The quietest boy in France - Michael Olise
summary: 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. warnings: established relationship, pure fluff, post-match celebrations. wc: 1.2k
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The final whistle had barely finished echoing around the stadium before the atmosphere inside France's dressing room dissolved into organised chaos.
Somewhere near the showers, Ousmane was already arguing, far louder than necessary, that the referee had ignored at least three fouls on him. Theo had disappeared with a towel thrown over his shoulders, still shaking his head at whatever story Jules was dramatically reenacting to anyone willing to listen. Empty water bottles rolled lazily across the tiled floor every time someone accidentally kicked one, boots were abandoned wherever players had decided to take them off, and the sharp smell of fresh grass mixed with deep heat, muscle spray and shampoo drifted through the room.
Music blasted from a speaker someone had connected to without asking, loud enough that nobody could quite agree on what song was actually playing.
France had qualified top of the group.
Nobody was in any rush to leave.
Laughter bounced off every wall, cameras from the team's media crew occasionally slipping inside to capture little moments for social media before being politely ushered back out again.
Michael sat quietly at his locker.
Exactly where he always did.
His jersey clung to his skin, still damp from ninety minutes of football as he slowly unlaced one boot after the other. The noise around him barely registered anymore. After years in football, dressing rooms had become white noise, loud enough that they somehow felt peaceful.
He reached for his phone almost automatically.
His thumb hovered over your name for barely a second before pressing call.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
By the third ring, his shoulders had begun to sink ever so slightly, the smallest hint of disappointment creeping in.
Then—
Your face appeared.
The picture shook slightly as you adjusted your phone, clearly walking somewhere before finally settling down.
"There he is."
You smiled the second you saw him.
Not the polite smile you gave players during interviews.
Not the one cameras usually caught.
This one was different.
Your eyes softened almost immediately, the corners crinkling just enough to make that tiny dimple appear in your left cheek, the one he always insisted was his favourite thing about your smile, even though you rolled your eyes every single time he mentioned it.
"There he is," you repeated, tilting your head. "Look at you."
Michael couldn't help it.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
Then the other.
"Hi."
"Hi?" You laughed. "That's all I get after you disappear for two hours?"
"We were playing."
"I know."
"I was busy."
"Oh really? I had no idea."
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
"I watched the match, by the way."
"I assumed."
"You looked good."
"I looked tired."
"You looked good and tired."
He shook his head.
"You always have something to say."
"I literally get paid to."
That earned another laugh.
A real one.
One that made him lean back against the locker with a hand covering his mouth for a second.
Across the room, Kylian happened to glance over.
His conversation stopped mid-sentence.
"...Did he just laugh?"
Bradley frowned.
"What?"
"Kylian," Ousmane sighed dramatically, "people laugh."
"No." Kylian pointed across the room without taking his eyes off Michael. "Not him."
Almost on cue, another laugh escaped Michael as you said something else.
Then another.
His shoulders relaxed completely, his posture losing the stiffness it carried during every interview. One elbow rested lazily against his knee as he listened to you ramble about a questionable refereeing decision, nodding every few seconds despite the fact you couldn't even see half of it through the screen.
"So..." you continued, narrowing your eyes playfully. "Explain something to me."
He smiled.
"What?"
"What exactly was that shot in the sixty-third minute?"
"My shot?"
"Was that your attempt at football?"
"It was blocked."
"It was going wide."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely was."
"It wasn't."
"It absolutely—"
"You're impossible."
"I prefer observant."
"You prefer annoying."
"I can be both."
His laugh came quicker this time.
Louder.
Enough that almost the entire dressing room turned.
Silence spread in waves.
One by one.
Theo looked over.
Then Jules.
Then Warren.
Then Désiré.
Even Didier Deschamps, halfway through congratulating one of the staff members, paused for the briefest moment, his eyes drifting toward the corner of the room.
Michael Olise...
...was talking.
Not answering questions.
Talking.
Properly.
Sentence after sentence.
His hands even moved while he spoke.
Kylian slowly folded his arms.
"I genuinely didn't know he could form paragraphs."
Ousmane blinked.
"Forget paragraphs..."
He pointed dramatically across the room.
"...He's smiling."
Every head turned again.
Sure enough...
Michael hadn't noticed a single pair of eyes on him.
His entire attention remained fixed on the tiny rectangle in his hand.
"So..." he said, a grin still tugging at his lips. "You weren't even there and somehow you've still got opinions about everything."
"I always have opinions."
"I noticed."
"You should've squared the ball to Kylian."
"He told me the same thing."
"See?"
"I think you're conspiring."
"Obviously."
He shook his head, smiling to himself.
"I miss you."
The words slipped out so naturally he didn't even realise he'd said them.
Your expression softened instantly.
The teasing disappeared.
"I know."
Your voice was quieter now.
"I missed being there today too."
"I kept looking for you."
"You did?"
He nodded without thinking.
"Every time we scored."
The smile on your face grew impossibly softer.
"I'll be there next match."
"I know."
"You'll probably tell me everything I did wrong again."
"Every single thing."
"I thought so."
Another laugh.
Kylian looked genuinely offended.
He glanced around the room before dramatically throwing both hands into the air.
"Who is this man?"
The entire dressing room burst into laughter.
Michael finally looked up.
Only then did he realise every single one of his teammates had completely abandoned whatever they were doing to stare at him.
"What?"
Ousmane stepped forward first.
"No, no, no."
He pointed at the phone.
"Put her on speaker."
Michael frowned.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because."
Kylian was already laughing.
"We've just witnessed you speak more in the last five minutes than you've spoken all training camp."
"That's not true."
"It absolutely is."
Michael sighed.
"You lot are unbelievable."
Before anyone could reply, your voice drifted clearly through the phone.
"Leave my boyfriend alone."
The room froze for exactly one second.
Then Désiré clutched his chest dramatically.
"Oh, she's defending him!"
Theo started laughing so hard he nearly dropped the bottle in his hand.
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling the warmth creeping up his neck.
"They're never going to let this go."
"No," you laughed, the sound filling his ear through the speaker. "They're absolutely going to bully you for the rest of the tournament."
He looked around at twenty-something grown men grinning at him like children who'd just discovered the world's biggest secret.
Then he looked back at your face on the screen.
For maybe the first time all evening, the noise of the dressing room faded into the background again.
He smiled.
"I can live with that."
