England lost on penalties.

Three months later, Madrid was still hot, still golden, and still very, very far from Wembley.

The alarm went off at eight.

It was now eleven.

In a cramped studio apartment in the heart of the city — a stone's throw from a metro station that was a twenty-minute walk from the Santiago Bernabéu — a phone buzzed for the forty-seventh time.

Across the room, stirring from a lumpy mattress pushed against the wall, was a girl.

Y/n.

Her hair was a mess. Her mouth was dry. Her phone was on the floor, face-down, vibrating like an angry wasp.

She reached for it.

11:02 AM.

The meet and greet started at 10.

JUDE BELLINGHAM — MEET & GREET — VALLEHERMOSO STADIUM — 10 AM.

Her heart dropped into her stomach.

She fumbled for her jeans, hopping on one foot, nearly toppling over a stack of books she swore she'd return to the library weeks ago. A tote bag. A pair of trainers. Did she even have time for makeup?

No. Absolutely not.

She grabbed a scrunchie, yanked her hair into a ponytail, and bolted.