Offside

Mine

Valeska Romanova hated sleeping with her phone in her hand.

Yet somehow...

She always did.

Every night.

She convinced herself she'd stay awake until Vian called.

Every night...

She failed.

Barcelona.

3:42 A.M.

Her phone buzzed against the pillow.

She smiled before even opening her eyes.

Vian ❤️

She answered immediately.

"You finally remembered me."

His laugh was low.

"I told you I'd call."

"You also said you'd be done hours ago."

"I got held up."

She knew what that meant.

Celebrations.

Sponsors.

Media.

More celebrations.

She never complained.

She'd fallen in love with a footballer.

Football always came first.

Or at least...

She'd taught herself to believe that.

"What are you wearing?"

She blinked.

"What?"

"What are you wearing?"

She looked down.

"One of your hoodies."

"The grey one?"

"No."

"The black one."

"No."

"The navy one."

She laughed softly.

"You remember every hoodie you own?"

"I remember every hoodie you steal."

She smiled.

"The cream one."

"The oversized one?"

"Mhm."

"Good."

She frowned.

"...Good?"

"I hate that pink silk thing."

Valeska looked toward the chair where the expensive nightdress lay folded.

"I like that one."

"I know."

"I bought it."

"So?"

"I don't like imagining you sleeping in it."

She laughed again.

"You are unbelievable."

"I'm serious."

"It's just pajamas."

"I know."

"But wear my hoodie."

She looked down.

She already was.

Without realizing it...

She'd started choosing his clothes over hers months ago.

"You ate dinner?"

"Yes."

"What did you eat?"

"Pasta."

"What kind?"

She rolled her eyes affectionately.

"You're interrogating me."

"What kind?"

"Truffle pasta."

"Did you finish it?"

"...Almost."

"Valeska."

"I wasn't that hungry."

"You skipped lunch too."

Silence.

"I'll have breakfast."

"No."

She frowned.

"What do you mean no?"

"I'm sending someone."

"It's four in the morning."

"They'll be there by eight."

"Vian—"

"I don't want you skipping meals."

"I can make breakfast."

"You won't."

"I will."

"You won't."

His voice stayed calm.

Matter-of-fact.

As though the conversation had already ended.

"I've already called the hotel."

She sat upright.

"...You what?"

"They'll bring you breakfast."

"You called my hotel?"

"Of course."

"I wanted to make sure you'd eat."

Valeska looked around the empty suite.

She wasn't scared.

She wasn't angry.

Just...

Slightly embarrassed.

"You don't have to organize my life."

"I know."

"But someone has to."

The next morning...

At exactly eight o'clock...

A knock sounded on the suite door.

Room service.

Fresh fruit.

Eggs.

Coffee.

Fresh juice.

A handwritten note rested on the tray.

Finish everything.

— V

She smiled despite herself.

Her phone rang again.

"Morning."

"Morning."

"Did breakfast arrive?"

She looked at the untouched tray.

"...Yes."

"Good."

"What are you eating first?"

She sighed.

"Vian."

"What?"

"You don't have to monitor me."

"I'm not monitoring you."

"It feels like it."

"I'm taking care of you."

"They're different things."

"No."

"They're really not."

He chuckled.

"You'll understand one day."

That afternoon...

Valeska wandered through Passeig de Gràcia with her best friend, Anya.

They stopped outside a small boutique.

"Oh my God."

Anya pointed toward a white summer dress.

"That is so you."

Valeska smiled.

"I love it."

"Buy it."

She picked it up.

Simple.

Elegant.

Exactly her style.

She was walking toward the cashier when her phone buzzed.

Vian ❤️

She answered.

"What are you doing?"

"Shopping."

"What store?"

She told him.

"What did you buy?"

"Nothing yet."

"What are you looking at?"

"A white dress."

"No."

She stopped walking.

"...No?"

"Don't buy white."

"Why?"

"I don't like white."

She stared at the dress.

"I do."

"I know."

"But buy the blue one instead."

"There isn't a blue one."

"There will be somewhere else."

Anya quietly watched the conversation.

Valeska looked between the dress...

And the phone.

"...Okay."

She placed the white dress back on the rack.

Outside the boutique...

Anya folded her arms.

"You know..."

"What?"

"You ask Vian's opinion on literally everything."

"I wasn't asking."

Anya raised an eyebrow.

"Exactly."

Valeska frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"It means..."

Anya searched for the right words.

"...he answered a question you never asked."

Silence.

Valeska laughed it off.

"He's just protective."

Anya didn't laugh.

"Maybe."

"But protection shouldn't look like permission."

That evening...

Vian sat alone on the balcony of his Barcelona apartment.

The city glittered beneath him.

His phone lit up.

A photo from Valeska.

She was smiling.

Wearing jeans.

A beige sweater.

No white dress.

He smiled.

Perfect.

Exactly how he liked it.

He never noticed the difference anymore.

Neither did she.

—

The next morning.

Barcelona's training complex was already alive.

Coaches barked instructions.

Physios rushed between treatment rooms.

Academy players stopped whatever they were doing whenever Vian Laurent walked past.

"Morning, V."

"Morning."

He greeted everyone with the same easy smile.

Professional.

Respectful.

Untouchable.

Training ended just after noon.

Most of the squad headed home.

Vian didn't.

Instead, he crossed the hallway toward a private conference room overlooking the pitches.

His financial advisor, accountant and agent were already waiting.

Three laptops.

Stacks of contracts.

Investment portfolios.

Real estate reports.

His career on the pitch was only half his empire.

"Morning," his advisor greeted.

"We've shortlisted three commercial properties in Madrid."

"The investment fund in Zurich has returned better than expected."

"And Nike wants to renegotiate your lifetime endorsement clause."

Vian loosened the sleeves of his training top before taking a seat.

"Let's start with the Madrid properties."

For the next two hours...

There was no footballer.

Only a businessman.

Questions.

Percentages.

Tax structures.

Future planning.

He challenged every number.

Read every clause.

Rejected two proposals.

Approved one acquisition.

His agent smiled.

"I forget you're only twenty-one."

Vian signed the final document.

"I won't play forever."

Silence.

Everyone in the room knew he was right.

His phone vibrated.

Mamá ❤️

A smile appeared instantly.

He answered.

"Mamá."

"My champion."

"You watched?"

"I've watched every match since you were six."

He laughed quietly.

"I know."

"You've eaten?"

"Yes."

"You slept?"

"A little."

"You sound tired."

"I'm fine."

There was a pause.

"And Valeska?"

Vian leaned back in his chair.

"She's good."

"You've spoken to her today?"

He glanced at the time.

Not yet.

"I will."

His mother hummed softly.

"Don't keep that girl waiting forever."

"I won't."

"You've been saying that for years."

He smiled.

"I'll call her tonight."

"I hope so."

"I love you, Mamá."

"I love you more."

The call ended.

He looked at Valeska's name at the top of his messages.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

Then another notification appeared.

His agent.

A sponsor.

Three missed emails.

He locked the phone.

Later.

By evening...

The boys had convinced him to grab dinner on the marina.

No cameras.

No interviews.

Just football.

Laughter echoed across the restaurant terrace as plates disappeared almost as quickly as they arrived.

Marc leaned back in his chair.

"I swear, one trophy and suddenly every restaurant wants us here."

"They wanted us here before," Pedri laughed.

"They just charge double now."

The table erupted.

As they stood to leave...

Someone bumped into Vian.

"Oh."

A young woman steadied the coffee she'd nearly spilled.

"My fault."

Vian caught the cup before it tipped.

"No damage done."

She smiled.

"I've seen better first impressions."

"So have I."

She laughed.

"You play for Barcelona."

"I do."

"I thought footballers were supposed to have bodyguards."

"I escaped mine."

She folded her arms.

"Impressive."

"For five whole minutes."

They stood talking longer than either intended.

Nothing serious.

Nothing intimate.

Just easy conversation.

She made him laugh.

He made her laugh.

Across the street, Pedri glanced at Marc.

"We leaving him?"

Marc smirked.

"He'll find his own way home."

Nearly midnight.

Vian finally reached his apartment.

He tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter.

His jacket followed.

His phone buzzed once.

He didn't check it.

Too tired.

He showered.

Collapsed onto the bed.

Within minutes...

He was asleep.

Across Europe...

Valeska lay awake.

The message she'd sent him at 8:14 p.m. still showed only one grey tick.

Hope training went well. Call me when you're free. I miss you. ❤️

The screen slowly dimmed.

No reply came that night.