Football: Salary System - Chapter 132: Siberian Tenderness (Patreon)

The schedule was packed.

To give the players more time to recover, the Dortmund squad didn't fly back to Germany immediately after the match. Instead, they stayed in Madrid for another night.

It wasn't until the following afternoon that the team returned to Dortmund on a chartered flight.

By the time Zayn got back to his home at Phoenix Lake, it was already dark outside.

As soon as he opened the door, he was surprised by a rich aroma.

Beef, tomatoes, and cream mingled together, drifting slowly from the kitchen and carrying with them a long-missed sense of home.

He paused, then headed toward the kitchen.

A tall figure was standing in front of the stove.

Dasha wore a loose, pale-pink half-turtleneck sweater with sheer black stockings, making her long, straight legs look even more slender. Yet there was nothing deliberately provocative about the outfit. If anything, it gave her a warm, domestic air.

Dasha didn't seem to notice that Zayn had come home. She remained focused on stirring the soup, her long light-brown hair loosely pinned behind her head, revealing a small patch of fair skin at the nape of her neck.

Zayn leaned against the kitchen doorway and let his gaze linger on her for quite a while.

This was bad.

That casual, at-home outfit, combined with the sight of her cooking, hit every one of his preferences.

Zayn suppressed the flutter in his chest and cleared his throat.

"That smells amazing."

Dasha turned at the sound of his voice, startled at first. Then her eyes curved into a smile.

"Don't praise it yet. Wait until you've tasted it."

"What made you decide to cook all of a sudden?"

"Consider it a reward. The guide you arranged was great. He took us to Cologne and Düsseldorf, and we had a really good time..."

Dasha turned back to stir the soup, but she couldn't hide the flush creeping over the tips of her ears.

The real reason was too embarrassing for her to say out loud.

Dasha Taran wasn't completely ignorant about football, but she was hardly a serious fan either.

Football was the most widely played sport in Russia.

In the small Siberian town where she'd grown up, seeing boys chasing a ball through the snow was nothing unusual. To her, though, it had always been little more than part of the scenery of everyday life.

It wasn't until she landed the Burberry collaboration with Zayn that she began actively learning more about the sport.

And the more she learned, the more fascinated she became by the blond teenager on the pitch.

Last night at the Metropolitano, Zayn had been almost unfairly handsome.

What young woman didn't have romantic fantasies?

He had conquered that stadium, and in doing so, completely conquered her as well.

People were naturally drawn to strength.

There was a reason elite athletes held such powerful appeal to the opposite sex. They were young, wealthy, socially prominent, financially secure, and physically imposing.

In many cases, status and money alone already did ninety percent of the work.

Of course, there were exceptions.

Like João Félix, dubbed "Portugal's Most Devoted Man," who had supposedly been cheated on repeatedly yet kept choosing to forgive.

Or Icardi, who got together with Wanda, the wife of his former teammate, only to end up completely under her thumb.

There were even rumors that after their divorce in 2025, he would have to hand over all his earnings for the next twenty-five years to Wanda.

The consequences of falling into the hands of a gold digger could be just as terrifying.

Dasha had put a great deal of effort into preparing the Russian family-style dinner.

They were only ordinary Russian home-cooked dishes, but every one had been made with care.

There were salads, hot soup, a main course, staples, and dessert.

The borscht was rich, sweet, and tangy, while the beef stroganoff was savory, tender, and silky. To Zayn's surprise, he found the flavors extremely appealing.

It was actually his first time eating Russian food, but he still praised it.

"This is great. It's my first time having Russian food this authentic."

Zayn didn't know much about Russian cuisine.

The only things he really knew were Russian rye bread and a notorious Russian dish involving raw salted pork fat that he'd once come across online in his previous life.

Although he'd spent a month in Russia over the summer, Southgate's closed training setup and the FA's dedicated chefs and nutrition staff had meant Zayn never really had the chance to try Russian cuisine.

"As long as you like it."

Dasha pushed the beef closer to Zayn, then rested her chin on her hand and watched him eat.

"I'm actually kind of surprised."

"Hm?"

"Your kitchen is incredibly well equipped. I thought a star player like you would have nothing more than a microwave and a coffee machine."

"I'm actually a pretty good cook."

"Sure you are."

Dasha clearly didn't believe him.

Not because she doubted Zayn could cook at all. She simply didn't think British people were capable of being particularly good at it.

Zayn smiled and shook his head without saying anything else.

The kitchen was so well equipped precisely because he did know how to cook, and he was quite good at it.

In his previous life, when he'd lived alone and only had himself to feed, cooking had been an essential survival skill.

But life as a professional footballer was too busy, and the club had its own professional nutrition staff, so he rarely cooked for himself anymore.

He'd used the stove once shortly after moving in, then never touched it again.

When Stefan learned that Zayn could cook, he looked up with a completely serious expression.

"If I ever get to eat something cooked by Emperor Zayn, I could die happy. Even if it's Stargazy Pie, haggis, or jellied eels, I'd clean the plate!"

"Then you'd better prepare yourself."

Zayn burst out laughing.

He had absolutely no intention of ever trying those three famous British "delicacies."

"I'm serious! I can even eat my sister's cooking. Oh, you wouldn't know, but she used to be a terrible cook..."

Dasha shot him a glare.

Stefan shrank back and immediately returned his attention to his food.

The meal was unusually warm and comfortable.

The three of them opened the bottle of Beluga vodka.

The liquor burned on the way down, but paired with steaming borscht and beef, it suited the growing winter chill perfectly.

The two Russians drank just as boldly as the stereotype suggested, knocking back glass after glass without hesitation.

Stefan in particular tossed each drink back in one gulp, making it obvious this wasn't his first time drinking.

Still, he was only fourteen, and after a few rounds, both siblings were visibly tipsy.

The mood around the table gradually turned melancholy.

Their trip to Germany was almost over.

The final stop would be Westfalenstadion that weekend.

Zayn had arranged a VIP box directly opposite the South Stand for them, with an excellent view of the pitch.

Dasha leaned back in her chair, her stocking-clad legs lazily crossed.

She tilted her head toward Zayn, her eyes misty with alcohol and an unmistakable reluctance to leave.

When Zayn met her gaze, even his breathing slowed for a moment.

The atmosphere around the table gradually became more intimate.

Then came a sudden sound.

"Thud."

Fourteen-year-old Stefan had passed out at the table, his forehead smacking solidly against the wooden surface.

He didn't even wake up.

Dasha snapped out of the moment, annoyance flashing across her face as if blaming her younger brother for ruining the delicate atmosphere.

"This kid really has no sense at all," she muttered.

Zayn couldn't help thinking to himself.

No sense? If anything, he understands the situation far too well.

The guest room was on the first floor, but it still took both of them considerable effort to drag the completely unconscious Stefan back to bed.

Zayn turned to go clean up the dining table, only for Dasha to catch his wrist from behind.

Her cheeks were flushed, the color spreading all the way from her ears to her cheekbones.

"Thank you, superstar. These past few days have been the happiest I've had in a long time."

Zayn knew how to respond when a girl found the courage to be this direct.

This time, he reached out and wrapped an arm around her waist.

"That's it? You're going to send me off with just a thank-you?"

Dasha tilted her face up.

Her breath carried a faint trace of alcohol and a subtle sweetness.

"Then what else do you want?"

Her voice was soft, but she didn't look away.

Zayn didn't answer.

Or rather, he didn't have time to.

Dasha had already risen onto her toes and kissed him.

Bold, passionate, and a little inexperienced.

There was a straightforwardness to it that seemed deeply rooted in her Siberian nature.

Everything happened naturally, as though both of them had already understood.

At some point, someone had accidentally switched off the living-room lights.

Even the moon disappeared behind the clouds, as though unwilling to disturb the quiet night inside.

...

The next day, Sancho came over hoping to catch a ride.

He stood outside Zayn's front door, rang the bell several times, then knocked a few more.

There was no response.

That was strange.

Confused, he walked around to the side of the villa and peered through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He could just make out the empty living room.

Wait.

Whose pink sweater was that on the sofa?

And what was that black bundle beside it?

The longer he stared, the more it looked like a pair of stockings.

Sancho: "???"