Football AU: Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 2/?
Part 2
Alonso Sr. really was at the Monaco game. The rest is pretty much crack.
September 2004
“Mr. Alonso…”
Stevie remembers too late that Alonso the elder is himself a former player and that the sight of a dressing room full of half naked, smelly men doing ridiculous celebratory dances is not all that foreign to him. By the time he shakes his hand he feels self-conscious and weird standing there sweaty and shirtless in a sea of discarded socks.
He yells: “Chrissakes, Finnan, put some pants on!” sounding like an exasperated aunt.
Xabi cracks up instantly, his warm, throaty laughter rising above the raucous dressing room.
“My father asked me to meet Steven Gerrard from the first day I signed for Liverpool. I told him your head is big enough already, but he insists.”
Stevie smiles awkwardly, fiddling with his towel.
“Glad we put on a decent display tonight. Hope you’ve enjoyed the trip, sir.”
A quick burst of completely alien sounds, unlike any Spanish Stevie’s ever heard, is exchanged between the two Alonsos and Xabi almost rolls his eyes out by the end.
“The atmosphere was unbelievable, he says... he was very impressed with the fans... He says Michael Owen is a fool,” Xabi adds almost apologetically. “He cannot be trusted to be impartial about Real Madrid…”
“I like your old man,” Stevie tells him as they help each other with their stretches at their first post-Monaco training session. “Knows quality midfielders. Carra didn’t scare him off, did he?”
His voice is only half, or possibly a third mock-concerned.
“No, he loved the tour of Anfield. He was completely... how do you say... like a witch... Enchanted!" Xabi exclaims, victorious, despite Stevie's eyebrows taking an extra moment to recover from confusion. "He found the most perfect audience to talk about Barca legends for hours. I am thinking to apply to the UN, I will not have much competition as a Scouse to Basque translator.”
"Oy, I heard tha', Uni Boy!"
"Both of you are invited to my English classes," Xabi yells back over his shoulder.
Not for the last time for a long while to come, Stevie has a thousand questions he wants to ask this new, strange boy who's Spanish (but not really), who slots into their world effortlessly (but not really), and is a bit shy (but not really, Stevie can tell from the glint in his eye as he ribs Carra some more) and none of the words to ask them.
November 2017
They’re in some frantic corridor inside the concrete bowels of the Emirates with Football League officials and assorted hangers on swarming around them and Stevie wonders why he just keeps… showing up. Then he sees the press pass hanging on top of Xabi’s navy overcoat. He’s wearing a poppy on his lapel. ‘course he is.
They make inane smalltalk for a couple of minutes and Stevie’s head is splitting, his paracetamol fix having lost its magical powers at some point during the third round of the League Cup a fortnight ago. The pain’s not intense enough to make him truly unpleasant, but persistent enough to make him slightly more irksome than normal.
“You’re still in it,” Xabi tells him earnestly. “You need a decent goal-poacher with a bit more experience up front, but…”
“I need you.” The way Xabi’s mouth opens, closes and silently opens again is oddly satisfying. “For the politics bullshit. For the negotiations, the elbow-rubbing and the fucking canapés and the… the business end of all this.”
He stops only temporarily, the steady drumbeat of the blood in his temples subsiding, his eyes veering to the neat green rectangle of the flatscreen TV hanging above their heads in the tunnel.
“I need you for the way you… see things on the pitch.”
“Stevie… I haven’t been on a football pitch in years. And I haven’t been part of this club in almost a decade. This is a job for someone…”
“I need you.”
Why are you making this difficult? Why IS this difficult? It really shouldn’t be for any sane, reasonable person. I’m not like you. I didn’t retire a hero. I didn’t retire. I just… went away.
Xabi looks above Stevie’s head from where the murmur of sixty thousand souls permeates the stadium’s whale skeleton. They stand in silence for a few long moments.
“The politics bullshit?”
“You’d be ace at the politics bullshit.”
“Always the charmer. But I don’t think the owners…”
“Fuck them. They want me to stay, they’ll want you on board, not planning on giving them a choice. Package deal.” Stevie’s voice softens. “I know you’re closer to Jon in London…”
“I’ve only flown to Paris once. Since July,” Xabi adds, his eyes downcast like he’s scalded by his own words. “Well… go slaughter Arse. I do not intend to be the big boss director of football of a losing club.”
Stevie’s face aches from the restraint it takes to not fucking explode. He has to rush back to the away changing room, but he turns around after three steps. Xabi’s still there, still looking vaguely sucker-punched, but his eyes are shining.
“Do you need help with the move?”
“I have a laptop, some books, an empty fridge and three boxes that are still unopened in my apartment. I’ll be fine.”
“OK… OK.” Stevie feels the need to say it twice and leaves. This time he trusts that what just happened actually happened.
They lose. The only surprising thing about it is that they don’t lose embarrassingly and don’t lose until the last three minutes. Stevie pats limp shoulders, rubs bowed heads and leaves the pitch last. He kneels to pick up a plastic poppy buried in the grass and puts it in his pocket when his phone buzzes.
We’ll have to figure out what a director of football does eventually.
There are pictures in the papers the next day and cheeky headlines and unfunny jokes about Liverpool’s manager kneeling in the grass at the Emirates with a massive, stupid grin on his face.
Alonso Sr. really was at the Monaco game. The rest is pretty much crack.
September 2004
“Mr. Alonso…”
Stevie remembers too late that Alonso the elder is himself a former player and that the sight of a dressing room full of half naked, smelly men doing ridiculous celebratory dances is not all that foreign to him. By the time he shakes his hand he feels self-conscious and weird standing there sweaty and shirtless in a sea of discarded socks.
He yells: “Chrissakes, Finnan, put some pants on!” sounding like an exasperated aunt.
Xabi cracks up instantly, his warm, throaty laughter rising above the raucous dressing room.
“My father asked me to meet Steven Gerrard from the first day I signed for Liverpool. I told him your head is big enough already, but he insists.”
Stevie smiles awkwardly, fiddling with his towel.
“Glad we put on a decent display tonight. Hope you’ve enjoyed the trip, sir.”
A quick burst of completely alien sounds, unlike any Spanish Stevie’s ever heard, is exchanged between the two Alonsos and Xabi almost rolls his eyes out by the end.
“The atmosphere was unbelievable, he says... he was very impressed with the fans... He says Michael Owen is a fool,” Xabi adds almost apologetically. “He cannot be trusted to be impartial about Real Madrid…”
“I like your old man,” Stevie tells him as they help each other with their stretches at their first post-Monaco training session. “Knows quality midfielders. Carra didn’t scare him off, did he?”
His voice is only half, or possibly a third mock-concerned.
“No, he loved the tour of Anfield. He was completely... how do you say... like a witch... Enchanted!" Xabi exclaims, victorious, despite Stevie's eyebrows taking an extra moment to recover from confusion. "He found the most perfect audience to talk about Barca legends for hours. I am thinking to apply to the UN, I will not have much competition as a Scouse to Basque translator.”
"Oy, I heard tha', Uni Boy!"
"Both of you are invited to my English classes," Xabi yells back over his shoulder.
Not for the last time for a long while to come, Stevie has a thousand questions he wants to ask this new, strange boy who's Spanish (but not really), who slots into their world effortlessly (but not really), and is a bit shy (but not really, Stevie can tell from the glint in his eye as he ribs Carra some more) and none of the words to ask them.
November 2017
They’re in some frantic corridor inside the concrete bowels of the Emirates with Football League officials and assorted hangers on swarming around them and Stevie wonders why he just keeps… showing up. Then he sees the press pass hanging on top of Xabi’s navy overcoat. He’s wearing a poppy on his lapel. ‘course he is.
They make inane smalltalk for a couple of minutes and Stevie’s head is splitting, his paracetamol fix having lost its magical powers at some point during the third round of the League Cup a fortnight ago. The pain’s not intense enough to make him truly unpleasant, but persistent enough to make him slightly more irksome than normal.
“You’re still in it,” Xabi tells him earnestly. “You need a decent goal-poacher with a bit more experience up front, but…”
“I need you.” The way Xabi’s mouth opens, closes and silently opens again is oddly satisfying. “For the politics bullshit. For the negotiations, the elbow-rubbing and the fucking canapés and the… the business end of all this.”
He stops only temporarily, the steady drumbeat of the blood in his temples subsiding, his eyes veering to the neat green rectangle of the flatscreen TV hanging above their heads in the tunnel.
“I need you for the way you… see things on the pitch.”
“Stevie… I haven’t been on a football pitch in years. And I haven’t been part of this club in almost a decade. This is a job for someone…”
“I need you.”
Why are you making this difficult? Why IS this difficult? It really shouldn’t be for any sane, reasonable person. I’m not like you. I didn’t retire a hero. I didn’t retire. I just… went away.
Xabi looks above Stevie’s head from where the murmur of sixty thousand souls permeates the stadium’s whale skeleton. They stand in silence for a few long moments.
“The politics bullshit?”
“You’d be ace at the politics bullshit.”
“Always the charmer. But I don’t think the owners…”
“Fuck them. They want me to stay, they’ll want you on board, not planning on giving them a choice. Package deal.” Stevie’s voice softens. “I know you’re closer to Jon in London…”
“I’ve only flown to Paris once. Since July,” Xabi adds, his eyes downcast like he’s scalded by his own words. “Well… go slaughter Arse. I do not intend to be the big boss director of football of a losing club.”
Stevie’s face aches from the restraint it takes to not fucking explode. He has to rush back to the away changing room, but he turns around after three steps. Xabi’s still there, still looking vaguely sucker-punched, but his eyes are shining.
“Do you need help with the move?”
“I have a laptop, some books, an empty fridge and three boxes that are still unopened in my apartment. I’ll be fine.”
“OK… OK.” Stevie feels the need to say it twice and leaves. This time he trusts that what just happened actually happened.
They lose. The only surprising thing about it is that they don’t lose embarrassingly and don’t lose until the last three minutes. Stevie pats limp shoulders, rubs bowed heads and leaves the pitch last. He kneels to pick up a plastic poppy buried in the grass and puts it in his pocket when his phone buzzes.
We’ll have to figure out what a director of football does eventually.
There are pictures in the papers the next day and cheeky headlines and unfunny jokes about Liverpool’s manager kneeling in the grass at the Emirates with a massive, stupid grin on his face.