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If someone asked him about his unidentifiable lover, Jude was ready to wholeheartedly lie about it. Thankfully, nobody seemed to notice the existence of said lover. Of course, some teammates noticed something. Like how Jude's Español was rapidly getting better.
"Your Spanish is great," Lucas said one day, at the end of the season. Because his demeanor was casual, Jude didn't feel like it was a trap. He just answered back, "Gracias?"
"I mean, it's a bit weird."
"What do you mean by 'weird?'"
"You speak like someone who, let me say, speaks some... Catalan?"
Jude almost choked. "What?"
"I mean, you just sound like one."
"That's certainly weird."
"Yeah, I told you so."
Jude tried to keep his face neutral, but his mind was already racing back to the last El Clásico. To the way Lamine had gotten right up in his face, speaking angry Catalan that Jude didn't understand but somehow felt in his bones. To the way they'd been shoving each other, all adrenaline and testosterone and something else entirely.
"You think you're so special," Lamine had hissed in English, his accent thick with anger and something that might have been attraction.
"I don't think, I know," Jude had shot back, stepping closer instead of backing down.
And then somehow they were kissing. Hard and desperate and insane, right there in the hallway where anyone passing by could have seen them. Jude could still taste the salt of sweat and the lingering mint, could still feel the way Lamine had grabbed his shirt like he was drowning.
They'd broken apart just as quickly, staring at each other with wide eyes before Lamine had fled toward the Barcelona section, leaving Jude standing there alone, wondering what had just happened.
"Meet me at the café you guys go," Lamine had texted him two weeks after the kiss. Jude didn't have his number, but somehow knew it was Lamine.
Jude had stared at the message for a full ten minutes before typing back: "Why would I want to see you?"
"Because you've been thinking about it too."
He didn't want to admit it, but he had been.
Now, two months later, they had a routine. Never the same place twice, always somewhere they could explain away if caught. Today it was a small café tucked away in a side street, the kind of place where tourists didn't venture.
Lamine was already there when Jude arrived, hunched over his phone at a corner table, a half-empty cup of cortado in front of him. He looked up when Jude approached, and that familiar flutter of something dangerous settled in Jude's chest.
"You're late," Lamine said, but there was no heat in it.
"Traffic." Jude slid into the seat across from him, noting the way Lamine's eyes tracked the movement. "What's so important it couldn't wait until—"
"Jude! What are you doing here?"
They both froze. Vinícius was standing at the café entrance with Rodrygo, both of them looking genuinely surprised to see their teammate there.
"Bathroom," Lamine muttered under his breath, already pushing back from the table.
"What?" Jude hissed, but Lamine was already gone, slipping away toward the back of the café just as Vinícius and Rodrygo approached.
"Hey, man," Vinícius said, sliding into the seat Lamine had just vacated. "Didn't expect to see you here. This place is a bit... local."
"Yeah, I was just..." Jude's mind went blank. "Exploring. You know. Getting to know the city better."
Rodrygo glanced around the café with interest. "Good choice. Very authentic. Are you here alone?"
Jude's eyes flicked to the table, where Lamine's cortado sat abandoned, obviously used. There was also a small napkin, and fuck, was that Lamine's phone charger coiled next to the sugar packets?
"Yeah," Jude said, hoping his voice sounded normal. "Just me."
"Whose coffee is that?" Vinícius asked, pointing at the cortado.
"Mine. I... ordered two. Really thirsty today."
The lie felt clumsy on his tongue, but Vinícius just laughed. "Two cortados? You're really embracing the Spanish lifestyle."
"Something like that."
They chatted for a few more minutes, Jude's palms sweating as he kept glancing toward the bathroom, willing Lamine to stay hidden. Finally, mercifully, Vinícius and Rodrygo said their goodbyes and left.
Jude waited exactly thirty seconds before pulling out his phone.
"Coast is clear," he texted.
Lamine emerged from the bathroom looking flustered, his hair slightly messed. "That was close."
"Too close." Jude stood up, suddenly feeling exposed. "We should go. Separately."
"Jude, wait—"
But he was already leaving, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was getting too complicated. Too risky. Too real.
The text came at 2 AM: "Check Twitter. We might have a problem."
Jude fumbled for his phone, squinting at the bright screen. Lamine had sent him a link to a Twitter thread that made his blood run cold.
"Anyone else notice Lamine Yamal has been in Madrid A LOT lately? #FCB"
The thread was full of screenshots. Lamine's Instagram story from a Madrid restaurant last Tuesday. The same restaurant where Jude had posted a story on Monday. A photo of Lamine at a Madrid café that was literally three blocks from Jude's apartment. Another picture of him coming out of a store that Jude recognized as one of their meeting spots.
"Shit," Jude muttered, scrolling through the increasingly detailed analysis. These fans were like forensic investigators, mapping out Lamine's Madrid visits with frightening precision.
"Fuck," he typed back.
"My thoughts exactly. What do we do?" Lamine texted.
Jude stared at the question for a long moment. What did they do? They'd been meeting in secret for months now, and he still couldn't quite articulate what they were doing. It wasn't dating – they'd never called it that. It wasn't just hooking up – well, technically they hooked up, but there was something more in it. It was something else entirely, something that lived in the space between rivalry and attraction, between public personas and private moments.
"We're more careful," he typed back. "No more Madrid meetings for a while."
"Okay."
"And maybe we should... talk."
The typing indicator appeared and disappeared several times before Lamine's response came through: "Maybe we should."
But they didn't talk. Not that week, or the next. Instead, they fell into a pattern of increasingly cautious messages and no in-person meetings. Jude found himself checking that Twitter thread obsessively, watching as the fan investigation slowly died down due to lack of new evidence.
He should have felt relieved. Instead, he felt restless and strangely empty.
The photo appeared on Marca's Instagram at 3 PM on a Tuesday, and Jude's phone started buzzing immediately.
"Real Madrid's Jude Bellingham spotted at exclusive Madrid club with mystery brunette! New romance? #RealMadrid #Bellingham"
The picture showed Jude walking out of a trendy rooftop bar with a Spanish influencer he'd met at a sponsor event. She was beautiful in an obvious way – all long legs and perfect makeup – and she'd been charming and funny when they'd talked. When she'd suggested they grab drinks to discuss a potential collaboration, he'd said yes without thinking much about it.
Now, looking at the photo, he realized how it must look. Her hand was on his arm as they walked, both of them laughing at something she'd said. The photographer had caught them at the perfect moment, all casual intimacy and shared smiles.
His phone rang. Lamine.
"So," the younger player said without preamble, "she's pretty."
There was something in his voice that Jude couldn't quite place. Something sharp and unfamiliar.
"It's not what it looks like," Jude said automatically.
"What does it look like?"
"Like... I don't know. Like a date?"
"Was it a date?"
"No." Jude paused, running a hand through his hair. "I mean, maybe? I don't know. We were just talking about work stuff."
"Work stuff that required you to hold hands?"
"We weren't holding hands, she was just—" Jude stopped. "Why do you care?"
The silence stretched between them, loaded with something that felt dangerously close to truth.
"I don't," Lamine said finally, but his voice was tight. "I just thought you should know it's all over social media. People are already shipping you two."
"Shipping?"
"You know, like, hoping you'll get together."
There was definitely something wrong with Lamine's voice now. He sounded... hurt? Angry? Jude couldn't tell, and that bothered him more than it should have.
"Lamine," he started, not sure what he was going to say.
"I have to go," Lamine cut him off. "Training."
The line went dead.
Jude stared at his phone, a strange knot forming in his stomach. He pulled up the Marca article again, reading through the comments. Most of them were positive – fans seemed to approve, calling her "gorgeous" and "perfect for Jude." A few were more analytical, discussing her career and social media presence.
None of them knew about the person who'd been in Jude's thoughts for months. None of them knew about secret café meetings and heated text exchanges and the way Lamine's eyes got bright when he was arguing about something he cared about. None of them knew that Jude had spent the entire evening with the pretty influencer thinking about someone else.
His phone buzzed with a text from her: "Saw the article! Hope it doesn't cause problems for you. Let me know about that collaboration!"
Jude stared at the message for a long moment, then deleted it without responding.
Instead, he opened his chat with Lamine and typed: "We really need to talk."
But the message showed as delivered, not read. And it stayed that way for the rest of the week.
The text came three days before El Clásico, at 11:47 PM when Jude was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and thinking about the game. Or trying to. Mostly he was thinking about the fact that Lamine hadn't responded to any of his messages in over a week.
"Ready to lose on Saturday?"
Jude sat up so fast he nearly dropped his phone. After days of silence, this was how Lamine chose to break it?
"In your dreams," he typed back quickly, before he could second-guess himself.
"I've been having a lot of dreams lately. Want to hear about them?"
Jude's breath caught. There was something different about this message, something that felt charged with possibility and danger in equal measure.
"Depends. Are they about football?"
"Not exactly."
"Then yes."
But instead of elaborating, Lamine sent: "You'll have to beat me first."
"I intend to."
"Good. I like it when you're... competitive."
Jude stared at the message, his heart rate picking up. They were in dangerous territory now, the kind of conversation that could mean everything or nothing, depending on how brave they were willing to be.
"How competitive?" he typed.
"Very. I want to see you try your hardest."
"And then?"
"And then I want to show you what happens when you're not good enough."
Jude's mouth went dry. "You think I'm not good enough?"
"I think you're going to find out on Saturday."
"You're awfully confident for someone who's about to get humiliated in front of 90,000 people."
"Humiliated? By you?" There was a pause, then: "I'd like to see you try."
"Maybe I will."
"Maybe you should."
They were definitely not talking about football anymore. Jude's hands were shaking slightly as he typed his next message: "And if I do?"
"Then I guess we'll see who's really in control."
"I'm always in control."
"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're the one who's been thinking about me for the past week."
Jude's breath hitched. "You're the one who texted me first."
"After you sent me five messages I didn't answer."
"I was being polite."
"You were being desperate."
"Fuck you."
"When and where?"
The message hit Jude like a physical blow. He stared at it, re-reading it several times to make sure he wasn't imagining things. When and where. As if it were a real possibility. As if it were something they'd been building toward all along.
"After the game," he typed before he could stop himself.
"Our hotel or your home?"
"Depends who wins."
"I'm going to win."
"We'll see."
"We will. And Jude?"
"Yeah?"
"I meant what I said about dreams."
The conversation stopped there, but Jude didn't sleep for hours. He kept re-reading the exchange, his pulse racing every time he got to that last message. When he finally did drift off, his dreams were full of Lamine's voice and the promise of Saturday night.
El Clásico was always intense, but this one felt different. Every time Jude touched the ball, he was aware of Lamine's position on the field. Every tackle, every pass, every sprint felt like part of a larger conversation they'd been having for months.
In the 34th minute, Lamine made a run down the right wing that left Jude scrambling to keep up. As they battled for position, Lamine's shoulder pressed against Jude's chest, and for a split second, Jude could smell his cologne over the sweat and grass.
"Try to keep up," Lamine murmured, just loud enough for Jude to hear.
"I'm right behind you," Jude shot back, and felt rather than saw Lamine's smile.
The game ended 2-1 to Real Madrid, with Jude scoring the winning goal in the 78th minute. As he celebrated with his teammates, his eyes found Lamine across the pitch. The Barcelona player was standing with his hands on his hips, chest heaving, watching Jude with an expression that was part frustration, part something else entirely.
Their eyes met across the distance, and Jude felt that familiar flutter in his chest. He'd won. The game, the bragging rights, the right to be smug about it for months.
But looking at Lamine now, all he could think about was their conversation from three nights ago. About dreams and control and the promise of after the game.
The teams were shaking hands now, the ritual politeness that followed every match. When Lamine reached him, they clasped hands briefly, and Jude felt a small piece of paper pressed into his palm.
"Good game," Lamine said formally, for the cameras and microphones.
"You too," Jude replied, closing his fist around the paper.
He waited until he was back in the tunnel, safely away from prying eyes, before unfolding it.
"You know where we stay. Room 847. One hour."
Jude stared at the note for a long moment, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was it. The moment they'd been building toward for months, through secret meetings and jealous silences and late-night messages that said everything and nothing.
He could ignore it. Pretend it never happened. Go back to his apartment and his normal life and forget about the way Lamine had looked at him on the pitch tonight.
Or he could go. He could find out what happened next.
Jude folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his pocket.
An hour later, he was standing outside room 847, his hand raised to knock, wondering if he was about to make the biggest mistake of his career.
The knock on the door came exactly sixty-three minutes after the final whistle. Lamine had been counting.
He'd showered and changed into his usual clothes – jeans and a simple black t-shirt – and spent the last twenty minutes pacing the hotel room, second-guessing every decision that had led him here.
Now, opening the door to find Jude standing in the hallway, still slightly damp from his own shower, Lamine wondered if he'd finally pushed too far.
"You came," he said, stepping aside to let Jude enter.
"You invited me." Jude's voice was careful, neutral. "Nice room."
It was nice – all modern lines and warm lighting, with a view of Madrid's skyline that neither of them were paying attention to.
"You played well tonight," Lamine said, then immediately felt stupid for the banality of it.
"You too." Jude was standing near the window, hands in his pockets, looking everywhere except at Lamine. "That run in the first half was brilliant."
"Thanks."
They stood there in awkward silence, the weight of months of tension and unspoken words settling between them. This was the moment Lamine had been imagining for weeks, and now that it was here, he had no idea what to do with it.
"So," Jude said finally, turning to face him. "What now?"
"I don't know." The honesty surprised them both. "I thought... I thought I knew, but now you're here and I..."
"You're nervous."
"I'm terrified."
Jude's expression softened slightly. "Of what?"
"Of this. Of what it means. Of what happens after." Lamine ran a hand through his hair. "I've been thinking about you for months, Jude. Not just the... the physical stuff. I mean, yes, that too, but also just... you."
He took a step closer, and Jude didn't back away. "I know this is complicated. I know we're supposed to be rivals. I know there are a million reasons why this is a bad idea. But I also know that I've never felt about anyone the way I feel about you, and if I don't at least try to figure out what that means, I'm going to regret it for the rest of my life."
The silence stretched between them. Jude's eyes were searching Lamine's face, as if he were trying to read something written there.
"What do you want from me?" Jude asked quietly.
"I want you to stay. I want you to stop pretending you don't feel this too. I want you to kiss me the way you did in that tunnel, except this time, I don't want either of us to run away."
Jude's breath hitched. "And then what?"
"Then we figure it out."
For a moment, Jude didn't move. Then, slowly, he closed the distance between them, stopping just inches away. Lamine could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with soap and something uniquely him.
"You're right," Jude said softly. "I have been thinking about you. Every day. Every night. Even when I was trying to convince myself this was just some weird competitive thing, I was thinking about you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." Jude's hand came up to cup Lamine's face, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "I've been going crazy, you know that?"
"You could have said something."
"So could you."
"I'm saying something now."
"Good," Jude murmured, and then he was kissing him, soft and sure and nothing like the desperate collision in the hallway months ago. This was deliberate, purposeful, a decision rather than an impulse.
When they broke apart, both breathing hard, Lamine pressed his forehead against Jude's. The next thing he knew, his hands were on Jude, fingers curling into the front of his sweater with surprising force. "Now you stop thinking so much."
He backed Jude against the wall, crowding him with his body, all lean muscle and determined intent. "Lamine—" Jude started, but the younger player cut him off with a kiss that was nothing like the soft exploration from moments before. This was claiming, demanding, months of frustration poured into the slide of lips and tongue.
"I've been patient," Lamine murmured against Jude's mouth, hands already working at the hem of his sweater. "I've been careful. I've been good." He pulled back just enough to meet Jude's eyes, and there was something wild there, something that made Jude's pulse race. "I'm done being good."
He pulled Jude's sweater over his head with efficient movements, tossing it aside without looking. His palms immediately spread across Jude's chest, mapping muscle and warm skin with possessive touches.
"Your turn," Jude managed, reaching for Lamine's shirt, but the younger player caught his wrists.
"No," Lamine said firmly, pressing Jude's hands back against the wall. "You don't get to take control. Not tonight."
The authority in his voice sent heat shooting straight through Jude's body. He'd always known Lamine was competitive, had seen flashes of that fierce determination on the pitch, but this was different.
Lamine released his wrists and stepped back, pulling his own shirt off with deliberate slowness, letting Jude watch. His skin was golden in the warm light, all smooth lines and subtle definition. When he caught Jude staring, his lips curved into a smile that was pure satisfaction.
"Like what you see?" he asked, stepping closer again.
"You know I do," Jude said roughly.
"Good." Lamine's hands found the waistband of Jude's jeans, fingers teasing at the button. "Because I plan to give you a lot more to look at."
He guided Jude toward the bed with firm hands and gentle pushes, and when the back of Jude's knees hit the mattress, Lamine pressed him down onto the crisp white sheets. For a moment he just stood there, looking down at Jude with dark eyes and parted lips, taking in the sight of him sprawled against the pillows.
"I've thought about this," Lamine said, crawling onto the bed to straddle Jude's thighs. "So many times. How you'd look. How you'd sound." His hands traced patterns across Jude's chest, following the lines of muscle, finding sensitive spots that made Jude's breath catch. "How you'd feel under my hands."
Jude reached up to touch him, but Lamine caught his wrists again, pinning them beside his head. "I said no," he repeated, leaning down until their faces were inches apart.
The kiss that followed was deep and consuming, Lamine's tongue mapping every corner of Jude's mouth while his body pressed him into the mattress. Jude could feel the heat of him everywhere – chest against chest, thigh between his legs, the subtle roll of hips that made him gasp into Lamine's mouth.
"Please," Jude whispered when they broke apart, not even sure what he was asking for.
"Please what?" Lamine's lips were at his throat now, finding the spot where his pulse hammered against his skin. "Tell me what you want."
"You," Jude managed. "Just you."
"You have me." Lamine's teeth grazed his collarbone, making him arch off the bed. "You've had me for months. Did you really think all those messages were just about football?"
His hands were everywhere now – tracing the lines of Jude's ribs, thumbs brushing across nipples, fingers on the plane of his stomach. Every touch was deliberate, calculated to drive Jude crazy with want.
"The way you looked at me during the game," Lamine continued, his voice a low rumble against Jude's skin. "I could barely concentrate. All I could think about was getting you alone."
"Lamine," Jude gasped as those clever fingers found the button of his jeans.
"What?" Lamine pulled back to look at him, eyes bright with mischief and desire. "Having trouble keeping up?"
Before Jude could answer, Lamine was kissing him again, deep and thorough, swallowing whatever response he might have made. This time when Jude reached for him, Lamine didn't stop him, letting him explore the smooth expanse of his back, the sharp line of his shoulder blades, the way his muscles moved under warm skin.
They lost themselves in each other then – in desperate kisses and wandering hands, in the slide of skin against skin and the quiet sounds they drew from each other. Lamine remained in control throughout, setting the pace, guiding Jude's hands where he wanted them, taking exactly what he needed while making sure Jude fell apart beneath him.
"We have all night," he said quietly, voice still rough with want. Jude couldn't hold back his smile. The night was still young. Just like Lamine.
"Your Spanish still sounds weird," Lucas said, but he was grinning as he said it.
Jude just shrugged, checking his phone discreetly. "I've been practicing."
"With your mysterious girlfriend?"
"Something like that."
The message notification was from Lamine: "Dinner tonight? I'm in Madrid until Thursday."
"Can't wait," Jude typed back, then added: "Try not to get spotted by any more football detectives."
"Very funny. See you at 8."
Jude pocketed his phone and looked up to find Lucas watching him with curious eyes.
"She must be special," Lucas said. "You've been different. Happier."
"Yeah," Jude said, and for once, he didn't feel like he was lying. "Special is definitely the word for it."
The end.