"Yeah whatever, Blake and I are together now, it's official," Kylian hesitates.
The moment his words left his mouth, Neymar and Marquinhos start screaming and jumping, literally rocking the car.
"This is why I didn't want to tell you. Don't make a big deal out of it. I want to keep it private," he complains.
"Dude, we are not gonna say anything," Marcos frowns as if offended that Kylian even thought he would tell anyone else.
"My boy has a girlfriend," Neymar exclaims. Kylian smiles proudly, then looks at me.
"Please keep this to yourself," he says.
"Don't worry about it," not that I care about it but okay.
After fifteen minutes of extremely obnoxious drive, because the two kids here couldn't contain their excitement about their friend having a girlfriend, we arrived at the stadium. I mean they are kind of cute to be honest, but it is too early and they are too loud. Before the car door opens, Neymar looks at me concerned.
"What?" I ask curiously.
"There are usually couple of paparazzis outside, just ignore them," he says. Kylian smirks at him. It was cute of him to warn me.
"Okay," I chuckle even though they don't really bother me.
We leave the van, and like Neymar said a few people were in front of the entrance, but I just stroll past them, as we all do.
We enter a great hall where my uncle is standing, hands on his hips.
"Three of you can go outside, the rest is waiting on you," he points toward the big glass doors, which lead to a tunnel with changing rooms, their gym, sauna and similar.
"It's his fault," shouts Marcos pointing at Kylian, while Kylian is grabbing him around the neck playfully.
"C'est un imbécile," exclaims Kylian.
My uncle rolls his eyes and points me to a room, "Let's talk." The room is his office, white porcelain table, white comfy chairs, pretentious pictures and big PSG flag that stands out. He sits in front of his PC and I sit across of him.
"Did you sleep well last night?", he asks, frowning at his desktop.
"Yes," I lie, I didn't sleep well and I'm pretty sure I blacked out since I don't remember anything after showering but oh well.
"Good...," he murmurs still starring at his screen. Then suddenly he shuts it off and looks at me. "I am so glad you came to Paris, I thought you wouldn't," he admits.
"It was a spontaneous decision," I shrug, "I needed a change."
He observes me with raised eyebrows, then bluntly says, "I heard your relationship with your father is not the best." I swallow. I can feel my cheeks slowly burn. Why is he asking about it? The sole thought of discussing this with anyone makes me uncomfortable.
"Who told you?" I ask.
"He told me," he says.
I could already feel the tension in the air between us. I really don't want to talk about this.
"Why?" I grumble.
"Look, I just want to help. We talked couple of times over the last couple of years and he...," he stops.
"He what?", I ask.
"I never liked your father. Always thought your mother was too good for him," he admits, softening his gaze. She was too good for him. "But he is not a bad man."
