Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1: HALLWAY CYBORG
[POV: Jude]
The air conditioning in the Hohenbuschei hallways was so cold that my skin prickled under the thin fabric of my sports jacket; the light joggers didn't help either. Or maybe it wasn't the cold. Maybe it was the weight of reality crashing down on my seventeen-year-old shoulders. I was finally in Germany, a stroke of luck that could change my life. I was Borussia Dortmund's new signing.
During the flight from England, I had tried to calm my anxiety by reading a dense fantasy novel on my e-reader. I had meticulously set it to a Fast Serif font that usually helped me lose myself quickly in the words. But neither imaginary kingdoms nor epic battles managed to distract me from the knot in my stomach.
Now, standing in front of the double doors to the Dortmund locker room, with my heavy duffel bag slung over my shoulder, I felt like a boy in a man's world. My legs were shaking slightly; I felt like the floor could crack with every step I took.
I took a deep breath, adjusted the grip on my bag, and pushed the double doors open. It was time to start a new chapter.
The locker room was relatively empty, which made me feel calmer, since it was almost an hour before official training. I took two steps inside, trying to locate my name on the lockers, when a dull thud made me jump and turn in its direction.
"Shit!" cursed a deep, gruff voice in English, followed by the metallic clatter of a thermos rolling across the floor.
From behind a row of lockers emerged a human mountain. He was tall, absurdly tall, with blonde hair tied back in a messy little bun and a build that looked carved out of granite. The famous Norwegian cyborg had just bumped his shoulder against the metal frame of an open locker, rubbing the area with an annoyed grimace before bending down clumsily to pick up his thermos.
I froze. I knew exactly who he was. Everyone in football knew Erling Haaland.
The Norwegian straightened up, thermos in hand, and finally noticed my presence. His incredibly intense, pale blue eyes scanned me from top to bottom. There was no welcoming smile, no PR greeting. Erling simply closed the distance between us in three heavy strides.
I instinctively clenched my jaw, bracing myself for... I didn't know what. Intimidation? Hazing?
"You're the English kid," Erling said. It wasn't a question, it was a blunt statement. His voice was deep, vibrating in the quiet space of the locker room.
"Jude," I managed to say, extending a hand that felt ridiculously small when Erling shook it. The Norwegian's grip was firm, almost rough, but his hand was surprisingly warm; it was obvious Erling didn't take his training lightly.
"Erling." The striker let go of my hand and his gaze dropped to the heavy duffel bag that was already cutting off the circulation in my shoulder. "You're tense. You're going to ruin your back before you even touch the ball."
Before I could reply that I was perfectly fine, Erling invaded my personal space. With a quick, ungentle movement, the Norwegian hooked his thick fingers into the bag's strap and lifted it in a single tug, nearly throwing me off balance in the process. He lifted it with one hand as if it were full of feathers.
"Hey, I can carry it..." I protested weakly, feeling a sudden heat rise up my neck. I was used to being independent, to proving I was strong enough. I wasn't entirely sure if they were still trying to play a prank on me. Hide my things?
"Your locker is here, next to mine," Erling interrupted, turning around and walking towards the back of the locker room without waiting to see if I followed. "I told the kit man to put you here. I speak English. The others speak German too fast. It'll give you a headache. Come."
I blinked, processing the barrage of information. Erling had taken the trouble to ensure we were together to help me with the language, but he was communicating it with the subtlety of a freight truck. It was true that I didn't know any German, but I planned to learn on my own.
Without another word, I obeyed. I walked behind Erling's broad back, feeling a strange mix of indignation at being treated like a child, and a profound, confusing relief. For the first time in days, someone else had taken control.
When I reached my locker, Erling had already dropped the bag on the floor and was looking down at me from his towering height. The Norwegian raised a massive hand and, with a suddenness that made me close my eyes reflexively, gave me a couple of heavy pats on the shoulder.
"Welcome to Dortmund, Jude," Erling grunted, his voice softening just a fraction. "Sit down. I'll show you how the coffee machine works before the idiots arrive."
I sat on the bench, watching the blonde cyborg fight clumsily with the buttons of a small espresso machine in the corner. My heart was beating a little faster than normal. I told myself it was first-day nerves, but as I watched Erling's broad back, I felt total admiration. I had to stop and think about why I felt that way so suddenly. I couldn't say. It's not every day you meet an elite footballer.