Fallen star - Désiré Doué
summary: He ended it because he thought love would distract him from football. You let him go because loving someone should never mean begging them to stay. Months of stolen glances, unanswered feelings, and words left unsaid prove one thing: losing each other became the biggest distraction of all.
warnings: friends with benefits to lovers, second chance romance, angst, sports journalism reader, football setting (PSG & France NT), explicit sexual content.
wc: 4.9k
main masterlist | football masterlist
"Yes, just like that," he growled, his voice rough with lust. He gripped your waist tighter, guiding your movements, forcing you deeper. "Take it all. You're doing so well for me, baby. Such a good, greedy little thing."
The praise sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. Arching your back, your nails scratching deep furrows into his shoulders as you picked up the pace. He looked up at you with eyes clouded by raw hunger, his expression one of absolute possession.
"Look at you," he whispered, his voice a dark caress. "Taking everything I have. You're incredible."
The friction built into a blinding white heat. You felt the coil inside of you tighten until it snapped, your internal muscles clamping down on him in a series of violent spasms. You cried out, your voice breaking, as a wave of pleasure crashed over you. Seconds later, Désiré let out a strangled shout, his body stiffening as he surged upward one last time, filling you completely.
For a few moments, you stayed like that tangled, sweating, and breathing in unison, the silence heavy with the afterglow of the storm.
But as the adrenaline began to fade, the atmosphere shifted.
You collapsed against his chest, your heart still hammering, seeking the comfort of his embrace. You waited for him to pull you closer, to whisper those same praises into your ear, but the arms that had been bruising your hips moments ago felt suddenly loose.
You shifted, looking up at him, but the hunger in his eyes had vanished...The silence that settled between you felt almost foreign. Only moments ago the room had been filled with breathless laughter and tangled sheets. Now, it felt unbearably heavy.
You stayed where you were, your heartbeat only just beginning to settle into something resembling normal as you watched him from across the room. Your fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of the duvet, the corners of your lips threatening to curl into a smile as you waited for him to say something, anything. Usually, he'd already be making fun of you for stealing half the blankets, throwing one of his shirts in your direction, or asking if you were staying the night despite already knowing the answer.
Instead, he untangled himself from your embrace, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and sit quietly.
His elbows rested against his knees, his hands clasped tightly together as he stared at the floor. He hadn't looked back once. It was such a small thing, almost insignificant, but you'd spent enough nights with him to know when something wasn't right. Désiré wasn't quiet. Not after moments like these. He always had something to say.
You frowned, pushing yourself up against the headboard a little more before breaking the silence.
You waited another second, expecting the sarcastic remark that never came.
His shoulders lifted with a slow breath before falling just as carefully. He dragged a hand across his face, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary, almost as though he was trying to gather the courage to say something he'd been rehearsing for days.
"I think..." His voice came out quieter than you'd ever heard it. He swallowed before trying again. "I think we should stop seeing each other."
For a moment, you genuinely thought you'd misheard him.
A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
He finally turned to look at you.
Just long enough for you to catch the expression on his face.
There wasn't a trace of humour there.
"I think we should stop seeing each other."
The smile disappeared from your face almost instantly.
The kind that made your stomach sink before another word had even been spoken.You slowly sat up, your eyes refusing to leave his as you searched for some sign that this wasn't real, that he'd crack a smile and tell you he was messing with you.
"What do you mean?" you asked quietly. "Where is this even coming from?"
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
He kept his eyes fixed on the floor for another second before finally letting out a slow breath.
"I've been thinking about it for a while."
"There’s the Champions League final coming up." His voice remained quiet, almost frustratingly calm. "Then the World Cup. The season doesn't really stop anymore, and..." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck before looking at you again. "I just can't afford distractions right now."
The words settled over the room like a weight.
You stared at him, waiting for something else.
Some explanation that would make the knot in your stomach loosen just a little.
"So that's it?" you asked after a long silence.
His brows knitted together.
"I'm just a distraction."
His expression faltered immediately.
"No." He shook his head. "That's not what I—"
"I'm not saying that's all you are."
"You know that's not what I mean."
You held his gaze for another moment, searching for something, anything, that would make this conversation hurt a little less.
Instead, all you found was guilt.
A small nod was all you managed.
The word barely rose above a whisper.
You pulled the duvet aside and swung your legs over the edge of the bed, your feet meeting the cold wooden floor. Neither of you spoke as you reached for your clothes, quietly collecting each piece from where it had been discarded earlier that night. Your movements were unhurried, almost mechanical, as if getting dressed were no different than it had been every other time you'd stayed over.
Behind you, he watched in complete silence.
The sound of fabric rustling filled the room.
The click of your necklace fastening around your neck.
The soft zip of your bag.
Never asked him to change his mind.
You slipped your jacket over your shoulders without looking at him.
"That's all you're going to say?"
You adjusted the strap of your bag before finally meeting his eyes.
"You already made your decision."
Your voice remained steady.
"I'm not going to disturb you on that."
He took half a step forward before stopping himself.
"I thought you'd at least..."
His sentence died before it had the chance to finish.
You offered the smallest smile imaginable.
The kind people wear when they're trying very hard not to let themselves fall apart.
"I hope everything goes the way you want it to."
Your hand wrapped around the door handle.
You hesitated for only a second.
Then you opened the door.
The quiet click of it closing behind you echoed through the apartment far louder than either of your voices ever had.
Only then did he realise that ending whatever the two of you had been wasn't nearly as difficult as watching you walk away without asking him to stay.
The first few weeks were the easiest.
Not because they hurt any less.
Because there wasn't time to think.
Every morning began before the sun had fully risen, your calendar filling itself faster than you could keep up with it. Press conferences. Open training sessions. Media obligations. Matchdays. Flights that blurred one city into another until you sometimes forgot where you were waking up.
As long as there was another interview to prepare for, another article to finish before the deadline, another camera waiting for you to step in front of it, there wasn't enough room in your head for him.
That was what you kept telling yourself.
"You're working too much."
One of your colleagues leaned against the coffee machine, watching you skim through your notes for the third interview of the day.
"You've barely stopped all week."
He studied you for another second.
You finally looked up, offering the same polite smile you'd perfected over the last few months.
He didn't look convinced.
That was the promise you'd made him.
If Désiré was standing in the mixed zone, you interviewed him exactly the same way you interviewed everyone else.
You asked your questions.
No lingering conversations.
If another journalist hadn't known the two of you once spent entire evenings together, they would've assumed you'd never exchanged more than a handful of words.
Sometimes, that thought almost made you laugh.
The Champions League final came and went.
The city barely slept for three days.
You interviewed players with champagne dripping from their hair, coaches who'd completely lost their voices, staff members hugging each other with tears in their eyes.
Someone pulled you into a team photo.
Someone else handed you a medal they'd borrowed for a joke.
Stayed until the very last camera packed away.
No one noticed your eyes searching for one person you'd promised yourself not to look at.
Not because you looked at him.
Every time he entered a room, you somehow managed to be looking somewhere else.
If another reporter asked him a question, you were already speaking to someone from the coaching staff.
If he walked past you after training, you simply stepped aside with a quiet,
As though he were nothing more than another player making his way back to the dressing room.
Exactly what he'd asked for.
Exactly what he couldn't stand.
At first, he'd convinced himself he'd done the right thing.
He repeated it often enough that eventually it almost sounded believable.
Football had always come first.
He started looking for you without meaning to.
He noticed when someone else was interviewing him instead of you.
He caught himself wondering where you'd gone whenever he couldn't spot your media pass on the touchline.
Sometimes he'd hear you laughing somewhere behind him.
His head would turn before he even realised he'd done it.
One evening, halfway through the World Cup, he caught his own reflection in the hotel room mirror after another match.
His phone wouldn't stop vibrating with messages.
He should've felt relieved.
The only thing he could think about was the fact that you'd been standing twenty metres away during the post-match interviews.
You'd smiled at everyone.
You'd congratulated teammates.
Or at least, that's what everyone else would've said.
He knew the smile that never quite reached your eyes.
He knew the way you tucked your hands into your pockets when you were trying to hide that they were shaking.
He knew because he'd once been the only person who noticed those things.
He wasn't even sure he had the right to.
He sat on the edge of the hotel bed, elbows resting on his knees, letting out a humourless laugh.
"I've become more distracted now than I ever was when she was here."
Neither did the guilt that had quietly followed him from Paris to every stadium, every airport, every hotel room since the night he'd watched you walk out of his apartment.
For the first time, he allowed himself to admit what he'd spent months trying to ignore.
Maybe losing you had never protected his focus.
Maybe it had become the biggest distraction of all.
The stadium was beginning to empty.
The roar that had echoed through the stands only minutes earlier had dissolved into scattered conversations, rolling equipment cases and the distant sound of journalists filing their final reports before heading back to the hotel. You adjusted the strap of your camera bag over your shoulder, thanking one of the cameramen as you walked past him, your accreditation swinging gently against your chest with every step.
Another day closer to the final.
You had almost reached the players' tunnel when you heard it.
Surely he wasn't talking to you.
For a brief second, you considered pretending you hadn't heard him at all. It would've been easier. Simpler.
Instead, you slowly turned around.
Désiré was jogging towards you, still wearing the France training jacket over his match kit, his breathing uneven from more than just the game he'd played ninety minutes before.
Confusion settled across your face before anything else.
He hadn't tried to speak to you in months.
Not outside of an interview.
Not since the night he'd watched you walk out of his apartment.
It was simply... confused.
He stopped a few feet away from you, clearly rehearsing a sentence that refused to come out.
You let out a quiet breath.
"I just need five minutes."
You shook your head almost immediately.
"Désiré, please don't do this."
You took a small step backwards.
"You probably didn't even realise it."
Your voice remained steady, but every word seemed heavier than the last.
"I had feelings for you."
His lips parted, yet no words came.
You laughed softly to yourself, the sound carrying no humour whatsoever.
"And maybe that was stupid of me because we never called whatever we had a relationship..."
"...but it was real to me."
His eyes never left yours.
"I never saw myself as your distraction."
Your voice cracked for the first time.
"I saw myself as the person who got to be there."
"The person who got to celebrate with you after the wins."
"The person who would've sat beside you after the losses."
"The person who would've reminded you who you were when football became too much."
"That was all I ever wanted."
"So when you looked me in the eyes and told me you couldn't afford distractions..."
"...all I heard was that you thought I was something standing in the way of your dreams."
A tear slipped down your cheek before you brushed it away almost impatiently.
"You don't get to change it now."
"You made your decision."
"You don't get to come back because it's convenient."
"I spent months convincing myself that I wasn't difficult to leave."
You took one last step backwards.
You held his gaze for another second.
The first bouquet arrived the following morning.
Tucked between the stems was a small folded card.
Reason #1.
Because every room feels quieter after you've left it.
You stared at it for a long time before placing it on the bedside table.
The second bouquet arrived the next day.
Every morning, another knock at your hotel door.
Every morning, another bouquet.
Every morning, another handwritten note.
Reason #7.
Because you've never asked me to choose between football and you. I was the only one who believed I had to.
Reason #12.
Because every interview I watched you do reminded me that you never stopped believing in my dream—even after I stopped believing you could be part of it.
Reason #19.
Because every version of my future that makes sense has you somewhere in it.
At first, you left them untouched.
Then you started reading them.
Without ever admitting it to yourself...
You started keeping every single one.
They ended up tucked neatly inside the drawer of your bedside table.
You told yourself you were only keeping them because throwing them away somehow felt cruel.
You never quite believed your own excuse.
The knock at your hotel door came long after you'd convinced yourself no one else would interrupt the night.
You frowned, instinctively glancing towards the digital clock on the bedside table. It was far too late for room service, far too late for one of your colleagues to be discussing tomorrow's schedule, and certainly far too late for anyone to have business with you.
For a brief moment, you considered ignoring it altogether.
You pushed yourself off the bed, crossing the room barefoot before pulling the door open just enough to see who was standing on the other side.
His name left your lips almost as a whisper, more out of disbelief than anything else.
Not in the way football exhausted people. Not the kind of tiredness that disappeared after a good night's sleep.
The dark circles beneath his eyes hadn't been hidden very well, his curls were still damp from what you assumed had been a late recovery session, and despite wearing nothing more than a France hoodie and grey joggers, he'd never looked less like the confident footballer the entire world had watched train that afternoon.
For a long second, neither of you spoke.
Your eyes instinctively drifted down the empty hallway before returning to him.
"What are you doing here?"
A quiet sigh escaped you as you leaned against the doorframe.
"Désiré..." You shook your head gently. "You shouldn't be here."
"You have the World Cup final tomorrow."
"You should be resting. You should be with your teammates. You should be focused."
Something shifted across his face then.
Almost like he'd been waiting for you to say exactly that.
A humourless smile tugged at the corner of his lips before disappearing just as quickly.
Your brows knitted together.
For a second, you simply stared at him.
The sentence felt almost absurd coming from the same man who had once looked you in the eyes and told you there wasn't room for distractions.
"What are you talking about?"
He lowered his eyes briefly, rubbing a tired hand across his face before looking back at you.
"Months ago..." His voice was quieter than you remembered. "...I told you I couldn't afford distractions."
You felt your chest tighten before he even continued.
Silence settled between you.
The hallway suddenly felt impossibly small.
"I've spent every day since that night trying to convince myself I did the right thing." He let out a slow breath, shaking his head almost in disbelief at himself. "I kept waiting for it to get easier."
"I thought eventually I'd stop looking for you after training."
Another small smile crossed his face, though it carried nothing but regret.
"I thought I'd stop wondering which press conference you'd be covering."
"I thought I'd stop catching myself searching every mixed zone for your media pass before I even realised what I was doing."
His eyes softened as they met yours again.
You couldn't bear the way he was looking at you.
"No." His voice remained gentle, but there was a quiet desperation behind it now. "Please... just let me finish."
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the door.
"I've replayed that night a thousand times."
"Especially the ones I wish I'd never said."
"When I told you I couldn't have distractions..."
"...I thought I was protecting everything I'd worked for."
A bitter laugh escaped him.
"I didn't realise I was walking away from the person who made all of this easier."
Your eyes slowly found his again.
But he looked close enough that it hurt to look at him.
"You never distracted me."
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
"You were the person I'd look for after every match."
"The first person I wanted to tell whenever something good happened."
"The only person who made hotel rooms in different countries feel a little less empty."
He smiled to himself for a second.
"I just realised it too late."
You felt tears beginning to sting your eyes.
Instinctively, you crossed your arms over your chest, as if somehow holding yourself together physically would stop everything else from falling apart.
"You don't get to do this."
The words came out quieter than you'd intended.
"You don't get to stand here and say all of this now."
Your voice cracked despite every effort to keep it steady.
"You probably never even realised how badly."
He closed his eyes for a moment.
"No." You shook your head. "I don't think you do."
A tear escaped before you could stop it.
"You looked at me and told me I was a distraction."
You didn't raise your voice.
"You might not have used those exact words..."
Your breathing became uneven as months of carefully buried emotions finally caught up with you.
"...but that's exactly how it felt."
You looked at him through blurred vision.
"I never wanted to pull you away from football."
"I never wanted you to choose me over your career."
"I loved watching you chase your dream."
A sad smile found your lips.
"I would've celebrated every trophy."
"I would've been there after every loss."
"I would've loved you through all of it."
Your voice grew quieter with every sentence.
"I never wanted to be something standing in your way."
The silence that followed felt almost unbearable.
When he finally stepped forward, it was only enough to close a fraction of the distance between you.
Still leaving room for you to move away if you wanted.
His voice was steady now.
"I've had months to think about that."
He reached into the pocket of his hoodie before pulling out a folded piece of paper.
You recognised it immediately.
It looked exactly like every note that had arrived with the flowers.
"I stopped writing reasons because I ran out of numbers."
A tiny, almost embarrassed smile appeared.
Your lips parted slightly.
"I thought maybe one of them would make you believe me."
He looked down at the paper before folding it closed again.
His eyes met yours once more.
"So I'll tell you instead."
He drew in one slow breath.
The words were painfully simple.
Just three words spoken with the kind of honesty that made your chest ache.
"I've loved you for longer than I ever admitted to myself."
"I thought walking away would make me a better footballer."
Another quiet laugh escaped him.
"It made me a worse man."
He took another careful step.
"So let me say the thing I should've said months ago."
His voice trembled for the first time that night.
"You were never my distraction."
"When everything around me became louder..."
His eyes never left yours.
"...you were the only place that ever felt quiet."
He smiled through the emotion gathering in his eyes.
"I can play a World Cup final tomorrow."
"I can walk out in front of millions of people."
"But I can't keep pretending I'm okay after losing the best thing that's ever happened to me."
His expression softened completely.
"I don't care if I win another trophy if it means I keep living without you."
He took one final breath.
"...I'll spend every day for the rest of my life proving that I was wrong."
The silence that followed his confession was suffocating, a fragile bridge between the agony of the past and the possibility of a future. You didn't answer him with words; you couldn't. Instead, your hand reached out, your fingers trembling as they brushed against the fabric of his hoodie.
The moment your skin touched him, the dam broke.
Désiré didn't wait. He surged forward, his arms wrapping around you with a desperation that nearly knocked the wind out of you. He pulled you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a shuddering breath that sounded like a man who had finally found oxygen after drowning for months. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his back, sobbing quietly into his shoulder as the weight of the loneliness and the longing finally collapsed.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice broken, his lips pressing fervent, bruising kisses against your skin. "I'm so sorry. I love you. I love you so much."
He backed you into the room, the door clicking shut behind him, a sound that felt final this time, sealing the rest of the world away. He didn't let go of you for a second, his hands sliding from your waist to your face, cupping your cheeks as if you were something precious and fragile. When he kissed you, it wasn't the gentle reunion of a movie; it was starving. It was a collision of teeth and tongues, a frantic attempt to make up for every second of silence and every night spent in cold hotel beds.
He lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively locking around his waist, and carried you to the bed. You fell back onto the duvet, the air leaving your lungs in a gasp as he hovered over you, his eyes dark with a hunger that bordered on pain.
"I missed you," he groaned, his voice a low, primal vibration against your skin as he tore at your clothes and his own. "God, I missed you so much it felt like I was dying."
When he finally entered you, it wasn't with a slow glide, but with a powerful, desperate thrust that filled the void he had created in your life. You gasped, arching your back, your eyes fluttering shut as the sheer intensity of him flooded your senses. It was a homecoming.
He pinned your wrists above your head, his fingers interlaced with yours, locking you to the bed in a position of total surrender. He stayed in a deep, driving missionary, his chest heaving against yours, his heart hammering like a trapped bird.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice thick with emotion. "Open your eyes. Look at me."
You obeyed, your vision blurred by tears and pleasure. He was watching you with an intensity that felt like it was stripping your soul bare.
"You're mine," he whispered, a low, possessive growl as he drove deeper, his hips hitting yours with a rhythmic, wet slap. "I was so stupid to let you go. I'm never doing it again. Never."
The pace quickened, the friction building into a searing heat. He began to talk to you, his voice a seductive, ragged stream of consciousness, describing exactly how much he'd craved this.
"I used to close my eyes and try to remember the way you feel... how tight you are... how you sound when I hit that spot," he moaned, his head tilting back as he pushed himself to the limit. "I can feel you shaking... you're so perfect for me. Tell me you love me. Please, tell me."
"I love you," you sobbed, your voice breaking. "Désiré, I love you."
The words were the catalyst. He let out a choked sound, a mix of a sob and a moan, his movements becoming frantic and raw. He shifted his weight, angling his hips to drive even deeper, chasing a climax that had been building for months of deprivation.
"I've got you," he gasped, his voice strained. "I've got you now. I'm not going anywhere. I promise... I promise, you're the only thing that matters. Not the trophies, not the game... just you."
As the peak hit, he didn't pull away. He collapsed onto you, his body trembling violently as he poured himself into you, his forehead pressed against yours. He stayed there, anchored, as if he were afraid that if he moved even an inch, you would vanish again.
He didn't move for a long time, his breathing heavy and synchronized with yours. He peppered your face with soft, lingering kisses, your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose.
"I love you," he whispered, his voice now soft and exhausted, the arrogance of the superstar completely gone. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt that again."
the world cup finally brought my motivation back yayyyy <333
