stuck on you || draxler

quatre

And that's when she found herself in front of Julian's flat.

Okay, she only knew where he lived because he DMed her his address last night. Apparently, the man wanted her to meet up at his place beforehand so he could give her his jersey to wear at the match. Like expected, Marcelle threatened to block him and told him that she would wear a Marquinhos jersey that she didn't have.

It was near eleven o'clock at night, and every part of Marcelle was reluctant to even lift up her hand and knock on the door. She didn't want to face the disappointment of letting Julian down at his first match for PSG.

It took a while, but Marcelle had finally knocked on his door.

She in no way looked decent enough to even be seen out in public—her hair still in its messy ponytail and sporting her club's uniform as she had just left the atmosphere of the match. She also hadn't even changed from her kit or taken a proper shower yet, just a lot of body spray before heading up to his flat, so she kind of smelled like air freshener.

I'm so sorry Julian, but I had other plans...

Julian, go suck a dick, I needed to do this...

I didn't ditch because I don't like you, I wanted to go, trust me...

Marcelle just didn't know how to apologize to the guy. Words in her head seemed to collide with another and each time she tried to form a sentence, it just sounded worse and worse.

It was only a split second before the door had opened and appeared a very tired-looking Julian Draxler. His eyes, at first, sparkled at the sight of her but lost the touch right after.

"You didn't come."

This is were the guilt sets in. "I know, but I have a very good explanation for this—"

"What? Because you don't like me?" He scoffed. "Come on, Marcelle. I wanted you to be at my first game. I needed at least some support!"

"Why can't you just—"

"Just because you don't like me isn't a valid excuse to completely blow me off, Marcelle. I gave you the tickets rather than my parents. My own parents!"

She gulped and blinked. Are men really this difficult to apologize to? "Look, if you just give me a chance to fucking explain, then you wouldn't be this mad."

His hands grasped the edge of the wooden door, "There's nothing to explain," and shut it, only to be stopped by Marcelle's foot in between the door and the doorframe.

She wasn't going to let him give her this kind of attitude without explaining herself and her absolutely valid reason why she had to pass on seeing his first match.

"Pour l'amour de Dieu, Julian, you need to let me explain myself first before you go on talking shit about me!" Marcelle was practically fuming right now—her eyebrows knitted so harshly together and her face turning into this strawberry color Julian would hate to admit that it looked cute on her.

A minute to himself in silence, he let the Frenchwoman into his home and shut the door behind her.

It was just like everything Marcelle had imagined a professional footballer like him to live in—not too fancy, but enough to laugh at the crummy flat she lives in. Modern, shiny, impressive—Marcelle felt like she was in a hotel room.