The next day, UEFA handed down their verdict: a three-match suspension for Theodore.
They clearly viewed his left hook as a deliberate, violent act.
For Norway, however, the ban barely registered as a crisis.
Having already secured three consecutive wins, their next three fixtures were against the Faroe Islands, Malta, and a tougher rematch against Sweden.
Aside from the Swedes, the other two opponents were absolute walkovers.
Even without Theodore pulling the strings in midfield, Norway's squad had more than enough firepower to brush them aside.
Theodore didn't bother appealing the decision.
He had punched the guy, plain and simple.
He owned his actions, and honestly, if he had to do it all over again, he'd still lay Anton out without a second thought.
Despite the ban, Theodore dragged himself to the national team's training camp the following morning.
As soon as the morning session wrapped, Erling Haaland practically sprinted over to him.
"Right then, Theo, let's get into it," Haaland grinned, looking like an overeager kid.
"Get into what?" Theodore asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"You promised to fix my headers, remember? After that shitshow against Romania?"
The Norwegian press had been ruthless the morning after the game, hammering the young striker for squandering two absolute sitters.
Haaland was desperate to match Theodore's aerial dominance.
"There's not much of a secret to it, Erling," Theodore said dryly. "When the ball comes in, just throw your weight at the center-back and flick your neck."
Haaland stared at him, exasperated. "Mate, that is completely useless advice i've ever heard."
Theodore laughed, kicking a stray ball toward the right flank. "I've watched your tapes, Erling. Your biggest problem is that you try to shatter the ball with brute force every single time. It's a terrible habit. In the air, positioning and timing will beat pure power nine times out of ten."
He jogged over to the touchline. "Get in the box. I'll whip some crosses in and we'll drill it into your thick skull. Less talking, more jumping."
Theodore didn't mind putting in the extra hours.
If Haaland sharpened his finishing, Theodore's assist numbers would skyrocket, and the national team would become a genuine threat in Europe.
Plus, with his UEFA ban keeping him sidelined for the upcoming match, he had time to kill.
...
June 11, 2019.
Even though he was banned from the pitch, Theodore traveled with the squad for the away fixture, watching the six PM kickoff against the Faroe Islands from the stands.
From the first whistle, Norway smelled blood.
Even without Theodore orchestrating the midfield, Martin Ødegaard stepped up and ran the show.
Early in the first half, Ødegaard drove hard inside from the right wing.
Haaland drifted out of the box to offer a sharp one-two, dragging the defense out of shape and feeding the ball right back into Ødegaard's path.
The Faroe Islands' backline was completely carved open.
With a clear sight of goal, Ødegaard drilled a low, vicious strike that tore into the bottom corner.
The keeper didn't even dive.
1-0.
Ten minutes later, Norway struck again.
Markus Henriksen whipped a looping corner directly into the heart of the penalty area.
Haaland launched himself into the air, muscling past his marker to connect with a powerful, arching header that smashed into the back of the net. 2-0.
Up in the stands, Theodore leapt to his feet, clapping hard for his mate.
At 2-0 down, the game was effectively dead, but Lagerbäck refused to let his men take their foot off the gas.
Norway relentlessly battered the hosts, pushing the scoreline to a humiliating 4-0 by halftime.
In the second half, the Faroe Islands' manager made a frantic string of substitutions, but it was like putting a band-aid on a bullet wound.
Their squad's total market value was roughly equivalent to a League Two side in England, they simply didn't have the talent to compete.
The match ended as a 5-0 massacre.
With the international break officially over, the squad disbanded.
Theodore headed back to Oslo to crash at his parents' place for a bit of downtime.
...
Late June rolled around, bringing a sudden phone call from Jack Grealish.
"Theo, mate! What are you doing right now?" Grealish yelled into the receiver.
The heavy bass of a nightclub thumped deafeningly in the background.
Theodore checked the clock—it was past ten.
"I'm at home, Jack," Theodore sighed, leaning back on his bed. "Some of us don't spend our entire offseason getting pissed in VIP booths."
"Boring kid! Pack your bags," Grealish shouted over the noise. "I'm dragging you to the Maldives for a week. If we don't get a proper holiday in now, pre-season is gonna kill us!"
"The Maldives?" Theodore blinked.
Honestly, his days back home had devolved into an endless, mind-numbing loop of gym sessions and video games.
A change of scenery didn't sound terrible.
"When are we flying?"
Theodore had always planned to take a proper holiday in July, but he didn't settled on a destination until Grealish forced his hand.
"Tomorrow, then. I'm dragging you to the beach to look at bikini babes," Grealish announced through the phone.
Theodore chuckled, leaning back on his bed. "What, you're not going to the pub anymore?"
"I've been to every decent pub in England, mate. It's boring now."
"You realize they still have bars in the Maldives, right?"
"Enough talk," Grealish interrupted loudly. "Book your flight. I'll see you in Malé tomorrow."
He hung up, presumably to get back to the dance floor.
Theodore sighed, pulling up a booking app and securing a morning flight.
Ticket sorted, he started getting ready for bed.
Even deep in the off-season, he stuck to a rigid schedule—asleep by eleven, up by eight.
But just as his head hit the pillow, his phone buzzed again.
The screen lit up: Erling Haaland.
"Christ, what is it with everyone calling tonight?" Theodore muttered, swiping to answer. "Erling, what's up?"
"I miss you, Theo."
Theodore scoffed. "Spare me the bullshit, Erling. Get to the point, I'm trying to sleep."
"Right, well... the new season starts in a month," Haaland said, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant.
"I really really need to get my edge back early, so..."
"So what?"
"So, I was hoping we could train together again."
"Bad timing, mate. I literally just agreed to go to the Maldives with Grealish tomorrow. We'll have to do it when I get back."
Haaland's tone instantly shifted from embarrassed to ecstatic. "Wait, you're going to the Maldives? I'm coming with you."
Theodore rubbed his eyes. "Didn't you just give me a whole speech about getting your competitive edge back?"
"Training can wait," Haaland dismissed entirely. "We'll sort it out when we get back. I've wanted to go to the Maldives since I was a kid."
Surprised by the sudden U-turn, Theodore gave in.
"Fine. Get to the airport. My flight leaves at ten tomorrow morning, we can link up then."
...
The next morning at nine-thirty, Theodore strolled into Oslo Airport wearing a low-key gray jacket and dark sunglasses.
Haaland arrived minutes later, his massive frame barely disguised by a pulled-down baseball cap.
Because there were no direct flights from Norway to the Maldives, they had to lay over at London Heathrow to meet up with Grealish.
Compared to the two Norwegians' casual travel gear, Grealish looked like he was about to step onto a runway!
Even though late June in London was still brisk, the Villa midfielder was already rocking designer shorts, a loud green silk shirt, and a thick gold chain hanging heavy around his neck.
"No wonder you live in the VIP section," Theodore smirked, clapping him on the shoulder. "Look at the state of you."
"Jack, meet Erling Haaland. Don't let the Austrian league fool you, this guy is going to be one of the most lethal number nines in the world."
Haaland flushed slightly, shoving Theodore. "Theo, shut up, I'm not that good yet." He turned to Grealish and offered a massive hand.
"Nice to meet you. Watched a bit of Villa this season, you're class on the ball."
"Cheers, big man," Grealish grinned, shaking his hand.
The flight from Heathrow to Malé took eleven brutal hours.
As soon as the plane leveled out, Theodore threw his headphones on, pulled his cap down, and slept.
They touched down in the Maldives, the oppressive tropical heat hitting them the second they stepped off the plane.
After checking into a luxury resort and changing into swim trunks, they immediately hit the private beach.
While none of them were global megastars quite yet, they were recognizable enough to keep their sunglasses on to maintain a low profile.
Of course, three elite athletes lying around doing nothing got old fast.
By the late afternoon, Grealish had grown dangerously bored and wandered off to locate the nearest beach bar.
Theodore and Haaland opted for a massive game of beach volleyball instead.
Stripped down to their shorts, their heavily muscled, athletic physiques inevitably drew a crowd of tourists.
Finding the two-man rally a bit dead, Theodore waved over a few people from the crowd to make it a proper match.
After sweating it out in the sand, he and Haaland grabbed a massive seafood dinner and retreated to their suite to play FIFA for the rest of the night.
Grealish, true to form, didn't return to the room until the sun was coming up.
They spent a solid week exploring the islands, swimming, and recovering before the boredom finally won out and they flew back to Europe.
...
While Theodore was lounging on the beach, the Aston Villa boardroom was in absolute chaos trying to navigate the summer transfer window.
With the club competing in both the Premier League and the Europa League next season, their current squad depth was nowhere near thick enough to survive a two-front war.
To make matters worse, Tammy Abraham—their top scorer from the Championship campaign—had returned to Chelsea after his loan spell ended.
Villa's sporting director had desperately tried to negotiate a permanent deal, but Chelsea flatly refused.
They had seen Abraham's lethal form and wanted him back at Stamford Bridge.
Left with a massive hole up top, Villa's absolute priority was signing a proven striker the second the window opened.
...
Mid-July arrived in a flash.
After touching down from the Maldives, Theodore met up with Haaland at a local stadium in Oslo to put in the work.
Theodore knew the reality of the situation: the pace, physicality, and sheer brutality of the Premier League were a massive step up from the Championship.
If he wanted to dominate the top flight, his body needed to be in absolute peak condition by day one.
---------
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