â˝â⼠Damned to loving you(2)
part 1 (Desire Doue x ChildhoodFriend!Reader)
The bell above the door chimed, a sound you had become completely desensitized to after working six hour shifts at the Starbucks just a stone's throw away from Gillette Stadium. Since it was June 2026 and the World Cup was in full swing, Boston was absolutely teeming with soccer fans, tourists, and media. Your store had been a non-stop revolving door of people all week, and your feet were aching under your green apron.
"Welcome to Starbucks, what can I get started for you today?" you said mechanically, your eyes fixed on the screen as you prepared to take the next order.
A group of young men filed into the queue. They were dressed casually with hoodies pulled slightly low, baseball caps, and simple track pants. They may looked like a group of athletic college kids or regular tourists. But the moment you heard them speaking to each other, your breath hitched.
They were speaking French.
Not just any French, but the familiar, fast-paced slang of the boys you used to grow up around. You kept your eyes down, trying to maintain your professional composure. You had literally just watched the French National Team win their match on your TV a few days ago. The last thing you wanted to do was gawk like a crazed fan while working a register.
"What do you want, man? Just get an iced latte, we need to move," one of the voices said in French, laughing as he nudged his friend forward.
"Let me think.." a second voice replied.
The air left your lungs completely. That voice. It was a little deeper now, carrying the confidence of a man who played in front of eighty thousand people, but it was a voice you would recognize anywhere. It was the voice of the boy who had sat in your living room four years ago on June 3rd, holding a framed photo and listening to you say goodbye.
Slowly, almost fearing what you would see, you lifted your gaze from the cash register.
Standing right across the counter from you, wearing a muted black hoodie with the hood resting loosely over his curls, was DĂŠsirĂŠ DouĂŠ.
He was looking down at his phone, scrolling absentmindedly while waiting his turn to step up to the register. As the space cleared, he stepped forward, clearing his throat to try and order in English.
DĂŠsirĂŠ froze. He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes locking onto yours.
The noisy background of the bustling Starbucks, the shouting of the barista steaming milk behind you, the chatter of his teammates..it all faded into dead silence. DĂŠsirĂŠâs dark eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock. His mouth parted slightly, his phone nearly slipping from his fingers as he stared at the face he hadn't seen in four long years.
"you.." he whispered, his French accent thick as the name left his lips.
You stood behind the register, frozen in your green apron, your name tag gleaming under the harsh lights. Four years of unanswered questions, a lost Instagram password, and an entire ocean between you vanished in a single second.
Behind him, one of his teammates bumped his shoulder. "Hey, DĂŠs, go ahead, order. People are waiting."
But DĂŠsirĂŠ didn't move an inch. His gaze was entirely glued to yours, a mixture of overwhelming disbelief, guilt, and an undeniable spark of the warmth you thought you'd lost forever dawning on his face.
The silence stretched between you across the counter, thick and heavy, completely contrasting the chaotic rush of the coffee shop around you.
He took a half-step closer, his eyes scanning your face as if trying to piece together the years he had missed in a single second. "Itâs... itâs really you."
Your fingers hovered over the plastic keys of the register, trembling slightly. The professional armor youâd spent the last six hours wearing felt like it was melting away. "Hi, Des," you said softly, your voice carrying a mixture of the old warmth he used to know and the quiet ache of four years of silence.
"DĂŠsirĂŠ, what are you doing? Order already!" his teammate,you recognized him vaguely from the television screen as another of his teammate complained from behind him, shifting impatiently.
DĂŠsirĂŠ didn't even turn around. He just threw a hand back to wave his teammate off, his dark eyes never leaving yours. "Give me a minute," he muttered in rapid French, before looking back at you, a sudden wave of vulnerability washing over his face. "Youâre working here? In Boston?"
"My mom's treatment center is nearby," you explained quietly, gesturing vaguely to the green apron and the name tag pinned to your chest. "Iâve been here since I left France."
A flash of genuine guilt crossed his features. He swallowed hard, his hands shifting nervously into the pockets of his hoodie. "I... about the messages, and the calls... I lost access to everything right after you left. The academy, the new management, they changed my numbers, my accounts, everything. I thought you-" He cut himself off, looking down for a split second as if the weight of the counter between you was too much. "I thought you forgot about me."
"Forgot about you?" You managed a small, bittersweet smile, your eyes looking at the subtle changes in him..like the sharper jawline, the broader shoulders, the aura of a professional athlete. "I watched you play a few days ago, Des. It's kind of hard to forget someone when their face is on a giant stadium screen."
A genuine, breathless laugh broke through his shock, and for a fraction of a second, the overwhelming pressure of being a rising World Cup star seemed to lift from his shoulders. "So you saw it?"
"Every minute," you replied.
"Hey, man, the coach is going to kill us if we're late for the bus," the teammate behind him urged again, more forcefully this time, noticing the lingering look between DĂŠsirĂŠ and the cashier.
DĂŠsirĂŠ sighed, a look of frustration crossing his face as reality caught up to him. He couldn't stay here, not with a security detail waiting outside and a tight schedule to keep before their next match. But looking at you, it was obvious he had absolutely no intention of letting you disappear across the ocean again.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and quickly tapped the screen before sliding it across the counter toward you.
"Type it," he said, his tone shifting into something intense, almost pleading. "Your number. The real one. Don't worry about ordering, just... please type it."
You looked at the phone, then up at his eyes, seeing the exact same sincerity he had when he gave you that framed photo four years ago. Without a word, you grabbed the phone,and typed your number then handed it back.
He took it, ensuring it saved, a visible wave of relief washing over him.
"I have to go before they notice who we are," DĂŠsirĂŠ whispered, taking a step backward as his teammates began to pull him toward the exit. He held up the phone, a small, familiar smirk finally returning to his lips. "Iâm calling you the second I get to the hotel. Don't you dare ignore it."
"I won't," you promised, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.
You watched his tall figure disappear out the glass doors into the Boston afternoon, the bell chiming behind him.
The rest of your shift went by in a total blur. By the time you finally clocked out and walked to your car, the sun was dipping below the Boston skyline, casting long, golden shadows across the pavement.
You were sitting in the driverâs seat, key halfway in the ignition, when your phone finally lit up.
An unknown number. No caller ID.
Your heart did that exact same complicated stutter it had done in the stadium parking lot. You swiped the screen and pressed the phone to your ear. "Hello?"
"You actually picked up," a voice breathed out. The background noise on his end was dead silent..no roaring crowds, no teammates shouting in French, just the quiet, echoing acoustics of a high-end hotel room.
"I told you I would," you said, leaning your head back against the headrest, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Iâm a girl of my word, Des."
A soft, low chuckle came through the speaker, a sound so familiar it made your chest ache. "Yeah. You are. I just... I had to make sure I wasn't dreaming at the register. Seeing you standing there in that green apron, I swear my brain completely stopped working."
"I could tell. Your friend looked like he wanted to use a soccer move on you just to get you to move out of the line."
"Ah, don't worry about him," DĂŠsirĂŠ said, his French accent wrapping warmly around the English words. "They can wait. Iâve spent four years waiting to find you again. A few minutes in a coffee line is nothing."
The lightness in your chest shifted into something a bit more grounded, the reality of the last four years settling between you. "Des... what happened? You said you lost access to your accounts?"
You heard a long sigh on the other end, followed by the rustle of sheets as if he were sitting down on the edge of his bed. "Right after you left for America, everything went crazy. The transition to the senior squad, the big contracts... management stepped in and took over my entire digital life. They wanted everything 'clean,' professional. They changed my personal number, deactivated my old socials, and by the time I realized I hadn't saved your data anywhere else but that old phone... you were just gone."
He paused, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that made the distance between his hotel and your car disappear. "I felt like an idiot. I looked for you, Y/N. Every time we had a match near Paris or when I traveled, I always looked through the crowds. I didn't think you'd be all the way in Boston."
"Well, my mom needed the specialized hospital here," you said softly, looking out at the faint glow of Gillette Stadium in the distance. "It's been tough, but sheâs doing much better now."
"I am glad to hear that. Truly," DĂŠsirĂŠ murmured. "And... you? Are you okay?"
"I am now," you admitted, the honesty slipping out before you could stop it. "Watching you on TV last week... I was so proud of you, Des. You made it. Exactly like you said you would on your birthday."
There was a long pause on the line, the kind of silence that wasn't uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken feelings.
"Our team has a free afternoon tomorrow before training camp locks down. No press, no cameras." he continued
"Are you asking me out," you teased, your heart racing.
"I am asking my childhood friend to show me around Boston," DĂŠsirĂŠ corrected smoothly, though the nervousness in his voice gave him away. "And maybe...a nice little date. What do you say?"
Of course you wouldn't say no.
The next evening, the heavy Boston humidity dropped into a cool, crisp breeze as the sun set over the Charles River. DĂŠsirĂŠ had managed to slip away from his hotel completely unnoticed, wearing a simple cream colored hoodie and dark jeans.
You walked side by side along the Esplanade, the city lights reflecting like spilled ink across the dark water. The initial awkwardness of the four year gap had quickly melted away, replaced by the easy, rhythmic banter youâd shared since childhood.
Eventually, you ended up at a quiet, dimly lit outdoor patio of a brick walled bistro tucked away in Beacon Hill, far from the bustling sports bars near the stadium.
"So," you started, swirling the straw in your iced drink, looking across the small wooden table at him. "The media has been relentless since the tournament started. Every time I open a sports page, itâs either about your performance on the pitch or who youâre supposedly seeing off it."
DĂŠsirĂŠ let out a quiet scoff, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head. "Donât believe anything you read. The press creates a new rumor every time I shake hands with someone at a charity gala."
"Oh, really?" you teased, a playful smile on your lips, though a tiny, anxious part of you wanted to know the truth. "No secret high profile romance? No glamorous lifestyle?"
"My life is training, traveling, sleeping, and playing. Itâs not as romantic as they make it look," he said, his dark eyes locking onto yours, dropping the playful tone for something more genuine. "Honestly, with everything moving so fast, itâs hard to find anyone who actually knows me. Not the jersey number, not the contract. Just me. What about you? Anyone in Boston?"
You looked down at your hands, suddenly feeling the vast difference between your worlds. He was flying private, playing in the World Cup, and living in luxury, while you were balancing Starbucks shifts and hospital visits.
"No, no one," you said softly, trying to sound nonchalant as you looked back up at him. "I haven't really had the time. Besides, my life is pretty ordinary, Des. It's a lot different from yours now."
DĂŠsirĂŠ frowned slightly, tilting his head. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"Just that... look at you," you said, gesturing faintly to him. "Youâre at the top of the world right now. When people talk about players in your league dating, itâs always... I don't know, supermodels, influencers, actresses. People who match that whole world. You could easily settle for someone like that. A model, or someone famous."
The words came out a bit more bittersweet than you intended. You meant it as a reality check for yourself, but the moment the words left your mouth, the relaxed atmosphere at the table shifted.
DĂŠsirĂŠâs posture straightened. The easygoing smile vanished from his face, replaced by a sudden, intense seriousness that made your breath catch. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, closing the distance between you until his dark eyes compelled you to look nowhere else.
"A model?" he repeated, his voice low, a trace of disbelief in his French accent. "Do you really think that's what I care about?"
You swallowed hard, suddenly finding the tabletop very interesting. "I just mean itâs what usually happens-"
"I don't care about 'what usually happens,'" DĂŠsirĂŠ interrupted gently, but firmly. He reached across the small table, his fingers brushing against yours before he took your hand in his, his grip warm and grounded. "You think because I play in big stadiums now, I forgot whatâs real? I spent the last four years surrounded by people who want something from me."
He squeezed your hand, forcing you to look up and meet his gaze.
"A model doesn't know the boy who used to hate practicing in the rain," DĂŠsirĂŠ whispered, his eyes softening as a faint, vulnerable smile touched his lips. "An influencer doesn't know why June 3rd matters to me. He paused, his thumb gently tracing the back of your hand.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, the ambient noise of the patio fading into absolute insignificance.
"I don't want a glamorous lifestyle with a stranger," he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with absolute certainty. "I wanted you. Iâve wanted you since the night you left that living room. Don't ever think a title or a career changes that."
The soft, rhythmic patter of rain tapped against the windowpane of the bedroom, casting a cozy glow over the two small beds. Piled high with blankets, two pairs of wide eyes stared up at you in excitement
"And then what happened, Mama?" your 4 year old son asked, pulling his duvet up to his chin. "What did Papa say when you told him he should marry a supermodel?"
You couldn't help but chuckle, sitting on the edge of the mattress and smoothing down the rumpled sheets. A glance toward the bedroom door revealed a tall, broad shouldered figure leaning quietly against the frame. DĂŠsirĂŠ had just gotten home from training, his hair slightly damp from the rain, watching the scene unfold with a soft, reminiscent smirk playing on his lips.
"Well," you said, looking back at your children, "your Papa got very serious. You know the face he makes when he's telling you to finish your food?"
Your 6 year old daughter nodded eagerly. "The scary and serious face!"
"Exactly," you smiled. "He leaned right across the table at the restaurant, took my hand, and told me that he didn't care about famous people, or cameras, or what the rest of the world expected him to do. He told me that none of those people knew the boy who hated practicing in the rain, and none of them had given him a reason to carry a tiny, faded photograph in his sports bag across the world for four long years."
"Did he really say that?" Maya whispered, looking thoroughly enchanted by the romance of it all. "Was he romantic, like in the books?"
"He was incredibly dramatic," you teased playfully, tossing a smirk toward the doorway.
DĂŠsirĂŠ finally pushed himself off the doorframe, walking into the room with quiet, soft steps. He bypassed the beds entirely just to stop by your side, leaning down to press a warm, lingering kiss against the crown of your head before looking down at his kids.
"I was not dramatic," DĂŠsirĂŠ corrected in his deep, smoothly accented English, though his eyes were brimming with affection as he looked at you. "I was simply telling the truth. Your Mama was being very stubborn, thinking a few years apart could make me forget the most important person in my life."
your son giggled, pointing a finger at his dad. "Mama said you almost dropped your phone when you saw her at the Starbucks!"
"Okay, okay, that is enough storytelling for tonight," DĂŠsirĂŠ laughed, his cheeks flushing just a fraction as he reached over to tuck LĂŠo's blankets in securely. "It is way past your bedtime, and tomorrow we have an early flight to Paris to see Grandma(his mom not yours)."
A collective groan echoed through the room, but the children obediently settled down into their pillows.
After switching off the main light and leaving the soft glow of the nightlight on, you and DĂŠsirĂŠ walked out into the quiet hallway, pulling the door closed behind you. The moment the latch clicked, DĂŠsirĂŠ wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you back against his chest and resting his chin on your shoulder.
"You're still bringing that topic..,even to our kids?" he murmured near your ear, his chest vibrating against your back as he laughed softly. "You are never going to let me live that evening down."
You turned around in his embrace, looping your arms around his neck and looking up into the dark eyes that had looked at you with the exact same devotion across a coffee counter, a bistro table, and now a quiet hallway in your home.
"Never," you whispered, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. "It's the best part of the story."
-ayla here...,I'm having flu out of nowheređđ,anw the story scenario feels pretty basic(I'm sorry),I tried but I don't have any ideas to findđŤŞ
special tag!đŤś:@simplementemeencantafutbol,@annatortilla
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