EU

The bathroom tile is cold under my knees. I’m hunched over the toilet, hands shaking, cramps twisting sharp and deep, blood seeping warm through my clothes — and I know. I know what’s happening. I’d only just started letting myself think maybe, and now it’s gone. The door clicks open. I freeze. Denise stands there, fully dressed, hair neat, ready for the match tonight. She takes one look at me — pale, teary, clutching my stomach — and her expression shifts. Not to softness. To calculation. “What’s this?” she says, voice low, shutting the door behind her. I wipe my eyes, voice trembling. “I think… I think I’m losing the baby. I need Jude —” “Jude’s at training,” she cuts in, crisp and firm. “He’s got a match tonight. Big one. Everyone’s watching — Real Madrid, England scouts, the whole world.” She steps closer, tone steadying, almost commanding. “You’re going to pull yourself together. Get dressed. Do your hair. Smile. Sit in the stands and look like the perfect supportive girlfriend — exactly like you always do.” I stare at her, stunned. “I can’t — I need him. I need to tell him —” “No.” Her voice sharpens, quiet but unyielding. “You will not tell him. Not until after that final whistle blows. Do you have any idea how much pressure he’s under? World Cup weeks away, his form, his focus — one wrong word and he could crumble. You want to be the reason he plays badly? The reason everyone blames him? Blames you?” My throat tightens so much I can barely breathe. “But it’s important —” “It’s personal,” she says, colder now. “And personal stays private. Especially tonight. You’re his partner — you support him. You hold it together. That’s what we do for him.” She reaches for my arm, pulls me gently but firmly to my feet. “Wash your face. Put on something nice. No one will know. You’ll sit there, look proud, and when the match is over — when he’s done his job — then you can tell him. Not a minute before.” I stand there trembling, hurting in places I didn’t know co