# synopsis: When rising football star Michael Olise suffers a devastating knee injury just at the beginning of the season, the club makes one petition. Along with rehabilitation, Michael must work with the club’s psychologist upon his return to action. The problem? They can’t stand each other. As months of working pushes them together, their mutual resentment gives way to understanding, blurring the lines between professionalism and the silly thing that comes after friendship; love.
after countless arguments, you think that taking a break might help you to find each other again, but he doesn't agree.
competition (the book is winning)
when olise just wants to spend time with his girlfriend, but a suspense book keeps stealing all of your attention during your summer trip.
hands off
a chelsea boy brings the nonchalance out of Olise
nonchalant my ass
pool
michael shares an intimate moment at the pool with you
the quiestest boy in france
Everyone in the France dressing room knows Michael Olise as the quiet one. Until one post-match phone call reveals there's exactly one person who can get him talking, and smiling, without even trying.
swollen lips
he's not very clingy but when he is, it's exhausting because he keeps kissing you too much until you have swollen lips.
talking to you
in which michael olise refuses to do a post match interview unless it’s with you.
too clingy
after the loss to spain in the world cup semi-finals, he became strangely clingy with you.
yellow card
michael received a yellow card during the france-paraguay game and you tease him about it.
summary: a chelsea boy brings the nonchalance out of Olise
note: this is @amirawrah ‘s peer pressure’s doing😔 , a lowkey continuation of this…. i hope
liked by m.olise, jamalmusiala, reece, and 283,092 others
yourusername m.olise pick up the phoneeeee
user7 he doesn’t deserve you queen, leave him for me
yourusername i’m one more ring away from it fr
user3 looking so good queen!
m.olise i’ve been trying to ring you back for 10 minutes now…
yourusername oh-
m.olise maybe if you got your phone OFF DND you’d see.
yourusername my fault gang!
m.olise who?
yourusername my fault baby
m.olise better. now answer
user3 oh the nonchalance is gone!
user5 LOVERBOY OLISE IS CLOCKED INNNN
jamalmusiala sister. he’s training i beg.
yourusername WHOMP WHOMP! i want my bf. i get my bf.
harrykane this can’t go on…
yourusername it can.
user9 oh i’m LIVING!
liked by jamalmusiala, user9, m.olise and 382,920 others
yourusername cause the boy is mine.
user8 tell ‘em sis!
user2 the all black combo never fails!
m.olise i’m always yours❤️
yourusername forever❤️
jamalmusiala 🤢not on the main man
yourusername hello… department of bitchlessness… yes i have your patient here in my comments….
jamalmusiala vile.
yourusername 😘
user5 OH SHES EVIL
user9 love me a good date night dump!
king clean!
liked by levicolwill, malogusto, chelsea and 754,951 others
yourusername thank you for having me chelsea
user7 oh she’s playing with fire…,
user9 YN..
user2 we can’t defend you now girl
m.olise answer the phone.
yourusername no thanks🥰
m.olise okay be like that.
user4 oh-
jamalmusiala please answer his calls he’s scaring us…
yourusername girl i’m also scared!
reece it was an absolute pleasure meeting you, i hope we can see each other again <3
levicolwill DOWN HORRENDOUS
tosin mans was cheesing the whole time she stood in the locker room
sancho let him cook!
yourusername the pleasure was all mine Reece!💙
user7 is this…
user8 could it be….
user0 not sweet ol Reece!
liked by user7, reece, m.olise and 375,803 others
yourusername fresh new set on the hoe!
user9 ATE
user4 she’s PERFECT
user8 lol Olise didn’t keel her
yourusername he nearly did…
m.olise i killed something else
jamalmusiala MY SWEET INNOCENT EYES????
reece have i mentioned how breathtaking you are?
tosin oh he’s laying it on THICK
enzofernandez8 👀👀 oh-
m.olise she takes my breath away everyday when i wake up next to her mate.
reece and you’re clearly not appreciating it enough
m.olise don’t you have an injury to nurse?
reece i have trophies to win, plural
yourusername boys. enough.
user2 THE GIRLS ARE FIGHTINGGGG
sancho i didn’t think James had it in him…
levicolwill i am indeed impressed
user6 TEAAAA
liked by reece, m.olise, user5 and 348,013 others
yourusername mermaid by day
user7 MOTHERRR
reece my girl by night
m.olise WRONG! she’s my girl 24/7
reece not for long🙏🏽
levicolwill whoever is this new Reece? i’m HOOKED
user8 oh Reece is taking Michael out of character frrr
jamalmusiala what an odd way to place your bed
yourusername i like you weird small man, don’t ruin it
jamalmusiala i am NOT small
user3 is Reece ever gonna let up-
user2 so reece is the Chelsea player she was talking about????
liked by m.olise, reece, nonzinoo10 and 280,003 others
yourusername pregame before the birthday weekend
comments have been disabled
liked by harrykane, jamalmusiala, yourusername and 734,011 others
m.olise fed, celebrated and turned inside out, a successful birthday weekend that you could never provide reece
user8 HE @ HIM EVEN LMAOOO
user2 oh-
user1 happy birthday YN!
yourusername you didn’t have to add that last part babe-
m.olise could have added that it was an all expense paid trip…
yourusername unbelievable.
user1 oh Reece get up!
reece touché 🙌🏽
yungchallobah you’re giving up??????
sancho pussy.
malogusto WEAK!
reece i’m still your captain.
user8 brother is NOT playing about this girl lmaooo
m.olise and stay out her dms reece
reece 🫡understood.
levicolwill this is NOT what i taught you!
pedroneto_30 we kinda still need a captain…
plot summary: in which michael olise refuses to do a post match interview unless it’s with you.
note: pls lmk if you would like this to have a part two because i think it could work, also reminder that my requests are open and very dry currently so feel free to send any requests u like.
nobody noticed it the first time, after all michael olise was infamous for his post-match interviews, or therefore lack of. he kept things short, answering politely, praising teammates, thanking fans and disappearing before anyone could dare ask him another question.
so when he declined one broadcaster after a 2-1 win at the allianz arena and instead walked directly towards you, nobody thought much of it, everyone assumed it had been arranged beforehand. you too had assumed the same and it wasn’t until it happened again and again and again that people started to talk.
after almost every match, the routine was identical.
“michael! over here!”
“michael, just one question please?”
“michael, i’m with sky sports can we please have a minute?!”
the voices and desperate yells of journalists from all over the world overlapped each other, with microphones being shoved into faces, everyone wanting to talk to michael.
bayern’s media officer barely looked up from his clipboard anymore.
“…waiting for her?” he asked.
michael simply nodded, watching you from across the media zone as you finished up an interview with one of his teammates. he never complained, instead he’d lean against the wall, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, quietly waiting until you were free. sometimes it was five minutes, sometimes ten, once, nearly twenty.
“you know you don’t have to wait.” you laughed one evening as you hurried over after a particularly long interview, “i’m so sorry.”
“it’s alright.” michael replied, standing up straighter.
“you’ve been standing here this whole time?”
“you were busy.”
“you could’ve gone home.”
“i could have.”
“…but you didn’t.”
michael gave a small shrug.
“i wanted to talk to you.”
as the months passed, interviewing michael became easy. whilst at first every answer had been short, snippy and careful, now he actually smiled, giving detail in his answers, and occasionally he even laughed.
“you looked frustrated after that missed chance.”
“i was.”
“i was wondering if you’d admit that.”
“well, i knew you’d ask.”
another evening, after a late winner, you teased him about his celebration.
“you smiled.”
“did i?” michael replied, feigning confusion.
“you did.”
“hmm.”
“you know there are photos.” you told him coyishly causing him to break out into a reserved grin.
“that’s unfortunate.”
then came the first match you missed. you’d come down with a bad flu, and despite insisting you were well enough to travel, your producer refused to let you work.
“rest,” he had told you. “we’ll send someone else.”
after the match, as usual michael made his way into the media area, looking around the room, his eyes darting from camera crew to camera crew before stopping as the media officer droned on in his ear.
“…where is she?” he asked, completely ignoring any previous conversation.
the media officer looked up in recognition.
“oh… she’s off today.”
michael frowned.
“…off?”
“she’s ill.” the media officer clarified.
michael glanced back towards the tunnel, almost expecting you to appear anyway. you didn’t.
“they’ve sent someone else,” the media officer added, directing him towards a disturbingly striking blonde with a wide smile.
“i’ll be interviewing you tonight.” she spoke, her voice grating in his ears.
michael shook his head.
“no.”
the reporter blinked.
“…no?”
“no you won’t. i’m not doing interviews.”
“michael…”
“i’ll wait.”
bayern’s media officer couldn’t help but smile.
“she’s not running late.”
“…oh.”
and for the first time all evening, he looked genuinely disappointed.
when you missed the following midweek fixture as well, everyone already knew how it would go down as they watched the replacement reporter approach him.
“ready?” she asked.
“…is she back?”
“not yet.”
michael sighed quietly.
“i’ll pass.”
the reporter laughed sourly.
“you know, you’re making the rest of us look bad.”
“sorry.” he replied dryly, walking off, not sorry at all.
by the weekend, you were finally back and the moment you stepped into the tunnel, several reporters grinned.
“look who’s here.” one jeered.
“he’s been unbearable.” another nudged you.
but before you could ask what they meant, michael walked out, his eyes immediately finding yours, the tiny crease between his brows disappearing, as his body visibly relaxed.
“you came back.”
“i did.”
“you look better.”
“i feel better.”
you both smiled shyly.
“i heard you refused to speak to my replacement.” you joked.
“i did.” michael confirmed.
“…michael.”
“what?” he asked, dead serious.
“you could’ve just done the interview.”
he looked at you as though the answer was obvious.
“they weren’t you.”
heat crept up your cheeks.
“come on, that’s not exactly fair on them.”
“i know.”
“…then why?”
michael thought for a moment before answering.
“i like talking to you.”
the words were so quiet you almost missed them but before you could respond one of the camera operators called from behind you.
“mate, i don’t think you’re exactly fooling anyone anymore.”
laughter echoed through the tunnel as michael looked around in confusion.
“what?”
you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.
“nothing.”
“i’m fairly certain it wasn’t ‘nothing’.”
your producer shook his head, trying to hide a smile, and failing, as you looked back at michael.
“so…”
you clipped the microphone onto your jacket and passed him the handheld microphone, his fingers brushing yours in the intimacy of the moment.
“interview?” you asked.
a small, genuine smile appeared on his face, the kind that only seemed to surface around you.
summary: what starts as an ordinary morning at home turns into an unexpected discovery when, the two of you accidentally stumble across the soundtrack to your relationship.
wc: 2.3k
The windows were open, late morning light spilling warm across the floorboards. Michael was in the kitchen, half watching the water boil for his tea while you flipped through a small stack of records on the shelf: a few of your own, one or two of his, and the one your friend had given you months ago that neither of you had ever actually played.
You slid it onto the player, mostly out of curiosity, and let it run in the background while you pottered around the flat. The first few tracks passed without much notice; you were only half listening, more focused on the state of the kitchen counter than on the music.
It was a few songs in when a line caught you off guard.
You went completely still, halfway through wiping down the counter.
Your head turned slowly toward the kitchen doorway.
Michael was already looking back at you, mug halfway to his mouth.
"Did they just..."
"They said your name."
"That's... a coincidence."
"It's not a coincidence, Michael. There's a whole song."
He set the mug down and came to stand beside you, arms crossed, waiting for you to be wrong.
You weren't.
The chorus came around again.
The second you heard "Me and Michael," you jabbed a finger dramatically in his direction, barely containing your grin.
"There!"
"Stop that. Put on Playboi Carti."
"I can't."
"You absolutely can."
"I physically can't."
"You are impossible."
"I'm literally being presented with this opportunity."
"It's one line."
"It's your line."
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I knew I shouldn't have walked over here."
You laughed so hard you almost missed it the next time.
Again, the chorus arrived.
Again, you pointed.
"Me and Michael."
"I know my name."
"I just thought you might've forgotten."
"I've somehow managed to remember it."
He shook his head, but you caught the small, helpless smile before he managed to smother it, and that was enough to know you'd already won.
The rest of the afternoon turned into a joke neither of you dropped.
Every time the chorus looped back around, you sang those three words a little louder than before, turning dramatically towards him as though the song had been written exclusively for the two of you.
By the third chorus, you weren't even singing anymore.
You simply stopped whatever you were doing, pointed at him with exaggerated seriousness and mouthed, "Me and Michael, solid as they come."
He always saw it coming.
He smiled every time anyway.
Later, cleaning up in the kitchen, you started humming without really meaning to. You got as far as,
"Me and..."
Then let the silence hang.
Michael, drying a plate at the counter, didn't even look up.
"...Michael," he muttered quietly.
You spun around so quickly he immediately regretted it.
"There he is!"
"I knew that was a trap."
"It absolutely was."
"You only wanted me to say my own name."
"And yet you still fell for it."
"I've made a terrible mistake."
"You've made several."
By early evening the record had looped back to that same track twice more, and you'd stopped asking him to dance; you knew better by now.
Instead you danced by yourself, barefoot on the living room floor, spinning loosely around the coffee table while he sat on the couch pretending to be very interested in his phone.
He wasn't, really.
You could feel him watching the whole time.
The chorus started again.
You pointed at him without missing a beat.
"Me and Michael."
He sighed.
"Again?"
"Always."
"I should've hidden this record."
"You would've deprived us of our song."
"It is not our song."
"It literally says your name."
"It says a Michael."
You stopped dancing altogether.
"There are other Michaels?"
"I'm sure there are."
"I don't believe you."
"You don't?"
"I think you're the original."
He laughed quietly through his nose.
"You are ridiculous."
"And yet you still like me."
"I tolerate you."
"You've been saying that for years."
"It keeps proving true."
You held a hand out anyway, just to see.
"No."
"Come on."
"I don't dance."
"You've never tried."
"I've tried. It went badly. I stopped."
The chorus drifted through the flat again.
You sang the three familiar words with a smile before walking over and taking both his hands.
"You don't have to dance."
"I don't?"
"You just have to stand there while I dance around you."
"That sounds worse."
"It's much more fun."
You pulled until he gave in with the longest, most put-upon sigh you'd ever heard out of him.
He was stiff at first. Awkward, barely moving, clearly counting the seconds until this could reasonably end.
"I'm terrible at this."
"I know."
"Thanks."
"It's charming."
"That's not what I'm going for."
"That's exactly why it's charming."
Little by little, though, some of the stiffness eased out of his shoulders, not because he'd suddenly figured out what to do with his feet, but because he'd stopped thinking about his feet at all.
He was just looking at you instead, and that seemed to be enough.
By the time the track looped back around once more, you were both swaying slowly in the middle of the room, no real rhythm to speak of, his hands settled loosely at your waist, your head tucked under his chin.
Softly, almost absent-mindedly, you murmured against his shoulder,
"Me and Michael."
He let out the smallest laugh.
"I had a feeling that was coming."
"I've been waiting all day."
"I noticed."
The song ended.
Neither of you noticed right away.
"So," he said eventually, voice low.
"So."
"Your friend gave you this months ago and neither of us ever played it."
"I know."
"You waited this long to find a song with my name in it."
You smiled against his chest.
"Felt like I'd been waiting a while, honestly."
He let out that quiet laugh he only ever seemed to have around you, resting his chin on top of your head.
"You're unbearably cheesy."
"I know."
A pause.
"...It's a good song, though."
You tipped your head back to look at him.
"Our song?"
He considered it, entirely too seriously for how simple the question was.
this is so random but you should write a olise fic on him proposing to his gf who is well known actress and paparazzi catch him out and he starts cheesing and smiling when they call him her husband and couldnt stop until he drove off
Captured
Michael Olise x Reader
Michael Olise Masterlist
·༻𐫱༺·
·༻𐫱༺·
Michael had been trying to keep the engagement a secret. Or at least… that was the plan anyways.
You had spent the entire morning watching him act suspiciously strange. You noticed he kept checking his phone more often and taking an unnecessarily long time choosing what to wear and for some reason he had been even quieter than usual. You knew that was his personality though, everyone deemed him as the reserved shy guy, but with you he was always chill and comfortable, apart from tonight, you could sense that something was off, perhaps he was… nervous?
You eventually looked over at him. “You’re acting weird.”
Michael glanced up from his phone. “Hm?”
“You’re acting weird.” You repeated.
“I’m not.”
You stared at him. “You are.”
He started back. “I’m not.” He blinked slowly. “I’m normal.”
You laughed. “You’re never normal.”
He smiled slightly but said nothing, and that was the problem. Michael was terrible at hiding things from you but somehow this time he finally managed it… managed to able to keep it for months, 3 months to be exact.
The ring had been hidden somewhere in your shared home although you had no idea where. Michael had moved it around more times than he could count, terrified that you would somehow find it. It was actually in a place you would never suspect it, in his toiletries pouch, there were times he even mistakenly brought it to training, and even one time he showed it to Jamal.
“Oh bro she’s gonna love it.” Jamal said.
“You think so.”
Jamal gives Michael a pat on the back. “I know so.” He smiled.
He’d thought about proposing to you at least a hundred different times making a new scenario each time. Deciding whether to do it at home, on holiday, coming back form a match? But none of those settings seemed to fit perfectly in his mind.
Tonight was supposed to be simple, just a private dinner by the beach. Private meaning no cameras, red carpeted, interveners being present in the moment. Just the two of you and that is exactly how he wanted it.
·༻𐫱༺·
The proposal itself was perfect. He didn’t go all the way out of his way to make it look completely extravagant or staged, he just wanted to be normal al and calm, just Michael. And God knows the amount of times he pictured this scenario in his head or the way he would always practice to himself and keep thinking about the reaction you’ll have, each reaction being different from the previous scenario he’d make in his head.
The two of you were standing just above the shoreline where the waves would come softly crashing in, the scent of salt and the feel of the cold gentle breeze grazing against your skin and waving through your hair.
He held your hand into yours, a little tighter but not too tight as his thumbs gently caressed your soft skin. You looked at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Michael.”
He smiled and then he reached into his pocket.
You froze. Is that what you think it is?
“Michael…” Your hands immediately flew to your mouth. “Oh my gosh.” You whispered to yourself in disbelief, tears almost threatening to spill and he handing even asked the question yet.
He got down on one knee. You’ve seen Michael being nervous from time to time like for example at big matches, or even your first date, but the state he was in right now you hadn’t seen him this nervous before.
He looked up at you. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.” Your eyes immediately filled with tears. “And I know it may seem like I don’t say it enough…” He paused and smiled softly. “But I don’t want to do this life with anyone else.”
You were already crying and Michael’s smile widened. “Will you marry me?”
You said yes before he could even finish properly. He immediately stood up and pulled you into his arms as you cried into his shoulder. Then he slipped the ring onto your finger and you kissed him.
And for tonight this whole evening belong to both of you, just the two of you.
·༻𐫱༺·
The next morning it seemed like Michael was caught. Neither of you had announced anything on social media, you didn’t even post your ring and nobody apart from close friends and family knew, but as soon as you and Michael left the restaurant with his hand on yours, the same hand that your ring was on, people instantly clicked.
All of a sudden Michael Olise had apparently forgotten how to act normal and just as you two were leaving the restaurant , interviewers and cameramen were crowded outside capturing the moment.
“Michael!”
He looked over.
“Congratulations!”
“Y/N! How do you feel?!”
Michael stopped, his hand still holding yours and his eyes widened slightly.
“Are you both engaged?”
He smiled as he looked at you. His smile was tiny at first because he couldn’t help but stare at you.
Then another photographer shouted:
“How does it feel to be the future husband of one of Hollywood’s biggest actresses?”
Michael immediately lost all control of his face, he literally grinned. It was a huge unmistakable grin, a grin that could only be created by being in the presence of someone he loved: you. The kind of smile that made it very obvious that they had absolutely hit the nail on the head.
“Michael! Are you getting married?”
He just kept smiling.
“Y/N is he your fiancé?”
“Future husband!”
Michael looked down trying to hide his face bit it didn’t work because he was still smiling and so were you, neither of you letting go of each others hands.
“Michael are you going to confirm the engagement?”
He opened your car door as you comfortably slid in the passengers seat as he made his way to the drivers seat, still smiling to himself and you.
“Congratulations!”
Michael paused before getting inside. He looked back at them and smiled again.
The paparazzi erupted. “He’s not denying it!”
“He is smiling!”
He finally got into the car and shut the door and even through the window the paparazzi could still see him smiling, he shook his head and then started the engine and drove off and he didn’t stop grinning until he was completely out of sight.
·༻𐫱༺·
By the time you and Michael made it back to the hotel the entire internet already knew. Or well… they didn’t officially know because neither you or Michael had made any sort of public announcement but Michael had apparently forgotten one very important thing… How to be nonchalant.
You were sitting beside him in the passengers seat scrolling through your phone as the pictures from earlier continued to appear online, crazy how it only happened about 20 minutes ago and images were already published, these photographers were like the flash. Michael was paying attention to the road completely silent, suspiciously silent
You glanced over at him. “Mikey.”
“Hm?”
“You’re trending.”
He didn’t even turn around. “Why?”
“Umm hello? Did you not click on to what happened 20 mins ago?” You held your phone up.“Because you got called my husband and started cheesing.”
Michael made a quick side eye to you before paying attention back to the road. “I did not.”
You turned your phone towards him. The first picture showed him standing outside the restaurant looking completely composed. The second showed a tiny smile beginning to form. The third showed him looking down at the floor, visibly trying not to grin. And the fourth? Oh the fourth was absolutely hopeless. Michael was standing beside his car with the biggest smile on his face.
As the car stopped to a traffic light, Michael took this opportunity to look at the pictures you were showing him on your phone. He stared at the picture. “I was happy.”
You burst out laughing. “Happy?”
“Yes.”
“You were supposed to be mysterious.”
“I was.”
“You were literally cheesing at the paparazzi.”
“What? No I wasn’t.” He said knowingly he definitely couldn’t hold back his smile when the paparazzi were asking him all sorts of questions.
You zoomed into the picture. “Mikey look.”
He looked at it again. “Okay fine…maybe a little.”
You laughed even harder. “A little? Baby you look like someone just told you that training has been permanently cancelled.”
Michael looked away. “Okay nah you’re exaggerating.”
“No I’m not.” You scrolled to another picture. “Look at this one.”
He refused to look. “Mikey.”
“No.”
“You’re literally smiling at the camera.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I was just-”
“Happy?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
You grinned. “Oh my gosh.”
“What?”
“There’s no such thing as Mr Nonchalant anymore.”
Michael looked at you. “Why?”
“Because you exposed yourself.”
“I didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.” You waved your phone around.“They asked you one question.”
Michael’s eyebrows furrowed. “What question?”
You put on your best paparazzi voice. “‘How does it feel to be the future husband of one of Hollywood’s biggest actresses?’”
Michael immediately looked away back into the road as he continued to drive off, this time he was smiling.
You gasped. “There!”
“What?”
“You’re doing it again!”
“I’m not.”
“You just smiled!”
“I didn’t.”
“You did!”
He shook his hea but the corners of his mouth were already lifting again.
You stared at him. “Oh my gosh!”
“What?”
“You really like being called my husband! Oh babe you are so adorable, I like it.”
Michael’s eyes were still glued to the road.“Maybe…”
Your expression softened. “Maybe?”
He took a small glance at you before turning to the road. “I liked it.”
You smiled. “Why?” Wanting to hear the truth from his own words.
He shrugged suddenly looking almost embarrassed. “I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
“I don’t.”
“Mikey.”
He glanced at you and you smiled. “Because you want to be my husband.”
He immediately looked away.
You gasped.“That’s exactly why!”
“Stop.”
“You want to be my husband!”
“You’re annoying.”
“You want to be my husband so badly.”
“Y/N.”
“You were cheesing until you drove off.”
Michael shook his head trying desperately to look unimpressed but the smile was still there.
You leaned closer to him teasing by his ear. “Mr Nonchalan!”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“Mr Nonchalant Olise.”
“I’m going to leave you at the hotel.”
“You can’t.”
“Why?”
You held up your hand and ring caught the sunlight. “Because I’m your fiancée! You’re stuck with me forever now baby you won’t be able to escape me.”
Michael looked down at the ring and there it was again, that smile. You immediately noticed the smile on his face and pointed at him. “THERE!”
He started laughing. “You’re obsessed.”
“You’re the one who can’t stop smiling.”
“I can stop.”
“Then stop.”
Michael looked at you from the side of his face He tried he really did try to keep a straight face…for approximately three seconds. Then he smiled again and you burst out laughing. “You’re so embarrassing.”
“You’re the one making me smile.”
“Oh so it’s my fault?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You’re my fiancée.”
You immediately covered your face and Michael laughed.
“You were literally just bullying me!” He said.
“I can do both.”
He leaned closer pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “Future wife.”
You pushed his shoulder. “Stop.”
He grinned. “Why?”
“Because you’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Smiling.”
Michael looked at you with an expression that was somehow still trying to be nonchalant and he failed miserably.
You shook your head. “Mr Nonchalant is officially dead.”
Michael smiled. “Good.”
You looked at him and with his free hand he grabbed yours intertwining both your fingers, his fingers slowly brushing your knuckles.
Michael looked at you. “What?”
You smiled. “Nothing.”
“What?”
“You’re cute.”
He immediately looked away.
You gasped. “Oh my gosh!”
“How many times are you gonna say that today?”
“Now you’re blushing too.”
“Shut up.”
You laughed as his hand never left yours and he finally pulled up to the hotel, Michael looked down at your joined hands, then at the ring and then back at you and smiled again.
You sighed. “Honestly you really are never beating the allegations.”
“What allegations?”
“That you are completely obsessed with your fiancée.”
Michael looked at you and this time he didn’t even try to deny it. “Maybe I am.”
“Good.” You smiled. “Because you’re stuck with me forever and I’m not going anywhere.”
And even when the two of you finally got out of the car Michael was still smiling.
summary after a controversy threatens to overshadow the biggest moment of his career, michael’s team hires you to manage the fallout. there’s only one problem though : your new client refuses to talk. somewhere between bad press, missed meetings and everything said off the record, keeping things professional becomes a crisis of its own.
warnings black!fem!reader, she/her pronouns used, no use of y/n, client/publicist relationship, enemies-ish to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut (18+), sexual content, angst, strong language, mentions of paternity allegations, online harassment & media scrutiny.
a/n got inspired by recent events (obviously), but please take everything written here lightly. i don’t know the truth about any of this, i’m not taking sides, and this is ultimately just fiction.
plot summary: in which michael olise refuses to do a post match interview unless it’s with you.
note: pls lmk if you would like this to have a part two because i think it could work, also reminder that my requests are open and very dry currently so feel free to send any requests u like.
nobody noticed it the first time, after all michael olise was infamous for his post-match interviews, or therefore lack of. he kept things short, answering politely, praising teammates, thanking fans and disappearing before anyone could dare ask him another question.
so when he declined one broadcaster after a 2-1 win at the allianz arena and instead walked directly towards you, nobody thought much of it, everyone assumed it had been arranged beforehand. you too had assumed the same and it wasn’t until it happened again and again and again that people started to talk.
after almost every match, the routine was identical.
“michael! over here!”
“michael, just one question please?”
“michael, i’m with sky sports can we please have a minute?!”
the voices and desperate yells of journalists from all over the world overlapped each other, with microphones being shoved into faces, everyone wanting to talk to michael.
bayern’s media officer barely looked up from his clipboard anymore.
“…waiting for her?” he asked.
michael simply nodded, watching you from across the media zone as you finished up an interview with one of his teammates. he never complained, instead he’d lean against the wall, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, quietly waiting until you were free. sometimes it was five minutes, sometimes ten, once, nearly twenty.
“you know you don’t have to wait.” you laughed one evening as you hurried over after a particularly long interview, “i’m so sorry.”
“it’s alright.” michael replied, standing up straighter.
“you’ve been standing here this whole time?”
“you were busy.”
“you could’ve gone home.”
“i could have.”
“…but you didn’t.”
michael gave a small shrug.
“i wanted to talk to you.”
as the months passed, interviewing michael became easy. whilst at first every answer had been short, snippy and careful, now he actually smiled, giving detail in his answers, and occasionally he even laughed.
“you looked frustrated after that missed chance.”
“i was.”
“i was wondering if you’d admit that.”
“well, i knew you’d ask.”
another evening, after a late winner, you teased him about his celebration.
“you smiled.”
“did i?” michael replied, feigning confusion.
“you did.”
“hmm.”
“you know there are photos.” you told him coyishly causing him to break out into a reserved grin.
“that’s unfortunate.”
then came the first match you missed. you’d come down with a bad flu, and despite insisting you were well enough to travel, your producer refused to let you work.
“rest,” he had told you. “we’ll send someone else.”
after the match, as usual michael made his way into the media area, looking around the room, his eyes darting from camera crew to camera crew before stopping as the media officer droned on in his ear.
“…where is she?” he asked, completely ignoring any previous conversation.
the media officer looked up in recognition.
“oh… she’s off today.”
michael frowned.
“…off?”
“she’s ill.” the media officer clarified.
michael glanced back towards the tunnel, almost expecting you to appear anyway. you didn’t.
“they’ve sent someone else,” the media officer added, directing him towards a disturbingly striking blonde with a wide smile.
“i’ll be interviewing you tonight.” she spoke, her voice grating in his ears.
michael shook his head.
“no.”
the reporter blinked.
“…no?”
“no you won’t. i’m not doing interviews.”
“michael…”
“i’ll wait.”
bayern’s media officer couldn’t help but smile.
“she’s not running late.”
“…oh.”
and for the first time all evening, he looked genuinely disappointed.
when you missed the following midweek fixture as well, everyone already knew how it would go down as they watched the replacement reporter approach him.
“ready?” she asked.
“…is she back?”
“not yet.”
michael sighed quietly.
“i’ll pass.”
the reporter laughed sourly.
“you know, you’re making the rest of us look bad.”
“sorry.” he replied dryly, walking off, not sorry at all.
by the weekend, you were finally back and the moment you stepped into the tunnel, several reporters grinned.
“look who’s here.” one jeered.
“he’s been unbearable.” another nudged you.
but before you could ask what they meant, michael walked out, his eyes immediately finding yours, the tiny crease between his brows disappearing, as his body visibly relaxed.
“you came back.”
“i did.”
“you look better.”
“i feel better.”
you both smiled shyly.
“i heard you refused to speak to my replacement.” you joked.
“i did.” michael confirmed.
“…michael.”
“what?” he asked, dead serious.
“you could’ve just done the interview.”
he looked at you as though the answer was obvious.
“they weren’t you.”
heat crept up your cheeks.
“come on, that’s not exactly fair on them.”
“i know.”
“…then why?”
michael thought for a moment before answering.
“i like talking to you.”
the words were so quiet you almost missed them but before you could respond one of the camera operators called from behind you.
“mate, i don’t think you’re exactly fooling anyone anymore.”
laughter echoed through the tunnel as michael looked around in confusion.
“what?”
you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing.
“nothing.”
“i’m fairly certain it wasn’t ‘nothing’.”
your producer shook his head, trying to hide a smile, and failing, as you looked back at michael.
“so…”
you clipped the microphone onto your jacket and passed him the handheld microphone, his fingers brushing yours in the intimacy of the moment.
“interview?” you asked.
a small, genuine smile appeared on his face, the kind that only seemed to surface around you.
michael is dragged into a movie premiere while he's in paris only to slowly fall in love for the woman behind it
⤷ a/n : aww I can't believe the world cup is over and all my boys are going home now >_< first sorry if anyone here seems ooc, also i always try my best to make reader as inclusive as i can, so if there's something you think could be better pls let me know <3
⤷ contains : +18 slow burn edging p in v sex safe sex (yay use condoms!) ⋮ ⌗ ┆ wc [ 5.6k ] — tags :
⤷ now playing : blinding lights by the weekend
The flashing lights of Paris were a harsh contrast to the wide predictable green of a pitch, and right now Michael Olise was pretty much aware of every single lens pointed in his direction, adjusting the collar of his tailored jacket and shifting the weight on his feet. As much as didn’t consider himself to be anti-social, he preferred clear boundaries in his world. Ninety minutes, a ball, and a tactical plan, not this glamourous chaos wrapped in a velvet cage.
Beside him, his friend Jamal Musiala was vibrating with excitement, waving at the photographers who probably had no idea what he was doing there, but appreciated the enthusiasm. He glanced sideways, catching the slight scowl on Michael's face.
“Mike, can you at least pretend you’re enjoying being here?” Jamal muttered through a tight smile.
He didn't look at him, his eyes flickering towards the exit doors. “It’s a little bit hard when I have no idea why I’m even here.”
“You’re supporting a friend,” Jamal whispered back, tone dropping into a teasing nudge. “Esther worked her magic on the hair and makeup for this. Look around, man, this is huge.”
Michael glanced up at the sprawling plaza, where the banners hung far too high, displaying its title The Edge of Summer in elegant cursive. It did look huge. Far bigger than the indie project Esther had mentioned during a haircut months ago.
“Yeah, just not my vibe,” Michael murmured, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Jamal scoffed, shaking his head as they moved a few paces forward on the red carpet. “Your vibe is being alone, you could use some networking and flirting, you know. Ditch that loner persona and find a girl to cheer you on. Honestly, Esther might be a good shot.”
“I’m cool,” he replied instantly, his voice flat but firm. “She’s a mate, and I don’t need a cheerleader to do my job.”
“You twisted my words, but whatever,” he sighed, checking his phone as the crowd began to get closer to the entrance doors. “I’m gonna find her before we head inside. Stay put.”
Jamal slipped away into a sea of dresses and tuxedos, leaving Michael stranded near a massive floral arrangement. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, suddenly feeling too exposed without a ball at his feet, glancing down at his shoes he wondered how soon it would be socially acceptable to slip out the back and call a cab.
“Well, this is new. Didn't expect to see you on the red carpet today.”
The voice was quiet and velvety, cutting through the buzz of the crowd with calm. Michael’s eyes looked up to meet your puzzling ones. A few feet away, leaning against a column, you wore a flowy minimalistic silk dress, quite unlike the eccentric gowns some of the cast were wearing, but still very hypnotizing on its own. Your hair was pulled back loosely, enhancing your eyes that held a beautiful quiet amusement.
Michael blinked, suddenly caught a bit off guard. “Yeah. Esther did the hair. She invited us.”
You tilted your head, gaze drifting over his neat braids and the sharp line of his jaw. “Esther, right. She’s brilliant. I can already tell she did yours.”
“Yeah.” A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of Michael's mouth. “You in the movie?”
You paused for a second, feeling a slow warmth spreading across your face. “Something like that,” you murmured.
He nodded entirely oblivious to the subtle shift in the air around you. For all he knew you were incredibly easy to look at, and even easier to talk to compared to the publicists who had been trying to corner him all evening. “Cool,” he said softly, his voice dropping an octave. “Good luck with it.”
“Thanks, Michael. Enjoy the show.” You gave him a lingering look before turning smoothly and disappearing into the VIP lane.
Michael watched you go while a strange warmth lingered in his chest, and for the first time that evening, he didn't feel like leaving immediately. The theater was already dark inside, and for two straight hours he couldn’t take his eyes from the screen and the scenes that floated in front of him like a summer day at the beach.
As the credits rolled and the lights lifted all he could hear was the applause from the audience. Beside him, Esther was beaming while Jamal clapped excitedly, but Michael's eyes were fixed on the front of the auditorium. The actors gathered on the stage and, right at the center, you smiled brightly as they handed a flower bouquet for the film you directed with the same calm and enigmatic grace you moved, on the carpet.
Something like that. He felt an unfamiliar flutter in his chest upon the realization that you had completely played him and he hadn't even noticed.
The after-party was held in a dimly lit, exclusive lounge overlooking the Seine, filled with slow jazz, expensive champagne and the constant chatter of film executives congratulating themselves. Michael stood near the edge of the terrace, a glass in hand, actively avoiding the crowded center of the room.
“So what did you think?”
He didn't need to turn around to know it was you, stepping beside him and leaning on the terrace railing with your own glass of champagne. He looked at you again with a mix of bashfulness and amusement.
“You said you were in it, not that you made the whole thing.”
You took a slow sip, eyes softly crinkling at the corners. “I said something like that, you believed what you wanted to hear. Were you expecting to see me on the big screen?”
“Nah,” Michael admitted, his voice dropping a pitch as he looked out over the river then back at you. “I liked seeing it through your eyes.”
Silence fell between you, the ambient noise of the party fading into the background. “I feel like my eyes tell better stories than my mouth,” you said softly, looking out at the city lights with him. “It’s hard being the center of attention either way, but you know that already. The cameras are always turned to you.”
Michael sighed, the weight of his own reality pressing in, it was rare to find someone who understood the suffocating nature of public scrutiny without having to explain it. “Sometimes I wish they weren't. I wish I could just get on the field and not deal with all the drama.”
Your eyes studied his steady profile in the low terrace light. “I think you do like the thrill of it,” you countered gently, a velvety tone to your voice. “Just not all the time, and not from everyone.”
His calm gaze turned to yours again as he tried to keep a straight face at how easily you had just shattered his entire public persona. “Maybe,” he murmured, a genuine smile breaking across his face. “You’re good at reading people.”
“It’s my job,” you replied smoothly, leaning closer to his warm body. “I know who's meant to be in front of the camera and behind it.” Noticing the slight tension in his shoulders when he suddenly seemed too aware of how close you two were standing, you giggled softly. “Are you uncomfortable talking to me?”
Michael’s usual cool exterior fractured just enough for a hint of warmth to creep up his neck. “No, I’m just not…”
“Comfortable,” you gave a playful smirk, eyes dancing with mischief.
“Used to things like this,” he countered quickly, pointing at the movie banner inside while trying to quickly regain his footing, entirely flustered by the way you were looking at him now.
“Psychological dramas or movies in general?” The sound of your chuckle unlike any of the women that swooned for him.
“Both,” he said quietly, holding your gaze this time. “It was cool tho. Very cool.”
Your cherry lips widened into a brilliant smile that made his heart flutter. “That’s a great compliment, coming from Mr. Cool himself. Looks like you do have an eye for drama.”
He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’ll leave that to you.”
Over your shoulder, a publicist began scanning the terrace, clearly looking for the director to drag you back to a circle of producers. You turned back to Michael, a hint of genuine reluctance in your eyes.
“Duty calls. And you look like you’re dying to escape anyway,” your voice dropped to a quiet murmur. “Hope I’ll see you around, Michael.”
You gave a small nod, your fingers brushing lightly against his forearm as you stepped past him. Even through the heavy fabric of his jacket, the touch left a lingering heat.
Michael stood on the terrace, watching you disappear back into the crowded lounge, gracefully swallowed up by the world of red carpets and hollow praise. He looked down at his arm, then out at the river and the golden tower sparkling above the city as a smile spread across his face. And for the first time in his life, he didn't mind the drama.
—
A week later, Michael was back in the chilly wind of Munich. The familiar scent of peppermint oil, leave-in conditioner and pomade filled the air of the high-end studio that Monday. It was a quiet afternoon following a grueling weekend match, where the quiet hum of a hairdryer and the smooth lo-fi beats playing through the speakers were the only sounds filling the room.
He quietly sat in the leather styling chair, shoulders relaxed but his eyes slightly heavy from ninety minutes on the pitch the night before. His hair was completely undone, the thick texture free from its usual tight braids.
The door to the back room swung open and Esther walked out, carrying a fresh tray of clips and combs. Her face lit up the moment she saw her two regular clients.
Jamal, already seated in the chair beside him, with a black cape draped over his chest, waved towards her. “Look at our Hollywood girl.”
Esther laughed, setting her tray down with a proud smirk. “Getting there. One day.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Jamal joked, gesturing dramatically toward Michael. “The Oscars can wait, but this man's hair cannot.”
Esther walked over to Michael’s chair, gently tilting his head back to inspect his hair. She ran her fingers through the roots, letting out a long sigh. “If you keep getting beer on it every weekend, there is no magic I can do to keep them good,” she scolded, grabbing a spray bottle.
A tiny smirk curled on his lips as he looked at her through the mirror. “It’s part of the job.”
“Getting drenched in beer during a post-match celebration is not in your contract, Mike,” Jamal chimed in, cracking up. “But hey, a win’s a win!”
Esther began sectioning Michael’s hair, the rhythmic and familiar sensation of the comb putting him instantly at ease. The salon fell into a comfortable quiet for a moment, the mist from the water bottle settling over his dark hair, before Esther spoke up, her voice a mix of excitement and curiosity.
“So, what did you guys think of the movie? I’m surprised you both stayed for the whole thing and the after-party,” Esther said, looking between the two of them in the mirror. “That director is kinda great, isn’t she? Looks like she’s gonna be huge.”
Michael’s eyes shifted downward, staring intently at his own sneakers. The memory of the dimly lit terrace, the cool breeze off the Seine, and the lingering warmth of your fingers on his jacket flashed through his mind with annoying clarity.
Jamal leaned forward in his chair, a mischievous grin spreading across his face as he locked eyes with Esther in the reflection.
“Michael's the one to ask,” he teased, his tone dripping with fake innocence. “He was all over her when it ended. I saw you two chatting for like half an hour.”
Michael shot his friend a warning glare through the glass. “It wasn't even that long. And we were just talking.”
“Oh, please. Just admit you found her gorgeous. You even mistook her for one of the actresses. And she asked you specifically what you thought about the movie.” His expression shifted into pure exasperation. “Why the hell didn’t you get her number? I can’t always be there to play wingman, man.”
Michael felt a stubborn tightness in his chest. He crossed his arms under the cape, looking everywhere but at Esther, who had stopped combing completely, a teasing smile spreading across her face.
“I don’t want her number,” he muttered, his voice dropping into the low defensive tone he used whenever he was feeling cornered by his friends.
Esther gently tapped the back of his neck with her comb, her smile widening into a grin. “I have her number, champ.”
Jamal let out a loud laugh, instantly reaching over to slap Michael’s arm. “He wants her number!”
“I don't,” Michael insisted. A distinct warmth rose up his neck, the cool and unbothered persona he worked so hard to maintain completely cracking in the styling chair. He sighed, refusing to look at either of them. “What do you want me to do? Ask her on a date? We have nothing in common and she lives in another country.”
Jamal threw his hands up in the air. “Well, yeah, flirting usually requires some effort, man. You don't just look at them from across the room hoping they read your mind.”
“I've got other things to worry about,” Michael grumbled, shifting uncomfortably. “The season's busy. Training, recovery, matches. Don't have time to be chasing girls around Paris."
Esther chuckled, parting another section of his hair with precision. “The boy has never heard of time management.”
He groaned and leaned his head back against the headrest, completely defeated by the tag-team effort. “What is wrong with you two today?”
Jamal laughed, finally leaning back into his own chair to let his stylist finish up. “Just messing with you, bro. Chill. Do whatever you want with your lack of a love life.”
The salon fell into a relatively peaceful silence for the next forty-five minutes. The steady pull of Esther’s fingers creating perfect, symmetrical braids across Michael’s scalp was therapeutic enough to let him zone out. Away from the pressure of the upcoming match, the media drama, and Jamal’s relentless teasing. But he couldn't zone out from that night on the terrace.
Every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the way you had looked at him, like someone who saw right through the expensive clothes and the quiet mask he wore for the cameras. You hadn't asked him about his stats, his contract or transfer rumors. You had just talked to him like a regular person who happened to understand exactly what it felt like to have a thousand eyes on you.
“All done,” Esther finally announced, patting his shoulder gently. She handed him a small hand mirror so he could check the back.
The braids and his buzzed sides were flawless and sharp again, a genuine smile replacing his earlier frown. “Perfect. Thanks, E.”
As Michael finished paying for his haircut, Esther held out a small piece of paper towards him. It was a torn edge from a notepad with a neat sequence of numbers and your name at the top. He froze for a second, looking from the paper up to his friend.
“She actually asked about you before the premiere started, you know,” Esther said quietly, keeping her voice low so Jamal wouldn't overhear. “She saw you walking in and asked me if that was the Michael Olise I always talked about in the makeup trailer. She thinks you’re interesting, Michael. And she doesn't just give her time to anyone.”
He looked back down at the slip of paper. His fingers brushed against the torn edge, his usual shyness returning, but underneath it also an undeniable spark of excitement.
He slid the paper into his pocket. “Thanks,” he murmured softly, giving Esther’s shoulder a quick squeeze.
“Don't overthink it,” she called out while already greeting another client.
Michael sat on the plush sofa, waiting for Jamal to finish up. He pulled his phone out, his thumb hesitated over the screen. And for a guy who could make split-second decisions on the pitch with over a thousand people screaming at him, staring at a blank text thread felt like the most terrifying and exciting thing he'd done all year.
—
The texts kept going for weeks after the best shot he’d ever taken. Almost every day, the two of you would exchange messages, him talking about another grueling match, you venting about the endless hours spent fixing plot holes in your next screenplay. The nights were now filled with a brand new feeling of home, even when he was hundreds of miles away from it.
On Michael’s first week off, he took the earliest flight he could to France.
The parisian night welcomed him with a light drizzle and a chilly wind that made him wrap his coat tighter around himself, until he caught sight of you walking down the street toward him, and the view alone sent a soft wave of heat through his entire body.
Now, you were sitting in the dimly lit corner of an underground japanese listening bar, tucked behind a hidden door next to a vintage record shop. There were no flashing lights there, no influencers, no whispers of his name from nearby tables. It was just the low hum of a vinyl record playing through vintage speakers and you sitting right across from him.
You looked effortlessly beautiful in a simple knit sweater and dark trousers, your hair pinned up loosely with a few stray strands framing your face. Your fingers handled the chopsticks with intense concentration as you picked up a piece of sushi. Watching you, Michael felt his chest flutter in a way he’d never experienced on a football pitch.
“If you stare too hard, I’m gonna drop it. And I’m gonna blame you for it,” you warned without looking up, a tiny smirk curling the edge of your lips.
Michael let out a soft laugh, leaning back against the leather booth. “Thought you were used to pressure and people looking at you.”
“Says the man who plays every weekend with thousands of people watching his every move,” you countered, finally bringing the piece safely to your mouth. You looked up, your gaze locking onto his with that same piercing calm that had completely disarmed him the night you met. “How was training? Esther told me you’ve been working through a tight schedule.
“It’s alright. Same as always,” he said, his tone naturally relaxed around you now. “Just video analysis and tactical drills. Whole lot of sitting around listening to the boss talk about defensive plays.”
“Sounds thrilling,” you teased, taking a sip of your sake. “Do you ever just want to kick the ball into the net during those, just to shake things up?”
A wide smile broke across his face. “Always. But then I’d get benched for the next match and have to watch us lose.”
Your laugh blended perfectly with the low tunes coming from the speakers. For the next hour, the conversation flowed with an ease Michael rarely experienced outside his family. You found a strange, comforting kinship in your industries, both of you too young, too talented, and essentially treated as public property the second you stepped outside.
“Must be exhausting, having to manage how you act on the field and your persona out of it. Sometimes even I can’t handle—”
A sudden, persistent vibration rattled against the table. Your phone lit up over the dark wood, the screen shining bright with an incoming call from a name Michael didn't recognize.
He watched your gaze flick down. In a fraction of a second, the warmth between you completely vanished and your posture went rigid. A regular person might have missed it, but Michael, who spent his entire life reading the micro-movements of defenders on a pitch, noticed instantly.
Your finger slid across the screen in a practiced movement, quickly silencing the call and flipping the phone face down. You looked back up at him, forcing a quick smile. “Sorry about that. Production stuff. It never stops.”
He kept his eyes on yours, his brows furrowing slightly as the vibe in the booth shifted to something colder and further away. “You alright?” He asked softly, his voice dropping into a low protective tone.
“Yeah, completely fine,” you said, a little too quickly, waving a hand dismissively. “Just some trashy producer from the LA office who doesn’t understand time zones or boundaries. Anyway, what were we talking about?”
Michael let it go, nodding and picking up the thread, but his instincts were screaming that something was off. Ten minutes passed, and just as you seemed to be relaxing back into the rhythm, the phone buzzed again, then again, and again.
Your fingers clenched tightly around your glass. Your eyes stayed fixed on him, but he could tell you weren't hearing a word he said anymore, entirely trapped in your own head now. Reaching across the table, Michael brushed his calloused fingers against your wrist. The soft contact suddenly snaps you out of the anxious haze.
“Hey,” he murmured, his dark eyes steady on yours. “We can go if you need to.”
You looked at him, your lips parting to deny it, but you just swallowed the excuse and gently pulled your wrist back. “Yeah… maybe that’s a good idea. I’m really sorry, Michael. I just…”
“Don't worry about it,” he said smoothly. He was already signaling the waiter for the bill, not even bothering to look at the receipt.
The ride in the back of the black cab was a harsh contrast to the easy banter of the restaurant. You sat pressed against the passenger door, staring out the window at the blurred rainy lights of the Eiffel Tower, miles away from whatever private hell was playing out on your phone. It still buzzed every now and then, but you didn’t seem to notice anymore, your expression growing more distant with every passing street.
Michael sat quietly on the other side of the seat, giving you space but never taking his eyes off you. He wanted to tell you that whatever it was, you didn't have to carry it on your own. But before he could find the words, the cab pulled up outside a classic apartment building in Montmartre.
The driver kept the engine running as Michael stepped out into the cool, drizzling night air, holding the door open for you. You stepped out onto the pavement, the damp wind catching your hair. As you turned to face him, the perfect mask you wore finally cracked.
You looked up at him, eyes wide and slightly glassy, carrying a weight of sheer exhaustion that made his chest ache. It took everything in him not to just reach out and pull you into his arms right then and there.
“Michael,” your voice was a quiet murmur against the hum of the cab. “Thanks for tonight. For everything. It was amazing, really.”
“Always have a good time with you.” He took a step closer but stopped, for a second looking down into your eyes, searching for the girl who had been laughing at his jokes an hour ago. “You sure you're good? If you want me to stay, or…”
“No,” you interrupted gently, a trembling smile on your lips. “No, I’m okay. Just a lot of drama. And like you said, I should leave that to me.”
Your fingers brushed against the side of his face, tucking away a stray lock of hair that had fallen out of his hair tie. But this time, the touch felt like you were gently pushing him away rather than pulling him in.
“Get some rest for the match, champion,” you whispered, stepping backward toward the heavy doors of the building. “I’ll see you around.”
Before he could answer, you slipped inside, giving him one last lingering look before disappearing. Michael stood on the pavement as the faint drizzle began to pick up, dampening his jacket.
As an elite athlete, he understood clear strategies and concrete outcomes—wins, losses, fouls, goals—but as he climbed back into the cab, his mind was spinning in a chaotic loop. He had no idea who was on the other end of that phone, or why you had suddenly looked at him like he was a luxury you couldn't afford.
On his way back, he leaned his head back against the seat, gazing out at the blurred neon lights of Paris and for the first time in a very long time, he knew he was entirely hooked.
—
Against all odds, over the next few months, the two of you managed to quietly coordinate your grueling schedules, going back and forth between the romantic haze of Paris and the strict lines of Munich. Even in the hectic early stages of your new film, you managed to carve out a few days to sneak away to Germany to see him.
Outside, the Munich sky was darkening into a deep midnight blue. It had been a long day of training for Michael after a frustrating match-loss, and a tiring afternoon of sightseeing for you, scouting the city for future inspiration. Michael’s apartment was quiet, save for the slow beat of an indie hip-hop track playing while you stood at the stove preparing carbonara.
A few weeks into this relationship blooming in secret, and Michael was already adapting to the domestic shift in his lifestyle. For someone so used to the blinding cameras, post-match adrenaline, and loud after-parties, coming home to someone who was genuinely excited about a museum visit was a breath of fresh air.
“Have you ever been to Alte Pinakothek? It’s so beautiful. The reviews online do not do it justice,” you said, a relaxed smile opening on your face while you mixed the eggs into the hot pasta.
“What's that?” he muttered, helping to set the plates on the table as you sat across each other.
“Are you serious?” The fork nearly slipped from your fingers. Michael let out a low chuckle, a smug smirk spreading across his face. “You do know I'm forcing you to come with me next weekend, right?”
Just as he was about to hit back with a teasing comeback, your phone lit up on the table, its sharp buzz cutting through the music. Your eyes flicked to the screen, expression instantly tightening into a tired frown.
Michael let out an annoyed huff. “Can't you just turn it off?”
“It’s the LA office. I have to take it,” you murmured, already sliding out of your seat. “Sorry I have a job.”
“Making movies is your job. Not answering those pricks twenty-four-seven.”
You rolled your eyes with a soft giggle and pressed the phone to your ear. Your voice immediately pitched a little higher, professional and polite as you answered a few quick questions about budgeting and the shooting schedule. Five minutes later, you set the phone back on the table, stepping up behind Michael to give his shoulder a playful pinch, making him give a dramatic wince.
“I didn’t know you were this possessive, Mr. Nonchalant.”
Michael rested his chin in his hand, idly spinning his fork with a bored expression. “Don't like people trying to take what's mine.”
“Oh, I know,” you teased, taking your seat across from him and taking a bite of pasta. “I saw how mad you got when they tried to take the ball from you on Saturday.”
Michael stopped spinning his fork. “You made the match?”
He hadn't expected that, your flight had been delayed, and he assumed you’d gone straight to the apartment to sleep. “Didn't see you in the stands.”
“That was the point. No media, no drama. No distractions for you.”
“I like being distracted by you.”
“Of course you do. But you need focus, champion.” Your leg found his under the table.
“Well, my back definitely needs a massage,” Michael muttered, leaning back with a dry teasing look. “They tackled me to the ground like a thousand times.”
You laughed, leaning forward. “So much for being subtle and unbothered.”
“Who said I was trying to be subtle?”
“Fine. Get on the bed.” You shook your head, trying to muffle a soft chuckle.
You quickly cleaned up the kitchen and met him in the bedroom. He was already waiting, shirtless, with a bottle of massage oil sitting on the nightstand. As you walked in, his eyes lifted to meet yours, a brief flicker of endearing bashfulness hitting him before he laid down on his stomach, feeling your weight settling onto his toned back.
Your fingers worked into the tight muscles of his shoulders, sliding all the way down the curve of his back. The heels of your hands pressed harder with every movement, working through the knots until a sharp groan left his throat.
It wasn't that Michael wasn't enjoying it, he needed this more than anything, and to his surprise, you were actually pretty good at it. But as your hands moved over his skin, a sudden realization hit him. Between chaotic schedules and rushed flights, you two had never had the time to actually be intimate together. Now, with the pent-up frustration from a lost match, the aching soreness in his bones, and the constant friction of your body against his, something else was waking up inside him.
He shifted under your soft thighs, the pressure in his lower body growing tighter by the second, when you felt his muscles tensing up under your palms.
“Did I hurt you?” You stopped immediately, noticing him bury his face deeper into the pillow. “I didn’t mean to. We can stop.”
“No,” he said sharply. The word was muffled by the pillowcase, but there was a different rough edge to it. “Just... keep going.”
“I think you should hire a professional, Mickey. I don’t want to—”
Michael’s fingers gripped the sheets underneath him, trying to fight the feverish need building in his lower body. With one swift movement, he flipped his body over beneath yours, large hands wrapping around your thighs, effortlessly pulling you closer onto his lap as he rested his back against the headboard.
“Mickey!”
A surprised gasp escaped you, hands instantly grabbing his shoulders for balance as his lips met the curve of your neck. A warm shiver trailed all the way down to your core where he lifted his hips against yours.
In a matter of seconds, his mouth met yours and muffled another needy moan, tongues tangled in a breathless rush, both of you completely starving for each other. His hands traveled up to your waist, pulling you flush against him as your fingers tangled in his locks.
“Need you, baby,” he mumbled against your swollen lips. The heat of his hand slid under your top, burning against your sensitive skin.
In a blur of motion, the rest of your clothes were stripped away, discarded on the floor as your bodies pulled together like magnets. You dragged your palm down his chest, your fingers wrapping around his hard length, throbbing over the softness of your hand that pumped him up and down until his lungs failed him.
“Stop teasing,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re not gonna keep that smirk for long.”
With a playful grin, you teased his plump tip until his hips quivered under your touch. Before you could pull away, his fingers wrapped around your wrists, pinning your hands back. He blindly reached towards the drawer of the nightstand for a condom, ripping the foil open with his teeth and quickly rolling it down his bursting member.
In one smooth motion, he released your wrists to lift your hips directly over him and pushed himself deep inside you with a low, crooked groan. A breathy moan left your lips as you sank down onto the entirety of him. His fingers were quick to find your sensitive clit, his thumb skillfully rolling over it and driving you to the edge. You let your head fall in defeat against his shoulder, resting your forehead against the cool dampness of his skin.
His pace was worthy of an athlete, a rhythmic, relentless flow that took over your senses. Nothing but unintelligible moans and broken whimpers came out of your mouth.
“I can't,” you tried to form a coherent thought, but all the words that came so easily when writing your screenplays completely vanished with every deep thrust. “Mickey... I can't take it.”
A slow grin curled on his mouth as he wrapped his toned arms around your middle, pulling your heaving chest flush against his. With a few more angled and mean thrusts, the tension finally snapped, and both of your limbs tingled with pleasure as a wave of complete, numbing climax took over your exhausted bodies.
Outside the window, Munich’s light rain was the only sound left, saving the heavy breathing that filled the room. Michael laid on his back, the messy sheets wrapped around your tangled legs as you rested your head on his chest. You softly brushed your fingertips over his tattoos, tracing the dark outlines while he wrapped his arm around your back, pulling you even closer.
“My flight is in three days,” you mumbled against his warm skin, groaning softly as you shifted your weight over his. “I don’t want to go.”
“Suddenly you don’t have a job anymore.” An amused chuckle erupted from his chest. “And now I think my back is all good for the second half.”
“Noo, Mickey. You can’t do this.” You cuddled into his side with a long exhale, though your fingers were already clinging to the muscles of his back. “It’s not fair. You train at this pace every day. I don’t.”
“It’s one-nil to me, baby” Michael murmured, rolling his body over yours and leaning down to plant a bruising kiss on your lips. “The game’s only over when it’s over.”
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: everyone ship you with jamal musiala while you're secretly dating michael, and he gets jealous.
being famous meant people were always going to invent a story for you and lately, the internet had chosen its favorite storyline.
you and jamal musiala.
it didn’t matter that you had only been seen with him at events, after matches, in group settings, or once leaving the same restaurant with friends.
people wanted romance so they built one. meanwhile, the truth was standing in the background.
michael, the man you were actually with. the one who hated attention, never posted captions, and preferred privacy so deeply that even your relationship existed in hidden hours.
ironically, people had seen you with michael too, arriving separately at the same place, leaving five minutes apart, even once in the back of the same car but because he gave nothing away and you both kept your distance in public, no one believed that version.
according to the internet, michael was a coincidence and jamal was destiny.
your real boyfriend hated it silently, in the tone of his texts, in the way his jaw tightened whenever another edit went viral, in the suspicious silence every time jamal’s name came up.
he was jealous and tonight, the internet made it worse.
@gossipball
🚨 sources close to the scene claim that supermodel yn and jamal musiala are “more than friends.” after being spotted together multiple times over the past months, many fans are convinced they are quietly dating 👀
see the comments
@user1 i knew it 😭
@user2 they would be such a power couple omg
@user3 body language!!!
@user4 no because they look so good together
@user5 my two favs omg
@user6 jamal won at life wow
@user7 if this is true i need hard launch immediately
@user8 they’ve been seen together too many times for it to be nothing
@user9 maybe they’re just friends y’all are insane
@user10 respond! no one looks at “just a friend” like that 😭
@user11 she’s always around bayern lately
@user12 imagine their children omg
@user13 so are we shocked?
@user14 jamal bagged THE yn ???
@user15 i still think she’s with michael lowkey
@user16 respond! be serious michael never claims anything
@user17 this better not be fake news
@user18 if they post together i’ll pass out
@user19 jamal and yn sounds right idk
@user20 everyone ignoring the possibility she wants privacy 😭
@m.olise
liked by jamalmusiala, ynusername, and 6M others.
@m.olise
see the comments.
@user1 wait last slide???
@user2 excuse me why is yn on michael’s dump 😭
@user3 oh this just changed everything
@user4 michael said no caption just chaos
@user5 last pic hit like a truck
@user6 not him soft launching in slide 6 ???
@user7 hello???? yn????
@user8 i thought she was with jamal???
@user9 michael saw the rumors and moved wickedly 😭
@user10 man said let me correct something real quick
@user11 message passed
@jamalmusiala10 okay 👀
@user13 jamal shippers in shambles rn
@user14 he’s sick for this
@user15 the flowers too omg
@user16 why would he post her if nothing is going on
@user17 michael olise masterclass in silence
@user18 this is the most he’s ever said
@user19 everyone go back to the gossip post 😭
@user20 nah he was jealous jealous
@user21 absolute cinema
@user22 crazy
@fcbayern 2 titles 1 post
@user24 soft launch of the year
@user25 he wants us to suffer
@user26 last slide was personal
@user27 i know jamal laughing somewhere
@user28 the plot twist is insane
@user29 this man communicates through pics only
@user30 i need answers immediately
@user31 if they’re together this is iconic
@user32 so he ended the rumors
@user33 michael really said mine
@user34 everyone apologize to him now
@user35 he knew exactly what he was doing
@user36 quiet men bro
@user37 sniper shot
@user38 the jealousy posting is sending me 😭
@user39 yn looked gorgeous too wow
@user40 i’ve never refreshed comments this fast in my life
he answered on the third ring.
“hello.”
“are you insane?”
silence, then the smallest hint of amusement.
“what did i do?”
“what did you do?” you repeated. “michael, you posted me.”
“i posted my wins.”
“don’t be annoying.”
you could hear movement on his end, probably him lying back somewhere completely unbothered.
“they liked it.”
“of course! you just claimed me!”
“did i?”
“michael!”
“they thought you were with jamal,” he said. “now they don’t.”
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
stormborns
izzy806
germansingergirl
2087
