Offside

Six Months Later

Six months.

That was all it had taken for Vian Laurent's life to become unrecognizable.

At twenty-one, he had been Barcelona's brightest young star.

At twenty-two...

He had become football's newest global icon.

Every morning began the same.

Not with football.

With numbers.

His dining table overlooked the Barcelona skyline, buried beneath investment reports, sponsorship contracts and architectural blueprints.

His financial advisor tapped a folder across the table.

"Three luxury apartments in Madrid."

Vian barely looked up.

"Too expensive."

"They'll double in value."

"So will something cheaper."

The advisor smiled.

"You think like you've been doing this for twenty years."

"I won't be a footballer forever."

His agent leaned back in his chair.

"Most players your age are buying sports cars."

Vian signed another document.

"I'm buying income."

Another signature.

A vineyard in Tuscany.

Another.

Commercial property in Oslo.

Another.

A penthouse overlooking the Seine.

By lunch...

He owned six properties across Europe.

His agent laughed.

"You're twenty-two."

"I'm planning for forty."

Training started at one.

Business disappeared.

Football returned.

For two hours, Vian became someone else.

Explosive.

Fearless.

Relentless.

The boy who smiled through interviews vanished the moment boots touched grass.

He hated losing.

Even in training.

"Again!" he shouted after missing the target.

The assistant coach exchanged a smile with Xavi.

"He's impossible."

Xavi folded his arms.

"No."

"He's obsessed."

Barcelona won 4–1 that weekend.

Vian scored twice.

One assist.

Man of the Match.

Again.

The headlines almost wrote themselves.

THE GOLDEN BOY DOES IT AGAIN

LAURENT'S PRICELESS LEFT FOOT

BALLON D'OR FAVORITE?

He ignored every article.

He never ignored the stock market.

Thousands of kilometers away...

The Norwegian estate remained quiet.

Snow had begun to fall across the mountains.

Valeska stood barefoot in the kitchen, a mug warming her hands as she watched flakes settle across the frozen lake.

The house was beautiful.

Too beautiful.

Glass walls.

Oak floors.

A fireplace that never seemed to go out.

The kind of place magazines called a dream home.

She called it...

Quiet.

Too quiet.

The refrigerator was covered with photographs.

Prom.

Graduation.

Their first apartment.

Vian lifting her after Barcelona won the league.

A picture from when they were sixteen.

Two awkward teenagers sharing headphones in a school hallway.

She smiled.

Some things still felt untouched.

Others...

Didn't.

Her phone buzzed.

Her face brightened instantly.

Vian ❤️

She answered before the second ring.

"Hi."

"You awake?"

She laughed.

"It's six in the evening."

"I forgot."

"You always forget the time."

"I've had meetings all day."

"I figured."

"Did you eat?"

"Yes."

"What?"

She smiled.

"You really ask that every day."

"What did you eat?"

"Soup."

"And?"

"Bread."

"And?"

She sighed playfully.

"Salad."

"Good."

There was a brief silence.

"I bought another house today."

"You did?"

"In Paris."

"You already have one."

"This one's an investment."

"I'm proud of you."

He smiled to himself.

She always sounded proud.

Even when she didn't fully understand what he was talking about.

"How's Norway?"

"Cold."

"You should come to Barcelona."

"I've been asking for weeks."

"I know."

"When?"

Silence.

He looked toward the whiteboard in the training facility.

League fixtures.

Champions League.

International break.

Commercial shoot.

Nike campaign.

Charity gala.

Business summit.

His calendar was full before he even answered.

"Soon."

She lowered her eyes.

"You always say soon."

"I mean it."

"I know."

Another silence.

Neither of them noticed how often silence had begun filling their conversations.

Later that afternoon...

Valeska met her closest friend, Anya, at a small café overlooking the harbor.

Anya noticed it immediately.

"You look tired."

"I couldn't sleep."

"Waiting for his call again?"

Valeska smiled weakly.

"He eventually called."

"Eventually."

"He was busy."

"He always is."

Valeska stirred her coffee.

"He works harder than anyone."

"I'm not talking about football."

"I'm talking about everything else."

Anya reached across the table.

"When was the last time he visited?"

Valeska counted in her head.

"...Three weeks."

"And before that?"

Another pause.

"I don't remember."

Anya didn't say anything.

She didn't have to.

Barcelona.

That night.

The squad gathered at one of the city's most exclusive restaurants after training.

Marc raised his glass.

"To another three points."

Everyone cheered.

Laughter filled the private room.

Halfway through dinner, Pedri leaned toward Vian.

"So..."

"What?"

"You still planning to disappear after dessert?"

Vian smirked.

"Maybe."

Marc laughed.

"There he is."

"The real Vian."

"The one who never goes home."

Gavi nudged him.

"Valeska know?"

"Know what?"

"That you're allergic to sleeping before sunrise."

The table erupted.

Vian simply smiled.

"You boys worry too much."

"No," Pedri replied.

"We don't."

"We worry too little."

After dinner...

Some players headed home.

Others climbed into waiting SUVs.

Vian climbed in with Marc, Gavi and two friends from the fashion industry.

The destination didn't need to be discussed.

Everyone already knew.

The nightclub sat behind black iron gates.

No photographers.

No fans.

Only tinted windows and security scanners.

The hostess greeted him before he reached the entrance.

"Good evening, Mr. Laurent."

She handed him a black wristband.

"The rooftop lounge is prepared."

"You've been expecting me?"

She smiled politely.

"We always expect you after a win."

Marc whispered under his breath.

"Celebrity treatment."

Vian shrugged.

"I come here too often."

"No," Marc corrected.

"You've become part of the furniture."

Inside...

Music swallowed every conversation.

Golden lights danced across polished marble.

The room smelled of expensive perfume and champagne.

People noticed him immediately.

Not because he asked them to.

Because fame entered before he did.

A famous singer waved from across the room.

An actor shook his hand.

An NBA player congratulated him on the weekend's performance.

Then...

The women.

One asked for a photograph.

Another hugged him.

Someone slipped her number into his jacket pocket with a smile.

He didn't stop her.

He didn't encourage her either.

He simply accepted that this...

Was normal.

Marc watched with amusement.

"I genuinely think women can smell Ballon d'Or votes."

Vian laughed.

"Shut up."

"I'm serious."

"You score two goals and suddenly everyone wants to know your favorite color."

Across the room...

A brunette caught his attention.

Not because she was the most beautiful.

Because she wasn't looking at him.

She was talking to a fashion photographer, completely uninterested in the footballers surrounding her.

For the first time that night...

Someone wasn't trying to impress Vian Laurent.

He noticed.

Only for a second.

Then someone called his name.

"Vian!"

He turned away.

The moment passed.

At exactly 11:48 p.m...

His phone vibrated.

Valeska ❤️

I hope dinner went well.

Don't stay out too late.

A storm started here.

Wish you were home.

He read every word.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

He started typing.

Miss you too.

He stopped.

Deleted it.

Someone handed him another drink.

Someone else pulled him toward the dance floor.

His phone slipped back into his pocket.

Unread.

Forgotten.

Or perhaps...

Delayed until tomorrow.

Back in Norway...

Rain had replaced the snow.

Valeska sat curled beneath a blanket in the living room.

The television played one of Vian's old matches.

She wasn't watching it anymore.

She was watching her phone.

11:57 p.m.

No reply.

12:31 a.m.

Still nothing.

She told herself he was busy.

She always told herself that.

Eventually, she placed the phone face down on the coffee table.

She wouldn't wait up tonight.

She had said that yesterday.

And the day before.

Barcelona.

2:14 a.m.

The music finally began to fade.

Marc stretched his arms.

"I'm done."

"Already?"

"It's Tuesday."

"So?"

"We train in eight hours."

Vian laughed.

"You sound like the manager."

"I sound responsible."

They stepped outside into the cool Mediterranean air.

The city glittered beneath them.

His phone buzzed again.

Battery: 6%.

He unlocked it.

Three missed messages.

One from his mother.

Two from Valeska.

He smiled faintly.

"I'll call her tomorrow."

He genuinely meant it.

He always did.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket and climbed into the waiting SUV.

As Barcelona disappeared behind tinted glass...

The screen went dark.

Somewhere in Norway...

Valeska finally fell asleep beside a phone that never rang.

The alarm rang at seven.

Valeska was already awake.

Not because she'd slept well.

Because she'd learned years ago that waiting for Vian's calls was a terrible way to start a morning.

She tied her hair into a loose knot, pulled on an oversized cream sweater and walked downstairs with a notebook tucked beneath her arm.

The kitchen overlooked the lake.

She opened every curtain.

Morning light spilled across the oak floors.

The house finally felt alive.

At least for a little while.

By eight-thirty...

She was no longer Vian Laurent's girlfriend.

She was simply...

Valeska Romanova.

Founder.

Creative Director.

Owner.

Her company wasn't famous.

She preferred it that way.

Twenty-three employees.

One small office in Oslo.

A workshop outside Bergen.

No investors.

No celebrity endorsements.

Everything they built carried one promise:

Made slowly.

Made honestly.

Made to last.

Exactly the way she believed people should live.

A Zoom meeting began.

"Morning, everyone."

"Morning, Valeska."

The design team presented new concepts.

She listened more than she spoke.

When she finally gave feedback...

Everyone wrote it down.

Not because she was intimidating.

Because she was usually right.

Her assistant smiled.

"We've been approached by a luxury retailer in Paris."

Valeska looked at the proposal.

"They want exclusivity."

"They're offering double."

She closed the folder.

"No."

The room fell silent.

"They'll increase profits by forty percent."

"I know."

"So why decline?"

She smiled gently.

"Because I didn't build this company to become another luxury logo."

No one argued.

Around noon...

Her phone buzzed.

A news notification.

Barcelona Star Vian Laurent Spotted Leaving Exclusive Restaurant With Teammates

She stared at it.

Didn't open it.

Locked the screen.

Then returned to discussing timber suppliers.

Work came first.

It had to.

Otherwise...

She'd spend every day wondering where Vian was.