: that’s why i can finally do it

You sit completely still.

Then—

You: You’ve been WAITING to do that??

There’s a longer pause.

And then Jude sends you a picture from the changing room.

Still in his kit.

Hair damp with sweat.

A huge, shameless smile on his face.

Underneath it:

Jude: you have no idea how long i’ve been waiting x

And suddenly that kiss doesn’t feel like a silly goal celebration anymore.

It feels like a warning.

Because Jude isn’t celebrating the fact that you’re heartbroken.

He’s celebrating the fact that, for the first time in a very long time—

he’s finally allowed to try.