Chapter 48: The Pause
The day after the Germany match was a gift. Hunter had given the squad the morning off—"Rest, recover, don't do anything stupid"—and Leo had exactly one thing on his mind. Chloe had flown in late last night, catching a budget flight from Stansted to Oslo. She was staying at a small hotel near the city centre, and she'd texted him at 6am: "I'm here. Come find me. Wear something normal. You look like a footballer even when you try not to."
He'd laughed and dug through his bag for the least football-looking clothes he owned: jeans, a plain grey hoodie, and a beanie to cover his recognizable hair. Not that it would help much. His face had been on the back page of every Norwegian newspaper that morning.
The train from Lillestrøm to Oslo took twelve minutes. Leo sat by the window, watching the Scandinavian countryside blur past—green fields, red wooden houses, the occasional glimpse of water. An elderly woman across the aisle kept glancing at him, her brow furrowed. Finally, she leaned over.
"Unnskyld, er du... fotballspilleren?" Excuse me, are you the footballer?
Leo smiled. "Ja. Leo Carter."
She nodded, satisfied. "Du spilte bra i går." You played well yesterday.
"Takk." Thank you.
That was it. No autograph, no photo. Just a quiet acknowledgment. Leo decided he liked Norway.
---
Oslo Sentralstasjon. 9:47am.
Chloe was waiting by the main entrance, wrapped in a coat that was definitely not warm enough for Norwegian summer mornings. Her dark hair was pulled back, and she was holding two takeaway cups. When she spotted him, her face broke into a grin that made his chest ache.
"You brought coffee," he said, walking up to her.
"I brought coffee. Because I'm a genius and you're useless without caffeine."
He took the cup and kissed her. "I missed you."
"It's been four days."
"Four very long days."
She laughed and linked her arm through his. "Come on, superstar. Show me Oslo. I've never been."
"Neither have I."
"Then we'll be lost together. Best kind of adventure."
---
Karl Johans Gate. The Main Street.
The street was wide and bustling, lined with shops and cafés, the Royal Palace visible at the far end. Tourists mingled with locals, and a street performer was playing a haunting melody on a violin. Leo and Chloe walked slowly, their fingers intertwined, stopping to look at window displays.
"Okay, that's the third person who's stared at you," Chloe said, nudging him. "The beanie's not working."
"It's the jawline. Can't hide it."
She snorted. "The jawline. Right. Not the fact that your face was on the front page of Aftenposten this morning."
"I don't read Norwegian."
"Clearly." She pulled him toward a small boutique. "Come on. Let's find you a better disguise. Sunglasses, maybe. Or a paper bag."
The shop was cozy, filled with Scandinavian designs—clean lines, muted colours, everything impossibly stylish. Chloe immediately gravitated toward a rack of sweaters, running her fingers over the wool.
"Ooh, this is nice. Feel this."
Leo touched the sweater. "It's soft."
"It's cashmere. You should buy it."
"I have enough clothes."
"You have football kits and one hoodie that's older than me. Buy the sweater."
He laughed. "Fine. But only if you pick something too."
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you offering to pay, Mr. Champions League Winner?"
"I'm offering to pay, Miss Journalist Who Probably Makes More Than Me."
"Doubtful. But accepted." She kissed his cheek and disappeared into the racks.
They emerged twenty minutes later—Leo with a navy cashmere sweater he'd never admit he loved, Chloe with a forest green scarf that she immediately wrapped around her neck. "Norwegian wool. It's practical."
"It's July."
"It's Norway. It's always cold."
He couldn't argue with that.
---
Aker Brygge. The Waterfront.
The sun had broken through the clouds, casting a pale golden light over the harbour. Boats bobbed gently in the water. Restaurants lined the boardwalk, their terraces filling with lunch crowds. Chloe stopped at the railing and stared out at the fjord.
"Okay, this is beautiful."
"Almost as beautiful as Milan."
"Don't compare. Different kinds of beautiful." She turned to him. "Milan is grand. Dramatic. Like you. This is... peaceful. Like a secret."
Leo leaned beside her. "You're good with words."
"It's my job." She bumped his shoulder. "What are you thinking about?"
"Honestly? How weird this is. A year ago, I was nobody. Now I'm in Norway, about to play for England, with you. It doesn't feel real."
She was quiet for a moment. "Does it feel good, though? Not the fame. The life."
He considered it. "Yeah. It does. But only because of the people. My mum. You. The lads. Without that, it's just... running around a field."
"Deep."
"I have moments."
She grinned and pulled him toward a restaurant. "Come on, philosopher. I'm hungry."
---
Restaurant. Lofoten Fiskerestaurant.
The place was warm and bustling, the smell of grilled fish and butter filling the air. They were seated by a window overlooking the water, and Chloe immediately buried her face in the menu.
"I don't know what half of this is."
"Fish, mostly," Leo said. "It's Norway."
"Helpful. Thank you."
A waiter appeared—young, blond, with the kind of effortless cool that seemed to be standard issue in Scandinavia. "Velkommen. Kan jeg ta drikkebestillingen?" Welcome. Can I take your drink order?
Leo glanced at Chloe. "Uh—"
"English is fine," the waiter said, smiling. "What can I get you?"
They ordered—white wine for her, sparkling water for him—and spent the next ten minutes deciphering the menu. Chloe settled on grilled cod with root vegetables. Leo went for the salmon.
"Safe choices," she said.
"I'm a safe person."
"You're the least safe person I know. You run at defenders for fun."
"That's different."
The food arrived, beautifully plated, and they ate in comfortable silence for a while. Then Chloe set down her fork.
"Can I ask you something serious?"
"Always."
"Where do you see this going? Us. Long-term."
Leo set down his own fork. "I see it going all the way. Marriage. Kids. The whole thing. If you want that."
She stared at him. "You've thought about this."
"Every day since Sunderland."
Her eyes glistened. "Leo..."
"I know we're young. I know it's fast. But I've never been more sure of anything." He reached across the table and took her hand. "I love you. I want to build a life with you. The football is temporary. You're forever."
A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it quickly, laughing at herself. "You can't just say things like that in a fish restaurant."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm supposed to be the one with words." She squeezed his hand. "I want that too. All of it. Just... maybe not tomorrow. Let's enjoy this first."
"Deal."
They sat there, hands intertwined, the noise of the restaurant fading into background hum. Then—
"Unnskyld? Er du Leo Carter?"
Leo turned. A boy, maybe twelve years old, stood at the edge of their table. He had floppy blond hair and a Norway shirt, and he was clutching a napkin and a pen like they were sacred objects.
Leo smiled. "Ja. Det er meg." Yes. That's me.
The boy's face lit up. "Kan jeg få autografen din?" Can I have your autograph?
"Selvfølgelig." Of course.
Leo took the napkin and pen. "Hva heter du?" What's your name?
"Magnus."
He wrote: Til Magnus—drøm stort. Leo Carter. To Magnus—dream big.
The boy stared at the napkin like it was made of gold. "Takk! Takk skal du ha!" He ran back to his family's table, waving the napkin triumphantly. His parents smiled and nodded at Leo—a silent thank you.
Chloe watched the whole exchange, her chin propped on her hand. "You're good at that."
"At writing my name?"
"At being human. Making people feel seen." She smiled. "It's your best quality."
"Not my left foot?"
"That's second. Maybe third, after your jawline."
He laughed. "I'll take it."
---
After Lunch. Walking Along the Harbour.
The sun was higher now, the water glittering. They walked slowly, their arms linked, the city humming around them. A ferry blew its horn in the distance. Seagulls cried overhead.
"Do you have to go back tonight?" Chloe asked.
"Curfew's at nine. Hunter's strict about it."
"Boring."
"Responsible."
"Same thing." She stopped and turned to face him. "Thank you for today. For making time. I know you're focused on the tournament."
"You're more important than the tournament."
"Don't let Hunter hear you say that."
"Hunter can deal with it."
She kissed him—soft, lingering. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright. "Go win this thing. Come back with a trophy. I'll be watching."
"I know you will."
They walked back toward the station, the city fading behind them. Leo felt lighter than he had in weeks. The football would come again tomorrow. The pressure, the expectations, the noise. But today, he was just a boy with a girl, walking through a foreign city, completely and utterly happy.
---
Lillestrøm. Team Hotel. 8:47pm.
Leo walked into the lobby, still smiling. Lampard was in the corner, reading his Roman history book. He looked up.
"You look different."
"Different how?"
"Less... intense. More human."
"I had a good day."
Lampard nodded slowly. "The journalist?"
"Yeah."
"She's good for you."
"That's what everyone keeps telling me."
"Because it's true." Lampard returned to his book. "Get some sleep. Belgium in two days."
Leo headed to his room and collapsed on the bed. His phone buzzed. Chloe.
"Back safe. Today was perfect. Dream of me. Love you."
He typed back. "Always do. Love you too."
The system flickered.
[Next: Group Stage Match 2 - England vs. Belgium. 23rd July 2003. Åråsen Stadion, Lillestrøm.]
Leo closed his eyes. The pause was over. Tomorrow, the hunt resumed.