We'll Always Have Paris - A Harry Styles Fanfiction

Gabrielle Moreau is a 19-year old French girl living in Paris, the “capital of love”. To most people she looks ordinary, but behind her high-built façade hides a girl that suffers. She tries to shut the inferior sides of her life out by doing the things she loves and letting her thoughts circle around something elsewhere—and she succeeds in focusing on the good things in life flawlessly.
When Gabrielle an early morning gets a call from One Direction’s manager, who offers her the opportunity of working with them on their summer tour in Paris, she immediately replies him with a yes. She doesn’t know it just yet, but within the next few months she will get to grow a close bond to each of the boys in the band—and particularly one of them. Before she knows it, Gabrielle has been thrown into something she this time won’t be able to pull herself out of … Will she finally start opening herself up to someone and let them in without any conditions? **Check out the trailer in the right sidebar**


30. The 1D-gamehood goes starstuck


The swing door is thrown open by the wind when I lean a shoulder against it and push it open in a movement that comes out a bit too harsh; the mix of the wind and my powerful gesticulations is not a very good combination. The bang of the door smashing against the brown brick-wall makes every pair of eyes in the locker room turn to inquisitively stare at me. I pull on an awkward stiffened smile as I enter the room, Eleanor and Perrie following up close in my footsteps.

“Hey!” I hear Zayn exclaim and look over at him to see him covering his naked tummy with a towel. “We’re changing here!”

Perrie walks over to him, grinning widely at him. “Don’t be so shy, babe. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” He playfully hits her shoulder, but soon lets the towel drop to his feet with a smirk.

For a moment I’m caught up in the cheeky cuteness of their relationship, but a second later my heart skips a beat in startle when somebody’s strong arms sneaks around my waist from behind. “So were you just coming to sneak a peek? You know you can get it anytime if you just ask,” Harry’s husky voice mumbles in my ear, the smile on his lips more than audible.

“No, arse,” I heavily sigh while turning around in his arms to face him. I chuckle at him when I see the half-confused frown on his forehead. “We came to wish you some luck out there in field,” I hurry to explain. I poke my finger at his muscular chest, my eyes unknowingly glancing down his toned abs with a smirk. “You’re gonna need it if you don’t wanna suck.”

“Right, like that’s ever going to happen,” he says and shows me that crooked smile of his before lightly kissing my hair. Our embrace breaks when he warily steps out of it, the feeling of his soft, tanned skin against mine no longer identifiable. Harry walks over to the low tree bench and grabs the footballer’s shirt on it, quickly pulling the tight-fitted thing over his head to let it fall down over his stomach and cover the nude skin. I watch as the rest of the boys finish up by taking on their shirts, too. A smile slowly forms on my lips when I look at them laughing and tying the final knots on their equal football boots: Everything from the color of their striped shirts to the logo on their black shorts makes them look so much alike a real team. And thinking twice, in reality this is exactly what they are.

After the boys has gotten themselves fully prepared of what’s awaiting them outside in the giant stadium of the famous French football club, Paris Saint Germain, we finally start to approach the doors that’s going to take us outside to the audience of fans and whoever might have wanted to buy tickets for the charity game. Walking beside Harry my hand slowly finds his, and his head tilts downwards a little to send me a comforting smile and place a light kiss on my temple. He pulls me closer to his side whilst walking out of the doors and out into the stadium, which already echoes from the roars of football fans as well as Parisian Directioners. It’s not hard for me to notice that the many rows of the arena aren’t exactly stuffed with people, but still I can see thousands and thousands of faces in the crowd staring back at me. Something about it all makes me feel a tad overexposed. Walking onto the stage before a gig feels different from the many eyes being laid on me in this very moment; now I’m by Harry’s side as his girlfriend, not just some regular pianist in his band. This of course means that people now stare at me another and possibly more unwanted way: They can judge me without feeling as much as a single regret—something that they couldn’t allow themselves to do before all of this between me and Harry happened. 

By the end of the small tunnel Perrie, Eleanor and I wish the boys a last time good luck before waving them off with a short goodbye; me placing a fastened kiss on my boyfriend’s cheek before telling him with a smile in the corner of my mouth that I’ll be seeing him after the game has wrapped up.

We’re just about to walk through the massive cloud of game roars when a freaked movement of Niall’s catches my eye. “Shit,” he curses beneath his breath, proving his Irish blood with eyes peering wide open at something just above my head. As discretely as possible he points, making everyone’s head snap in the direction he’s been slightly shoving us towards.

Louis’ gasp breaks through our startled silence, “Is this real life?”

Liam nervously swallows. “Nah-huh. I think this is actually the real deal.”

“But, who exactly is this?” Eleanor silently questions with a pointing, flinching when Louis looks at her in bewildered.

“I can’t believe I just heard my girlfriend say that,” he whispers in amazement. “That’s not just anyone standing there. It’s Zlatan Ibrahimović! As in, the professional footballer who’s got every single sports-interested person under his spell of awesomeness.” Eleanor only laughs as every single one of us has to wink a couple of times before returning to reality. The boys slowly start to move towards the field, but have to turn back when they realize they’ve lost Niall behind.

“Lads, do you think it would be foolish of me to go and ask him for an autograph?” he slowly speaks in wonder, staring up at the famous, black-haired Swedish sportsman just a few rows up in the giant tribune above our heads, who still hasn’t noticed the boys’ startled presence.

“I’m sorry to be the one breaking the news, Nialler,” I end up telling him, “but you’re famous, too. It would be kind of awkward if you stood up and did that, don’t you think?”

His face turns into a frown so mournful it almost breaks my heart watching. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Keep your head held high, big boy,” I cheer, slipping my arm around his shoulders to pull him in for a short-cut hug. “You’ll meet him sometime and then you'll play it cool.”
And that’s the last words I get to say before the girls and I are dismissed to go find our seatings in the infinite lines of rows upon rows in the grandstands.




The tiny football is dribbled to Louis when Niall kicks it toward him in a move that seems way too risqué for my judgmental skills. A sigh of relief escapes my lips when he catches control of it. His head tilts helplessly to the side, searchingly looking for a player that can help him which is not one of his opponents. Then he catches sight of Zayn standing unblocked and ready not far from the enemy’s goal.

My eyes fall upon the timer. Thirty seconds left.

Down on the field Louis powerfully shoots the football towards Zayn, who by his apparent luck gets it under his control and run with it towards the guarded goal not too far away from his aiming. My vision goes in slow motion as he positions himself and aim for the goal before kicking the ball towards it. I watch in amazement as the football wizzes past the goal keeper’s ears and straight into the net.

The timer goes off with a buzz.

I jump up from my seat alongside Perrie. “That’s my boyfriend!” she victoriously roars, her voice deep from all the loud cheering within the past 90 minutes. “That’s my man who set in the final goal and made us the victors of the day!”

I start chanting the words, “1D! 1D! 1D!” Quickly I realize that I’ve brought basically the whole stadium to an uprising with the same cheering.

Both Perrie and I swiftly turn around when a stamping against our two plastic seats is curiously noticed. A man is sitting there, face all furrowed up. “Get down, you fools! You’re giant arses are blocking my view!” he yelps in French, making us both sit down within the moment. At first we just sit there awkwardly, but after a few moments we break out laughing.

Eleanor sends a crazy stare in our direction. “What’s so funny? I don’t get it.”

We just keep on laughing our lungs out, even though the whole thing really shouldn’t be that fun by now. I guess it’s something about the way Eleanor gazes unknowingly at us that just makes everything that much funnier and that much more enjoyable. 

Hurray for the insider-joke only French-speakers can understand!

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