C O D E W O R D | neymar jr

XXV

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The final. A day of extreme torture for every footballer, every fan, everyone in the world. I smiled for the cameras as they caught my every moment as I entered the stadium, carrying a French flag on my back.

I looked to see a goodluck text from Ney, my heart racing as I entered the beautiful stadium, passion erupting from the seats as people bonded over the game. The most damaging time of my life and yet, somehow, the most beautiful and life changing. 

Qatar, my second home.

Walking to the VIP area, I felt a hand grab my shoulder, and even though I knew who it was, I turned around anyways. Kylian. He gave a fake toothy grin, and I knew he would either apologise or attempt to get me back yet I wasn't in the mood for his games. "What do you want?"

"Can we just talk," His voice was sultry, he caressed my cheek as he spoke causing me to suck on my teeth. Looking up into his deceitful eyes. The eyes that had looked into mine whilst he made false promises.

"Wouldn't you rather wait till after the game," I asked, shoving his hand away from me and giving him a glare, a glare of extreme hatred. A disappointed sigh escaped his lips, a man I could've considered a soulmate now reduced to an enemy. 

"Every goal I score, every game I win, I'll be thinking of you," He attempted to get closer again, however this time I didn't resist his coarse skin. "Tu me manques, mon coeu."

"I don't speak French?" I hastily responded, not in the mood for his games. I'm with Ney, I love Ney, is that so difficult to respect? His fingers continued to fiddle with a strand of my dark hair as he outlined the curls. Our eyes not breaking the stare we had formed.

"Take a wild guess," He jokingly answered, I rolled my eyes as he pulled the strand out of my face, kissing my cheek before he left. Yet for some reason, I didn't hate the feeling of his lips against my skin again. 

It was somewhat comforting to watch him run to his team, ready to prepare for one of the biggest matches of his life. A match that I wasn't even ready for. 

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I fiddled with the simple cold chain that wrapped itself around my wrist. Once again in the VIP area, bimbos and wives were surrounding me. I smiled at them yet they didn't seem bothered by my presence, simply ignoring me.  

I leant against the railings, my heart like a horse on a track, racing. "Bonjour!" A French accent filled my ears as a young woman greeted me, her lips full and her long auburn hair falling down to her waist. 

"Non Francais?" I struggled to respond, she giggled at my terrible pronounciation, handing me some sweets she had bought.

"I guess we will speak English." She acknowledged as she stood beside me, looking out onto the large pitch. She held out her arm to greet her, class and elegance erupting from her body. "I am Marise, that mans wife." She grinned as she pointed at the goal, blowing a kiss. 

I greeted her hand with mine as we shared a handshake, quickly she rushed into a kiss. "I'm Anastasia, I work as a model with the team." I responded, and she raised her eyebrow, as though she knew something I didn't.