YOUR TRENT ALEXANDER-ARNOLD… HE’S ALWAYS BEEN THIS CALM, BRILLIANT SOUL. ON THE PITCH, HE’S UNTOUCHABLE. Off it, he’s warm, patient, the kind of person who remembers everyone’s favorite snack and never forgets to check in when he knows you’re busy.

But today? Today was something different.

After the match, you went down to the pitch with the other families. Kids laughing, parents cheering. You could see the ease, the laughter, the soft chaos of family life—Carvajal chasing his little ones, Valverde holding a tiny hand as the child ran around, Courtois laughing while his kids tumbled over each other.

And then Trent…

He watched. Quietly, at first. His jaw tight, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his jacket. You noticed the way his eyes softened, the way he kept glancing at you, like he was imagining a future he hadn’t admitted he wanted yet.

“Babe…” he murmured, voice barely above the hum of the crowd. “Do you… do you ever think about… kids? Like… our kids?”

You froze for a moment because that’s not a question he’s asked before. And you saw it—the flicker of wonder, the sudden, unmistakable baby fever in his eyes.

He shook his head slightly, as if trying to laugh it off, but you could feel the weight of the thought pressing down. The longing. The curiosity. The tenderness that makes him… him.

And you realized, right there on the sunlit pitch surrounded by families, that he wasn’t just imagining it. He was dreaming. And you? You were the one he wanted in that dream.