Tonight was the last straw for Micky. He'd been driven...

Just about to insanity.

The pair of you were enemies. You hated each other.

Well... you hated Micky. But Micky hated the way you made him feel. There was a difference.

But he acted like you were the bane of his existence, obviously!

So of course, whenever flirty banter was shared between you and Argentine Cristian Romero, Micky would get jealous.

Unbelievably jealous. Unfathomably jealous.

The feeling made his heart ache and his bones fuel with a fierce, furious fire that only jealousy could ignite. He'd always try to one-up Romero in anything and everything. Even Micky's English was better than Romero's!

And to make matters worse, Romero was Micky's comrade centre-back at Tottenham. Yikes.

Did Micky care that it was two in the morning? Nah. Did Micky care that he may wake his teammates up, including Romero? Hell no. He was too preoccupied with seeing red to even consider caring.

Meanwhile, you're woken up by firm knocking on your hotel room door. Who was even awake at 2am anyway? It had to be a coach. Yes.

Upon answering the door, you're met with Micky van de Ven's cold gaze that could make even the devil shiver. Dangerous storms were brewing in those blue irises. Like a raging sea, waves crashing, jealousy rearing its ugly head.

He was wearing a Spurs hoodie with the hood up, probably trying to make himself look all the more intimidating. Well, it was working. A 6'4" defender at your hotel door past midnight? No thanks.

His hands were shoved deep into the pockets, fingers fidgeting, nails drawing blood. Seconds suddenly felt like eons as you both stared at each other.

When Micky finally speaks up, his tone is formidable. Frigid, but coated in a simmering, white-hot venom.

"You and Cuti have some sort of deal, ja. Een klootzak zoals hij? Neuken, echt?”

Oh Jesus. Now he was blabbering in Dutch, for goodness sake. What could you do? Tell Micky to piss off? Likely not; he's far too stubborn.