Football AU: Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 1/?
Title: Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think
Summary: It's 2017. Stevie got his manager's license. Xabi got fat.
Rating: There's swearing and erm... grownups being grownups and doing grownup things. So... R?
July 2017
Stevie spots him in the stands at half time, or rather refuses to acknowledge his presence in the stands at halftime, telling himself that the New York heat and the fucking endless woodwork shot parade of the last twenty minutes or so have finally done his head in.
An hour later, once the boys put him down and the euphoria subsides into practiced post-match routine and spewing platitudes to journalists, Stevie thinks he hears:
"You finally taught those lads to string more than two passes together.”
He stares for a good half a minute, trying in vain to blink Xabi away.
"What...," he says, swallowing sand.
He leaves it at that when all Xabi has to give is a tentative smile and a little shrug of What were you expecting. If Stevie were to be honest with himself, he'd say I was hoping you'd come. As it is...
"Look at you going all native."
"You mean fat?"
"I mean New Yorker."
Stevie runs his teeth over his bottom lip lest the words You're chunky as hell, mate, but it looks great on you escape. *Of course* he'd make love handles look good.
Xabi tips his Yankees cap at him and takes one more hesitant step further, stops himself from even wanting to adjust Stevie’s askew tie. He’d been distracted by it the whole game, watching him pace the sideline with his hands planted on his hips and a frown of cool concentration that is only now beginning to unfurl from his brow.
“Good game today. Ballsy, as the natives say.”
“Wouldn’t have hurt to wrap it up in 90 minutes before we have to play Barcelona in the final in this fucking oven. But it wouldn’t be Liverpool if we did it the easy way.”
“Yes, well. You’re pretty much fucked anyway.”
“I hope you put that in your write-up,” Stevie snorts half-heartedly.
“I don’t cover football,” Xabi says and Stevie feels ridiculously pleased to learn that.
“Got tickets for Sunday?”
Stevie agrees to be repaid after the final of the Bocanegra Invitational in pastrami on rye at Sandro’s, which Xabi insists is Brooklyn’s finest deli joint.
~
Stevie’s Dad has a heartattack on Sunday morning and nobody really cares about the 3-1 bollocking Liverpool’s U21s give Barcelona’s youth under the searing New York sun. His crisp managerial suit still reeks of dried-up champagne when he boards the red-eye from La Guardia.
Xabi calls him from London two days later and they have their beef sandwich on the steps of Albert Dock the day after the funeral, chewing in silence and watching the grey ripples of the Mersey gleam in the sunshine.
“I was in Bangkok.”
Stevie turns to look at him and it’s the first time in five days that the sound of another human being’s voice reaches him in crisp, unmuffled soundwaves.
“When you retired,” Xabi finishes and licks the grease smeared on his thumb.
He’d stood in front of the newspaper kiosk for ten minutes, ten months, a decade, squinting at the splashes of red across the front page of whichever local sports newspaper dedicated an entire supplement to Captain Fantastic’s final bow. He’d gotten drunker than he already was that night, drunker than he’d been in a year, telling himself it was the logical sequel to the many nights of his Hotel Bar Blue period.
“I remember the first thing I saw when I opened my laptop was a picture of your Dad kissing your head when you were running to his corner for the last time. He looked like…”
Xabi hates it when he runs out of words. He juggles comfortably between two different languages, occasionally three or four when he’s reading; the tools of his new trade have become ever sharper with increased use, but every now and then his precious words dry up when he most needs them.
Stevie nods tiredly, but his faint smile is genuine.
“If it weren’t for him, I’d have ended up in jail, me.”
“Or worse, a blueshite.”
Stevie is a bit shocked at how much he still enjoys listening to Xabi’s attempts at Scouse, which inevitably end up sounding like a tipsy version of Sean Connery.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For that… For coming…” Xabi leans into his shoulder for a long moment, a ghost of a familiar touch.
“I’m thinking of moving to London. For a while.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything and eventually Xabi supplies what little context he’s managed to carve up in his own mind.
“I want to be closer to Jon. He’s starting school in Paris in September, his mother’s husband moved them all there to run a bank or something,” he says hastily, eager to close out that sentence but not knowing quite how to. “He has been to New York a few times, but I don’t think jetlag is something to get excited about on vacation…”
Stevie knows somehow that’s not the whole story. For no particular reason he’d heard enough over the years, from Pepe and occasionally from cryptic media allusions, to know better.
“Should get you a Stamford Bridge pass then, I reckon. Want me to talk to JT?”
“Fuck you!” Xabi grins, the Yankee twang in his voice now more pronounced than ever. “QPR till I die. Is bad enough I had to go through half of Fat Frank’s autobiography after you gave it to me. For my birthday.” You arsehole needs not be verbalized.
“I’m thinking of coaching Liverpool's first team. For a while.”
Xabi looks to the water, doesn’t ask anything.
“I asked them to give me some time to think about it… until after the youth tournament… I didn’t tell him, Xabi.”
He turns to look Stevie in the eye and he sees it then, as clear and vivid blue as he’s always seen it whenever Stevie was buckling under the weight of the world.
“You don’t owe them anything, in fact they don’t even deserve… Your father knew that, he wouldn’t expect you… Dios, Steven!”
It suddenly dawns on Stevie that he hasn’t heard anybody say his name that way in more than eight years.
“I was scared I’d say yes so Dad wouldn’t be disappointed. Di’nt give a fuck about what they said before, about being a coward and hiding behind the Academy and all that shite. Loved every minute of working with the kids.”
“And now?”
“I’m… I’m going to say yes because I miss it.”
TBC
Summary: It's 2017. Stevie got his manager's license. Xabi got fat.
Rating: There's swearing and erm... grownups being grownups and doing grownup things. So... R?
July 2017
Stevie spots him in the stands at half time, or rather refuses to acknowledge his presence in the stands at halftime, telling himself that the New York heat and the fucking endless woodwork shot parade of the last twenty minutes or so have finally done his head in.
An hour later, once the boys put him down and the euphoria subsides into practiced post-match routine and spewing platitudes to journalists, Stevie thinks he hears:
"You finally taught those lads to string more than two passes together.”
He stares for a good half a minute, trying in vain to blink Xabi away.
"What...," he says, swallowing sand.
He leaves it at that when all Xabi has to give is a tentative smile and a little shrug of What were you expecting. If Stevie were to be honest with himself, he'd say I was hoping you'd come. As it is...
"Look at you going all native."
"You mean fat?"
"I mean New Yorker."
Stevie runs his teeth over his bottom lip lest the words You're chunky as hell, mate, but it looks great on you escape. *Of course* he'd make love handles look good.
Xabi tips his Yankees cap at him and takes one more hesitant step further, stops himself from even wanting to adjust Stevie’s askew tie. He’d been distracted by it the whole game, watching him pace the sideline with his hands planted on his hips and a frown of cool concentration that is only now beginning to unfurl from his brow.
“Good game today. Ballsy, as the natives say.”
“Wouldn’t have hurt to wrap it up in 90 minutes before we have to play Barcelona in the final in this fucking oven. But it wouldn’t be Liverpool if we did it the easy way.”
“Yes, well. You’re pretty much fucked anyway.”
“I hope you put that in your write-up,” Stevie snorts half-heartedly.
“I don’t cover football,” Xabi says and Stevie feels ridiculously pleased to learn that.
“Got tickets for Sunday?”
Stevie agrees to be repaid after the final of the Bocanegra Invitational in pastrami on rye at Sandro’s, which Xabi insists is Brooklyn’s finest deli joint.
~
Stevie’s Dad has a heartattack on Sunday morning and nobody really cares about the 3-1 bollocking Liverpool’s U21s give Barcelona’s youth under the searing New York sun. His crisp managerial suit still reeks of dried-up champagne when he boards the red-eye from La Guardia.
Xabi calls him from London two days later and they have their beef sandwich on the steps of Albert Dock the day after the funeral, chewing in silence and watching the grey ripples of the Mersey gleam in the sunshine.
“I was in Bangkok.”
Stevie turns to look at him and it’s the first time in five days that the sound of another human being’s voice reaches him in crisp, unmuffled soundwaves.
“When you retired,” Xabi finishes and licks the grease smeared on his thumb.
He’d stood in front of the newspaper kiosk for ten minutes, ten months, a decade, squinting at the splashes of red across the front page of whichever local sports newspaper dedicated an entire supplement to Captain Fantastic’s final bow. He’d gotten drunker than he already was that night, drunker than he’d been in a year, telling himself it was the logical sequel to the many nights of his Hotel Bar Blue period.
“I remember the first thing I saw when I opened my laptop was a picture of your Dad kissing your head when you were running to his corner for the last time. He looked like…”
Xabi hates it when he runs out of words. He juggles comfortably between two different languages, occasionally three or four when he’s reading; the tools of his new trade have become ever sharper with increased use, but every now and then his precious words dry up when he most needs them.
Stevie nods tiredly, but his faint smile is genuine.
“If it weren’t for him, I’d have ended up in jail, me.”
“Or worse, a blueshite.”
Stevie is a bit shocked at how much he still enjoys listening to Xabi’s attempts at Scouse, which inevitably end up sounding like a tipsy version of Sean Connery.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For that… For coming…” Xabi leans into his shoulder for a long moment, a ghost of a familiar touch.
“I’m thinking of moving to London. For a while.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything and eventually Xabi supplies what little context he’s managed to carve up in his own mind.
“I want to be closer to Jon. He’s starting school in Paris in September, his mother’s husband moved them all there to run a bank or something,” he says hastily, eager to close out that sentence but not knowing quite how to. “He has been to New York a few times, but I don’t think jetlag is something to get excited about on vacation…”
Stevie knows somehow that’s not the whole story. For no particular reason he’d heard enough over the years, from Pepe and occasionally from cryptic media allusions, to know better.
“Should get you a Stamford Bridge pass then, I reckon. Want me to talk to JT?”
“Fuck you!” Xabi grins, the Yankee twang in his voice now more pronounced than ever. “QPR till I die. Is bad enough I had to go through half of Fat Frank’s autobiography after you gave it to me. For my birthday.” You arsehole needs not be verbalized.
“I’m thinking of coaching Liverpool's first team. For a while.”
Xabi looks to the water, doesn’t ask anything.
“I asked them to give me some time to think about it… until after the youth tournament… I didn’t tell him, Xabi.”
He turns to look Stevie in the eye and he sees it then, as clear and vivid blue as he’s always seen it whenever Stevie was buckling under the weight of the world.
“You don’t owe them anything, in fact they don’t even deserve… Your father knew that, he wouldn’t expect you… Dios, Steven!”
It suddenly dawns on Stevie that he hasn’t heard anybody say his name that way in more than eight years.
“I was scared I’d say yes so Dad wouldn’t be disappointed. Di’nt give a fuck about what they said before, about being a coward and hiding behind the Academy and all that shite. Loved every minute of working with the kids.”
“And now?”
“I’m… I’m going to say yes because I miss it.”
TBC