The stadium is still shaking from the fans chanting, but down here in the catacombs, the celebration is mixing with the pure stress of the post-match wrap-up.

France beat Morocco 2-0. The final is secured.

You're standing a bit to the side in the hallway, leaning your back against the cool concrete wall, waiting for your father Didier to finally come out of the coach's locker room so you can head to the bus together.

It is his last World Cup, his last major tournament, and you feel the emotional weight resting on his shoulders almost as intensely as he does.

Players, staff members carrying heavy equipment boxes, and FIFA officials are walking past you in a steady stream toward the exit.

Suddenly, a figure steps out from the hustle and bustle.

Désiré.

He has his bag slung over his shoulder, and his hair is still slightly damp from the shower.

He played a fantastic game, even though the ball slid just millimeters past the post after his brilliant solo run.

When he sees you, the focus on his face breaks and gives way to a priceless, warm smile.

He heads straight for you, using a gap between two passing staff members, and gently pushes you a bit further into a small niche next to the vending machines, where not everyone will see you right away when they walk past.

"Salut, ma chérie..." He murmurs softly.

He stands so close in front of you that you can feel the warmth he radiates. His eyes shine as he looks you up and down. "Tu m'as manqué. Did you see my near goal? Presque! It was so close to going in."

Your heart is pounding wildly. But not just because of his closeness, mostly because of the sheer panic of getting caught.

You press your hand flat against his chest to put a little distance between you and look nervously over his shoulder.

"Désiré, s'il te plaît, don't do this..." You whisper hastily, your voice almost failing you. "Not here. My father is in there talking to the association. He could come out any second. If he sees you this close to me, he’ll put two and two together."

Désiré looks down at your hand resting on his chest and places his own large hand over yours for just a brief moment before slowly taking it away.

A familiar smirk appears on his lips as he looks at you. This exact forbidden thrill has been with you ever since he first transferred to PSG.

As the club's physiotherapist, you were one of the first people to take care of him. Initial treatments on the massage table turned into long conversations after training, and eventually, those turned into secret dates.

Now he looks at you with a gaze so full of tenderness that it almost takes your breath away.

"Mais non, chérie, calm down. Why are you so afraid of him? We’ve been together for months. I love you, you love me. C'est simple. Why can't we just be happy with each other?"

A smile touches your lips as you shake your head, almost pleading with him. "Because it’s not simple for him, Désiré. It’s his last World Cup. The pressure is already insanely high. If I tell him now that I’m dating one of his most important national players...I mean..."

You pause for a moment and bite your lower lip. "I want to tell him, really...but not now. If he finds out, he’ll just worry, lose his focus for the final, and think about everything else except tactics. Please, let’s just wait until all of this is over. D'accord?"

Désiré fixes his eyes on your face. He sees the genuine worry for your father in your eyes, and his initial, almost cheeky overconfidence vanishes.

He takes a deep breath, looks up at the ceiling for a moment, then nods slowly. A gentle, resigned smile returns to his lips.

"D'accord. Pour toi." He whispers so softly that it is almost lost in the noise of the hallway.

He leans forward, his lips almost touch your ear, and pretends that you are congratulating him as he passes by.

"I’ll wait for you in the bus. But I’m telling you one thing, mon ange. If we win this final and take the trophy...then I don't care about your father. I'm getting my kiss right on the field. Deal?"