R&

The Bernabéu shakes with every roar, but I keep my composure soft, face calm — the picture-perfect manager’s daughter. Dad walks tall beside me, Real Madrid’s new head coach, every movement measured. He still looks at me and sees his little girl, still thinks I’m the quiet, innocent kid who’d never step out of line. He has no idea how wrong he is. A warm, familiar hand lands on my shoulder, and I look up to see Jude — 23, broad, confident, the star of the team, practically my big brother after all these years. His smile is knowing. “You okay back there, kid?” His voice is low, only for us. “You look like you’re plotting something.” I nudge his arm, grinning. “I’m always plotting something. You know that.” He chuckles, quiet. “Yeah, I do. But your dad definitely doesn’t.” He squeezes my shoulder gently — protective, steady. “Be careful, yeah? And come find me after the match, alright?” “Alright, Jude,” I promise, and he jogs toward the dressing rooms, leaving me with that warm, safe feeling only the Bellinghams ever give me. The match ignites — Madrid vs Barça is never just a game. Tension hums thick in the air. By half-time I need space; I slip away from the family box, drifting down the quieter corridors near the away area, lost in thought — until I turn a corner and crash straight into someone. Hands catch my waist, steadying me instantly. “Whoa — easy there.” I pull back fast, breath catching. Dark, sharp eyes, that unmistakable Blaugrana jersey, a smirk that’s equal parts cocky and charming. Lamine yamal same age as me 19. Barça’s golden boy, standing right here, in enemy territory, looking like he owns the place. “You…” I start, straightening my jacket. He tilts his head, that smile sharpening. “And you’re Alonso’s daughter. The quiet, sweet one everyone talks about.” He steps closer, voice dropping, warm and teasing. “Somehow I don’t think ‘quiet’ is the whole story.” My chin lifts. “You don’t know anything about me.”