Chapter Text
During Jude Bellingham’s very first month at the club, he reached an absolute, unwavering conclusion regarding Erling Haaland—this guy was, without a shadow of a doubt, the single most short-tempered Alpha with the worst social boundary control he had ever encountered.
It wasn't that Erling would go around screaming at people like a madman. Rather, it was that aggressively potent S-rank Alpha pheromones of his—carrying the crisp, bone-chilling scent of polar pine and bitter snow—were constantly running rampant at all times and in all places, entirely devoid of any sense of reason. And Jude, unfortunately, had become the primary victim standing right in the front row of this blizzard.
The afternoon training session had just wrapped up, the scorching sun baking the turf until it radiated heat. Jude sat bare-chested on the cushioned bench beside the pitch, wiping the sweat off his neck with a towel soaked in ice water. Nearby, Gio Reyna slouched over, chuckling as he hooked an elbow around Jude’s shoulder. The two leaned in close to watch a funny training clip they’d just captured on a phone screen.
"Jude, look at your shot just now! Your foot slipped like you were doing ballet—" Reyna burst into a loud laugh, his hand casually slapping Jude’s bare back as he spoke.
Before the words fully left his mouth, the surrounding air—which had been sweltering and relaxed a second ago—suddenly felt as if every last drop of heat had been sucked clean out of it.
A wave of numbing, bone-chilling pressure descended without a single moment of warning. The back of Jude’s neck tensed up instantly, a sharp, instinctual sting radiating through his gland. Lifting his head, he caught sight of Erling striding toward them.
The tall frame of the Norwegian giant cast a massive shadow over the ground, those piercing blue eyes as cold as two icicles, locking dead onto the hand Reyna had resting on Jude’s shoulder. Erling made zero effort to suppress his pheromones; that frigid scent of pine and snowy tundra crashed directly onto Reyna like a heavy avalanche.
Reyna’s laughter cut off abruptly, his spine snapping rigid as the relaxed expression on his face instantly morphed into one of awkward suffocation. Letting out a dry chuckle, he hastily yanked his hand back: "Uh... I’m gonna go shower first." With that, he bolted from the scene as if fleeing for his life.
Erling walked right up to Jude, towering over him as he stared down. He didn't even spare a glance for the fleeing Reyna, instead roughly snatching Jude’s discarded kit jacket off the side and slapping it directly over Jude’s bare shoulders, burying all that exposed skin out of sight.
"Wipe off your sweat. Don't catch a cold," Erling’s voice rumbled low like thunder deep underground, his tone practically dripping with irritation.
Tightering the jacket around himself, Jude rubbed the back of his neck—which still ached from the sheer shock of that blizzard pheromone blast—and couldn't help rolling his eyes at Erling’s retreating back.
What on earth is this guy's problem? Unleashing pheromones to crush a teammate over a simple joke... his social boundary control is literally non-existent.
This "short fuse" wasn't just confined to the training pitch; it extended all the way to the club bus during away matches.
There were plenty of empty seats scattered across the bus, yet Erling would forever squeeze into the one right beside Jude. Standing at nearly 1.95 meters, the Norwegian was built like a small mountain. The second he sat down, his thighs and shoulders would inevitably press up against Jude’s body.
"Erling, the entire back row is completely empty. Can't you sit back there?" Wearing his headphones, Jude nudged himself into the corner with a hint of annoyance.
Erling ignored his protest entirely. Instead, he reached out a long, slender finger, domineeringly plucking the left earbud right out of Jude’s ear and popping it into his own.
Then, paying no mind to anyone else, he leaned his head against Jude’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and began catching up on his sleep. Every single time Jude attempted to shift or pull his body away, the pine-and-snow pheromones on Erling would unconsciously settle down, wrapping Jude in a suffocatingly thick blanket that felt almost like a threat—as if declaring, "Just try walking away."
Wearing a suppressant patch over his gland, Jude felt as though his entire person was being soaked through by this cold scent. Gritting his teeth, he glared at the golden head resting on his shoulder, muttering in his mind: Foul-tempered, zero respect for personal space, and constantly using pheromones to threaten people... basically just an ill-mannered, wild polar bear.
However, what thoroughly cemented the "flammable and explosive" label on Erling in Jude’s mind was that post-match mix-zone interview during an away game.
Even though Erling had scored a hat-trick that day, the club ultimately ended up tied by the opponent. In the interview area, a tricky home-reporter intentionally tried to stir up trouble, thrusting a microphone toward Erling: "Erling, some people say your attacking performance in the second half was overly rushed, causing you to miss the winner. Do you think the issue lies with you, or did Bellingham fail to deliver a proper assist?"
Standing a few meters away, Jude saw clearly as the expression on Erling’s face froze into solid ice in an instant.
The Norwegian giant lowered his head slightly, those blue eyes so cold they could practically freeze the reporter into an ice sculpture on the spot. He didn't even bother giving the guy a polite smile, his voice cutting through the air as sharp and swift as a blade: "We didn't win. That's it."
With that, he pushed the microphone aside and turned to walk off, leaving the reporter standing on the spot with a face full of embarrassment.
Watching the scene unfold from the sidelines, Jude felt even more confirmed in his assessment. Adjusting the kit bag slung over his shoulder, he shook his head in his heart:
See that? He doesn't even have patience for reporters. This guy really is just a short-tempered, short-fused Alpha who could lose control at any given second.