Football AU: Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 4/?
Xabi really does love crime novels. The rest is pretty much crack.
January 2018
At some point after one am, on the last Thursday of the January transfer season, Stevie is struck by how much
Xabi's Melwood office now looks like a detective's den from a pulp crime novel. However, the meticulously structured whiteboard by his desk is littered with pictures of leftbacks, wingers and strikers (mostly strikers) rather than serial killers and rapists.
The room is dimly lit and spotlessly clean, despite the clutter of pictures, press clippings, folders and assorted Liverpool paraphernalia. Xabi's tennis rackets are leaning against a wall in a corner. It smells and feels like
Xabi, like everything's where it should be, like controlled chaos. Stevie knows there are crisp white shirts packed neatly in the spacious drawers of his desk, just like he knows the leather sofa in the office is getting plenty of use because the janitors at Melwood have known him for decades now and can't help but want to tell him things.
"Kovačić's agent is in Milan, it's already a done deal," Xabi mutters bitterly into his smartphone and twists in his chair to reach for the offender's mugshot.
Off the board Kovačić goes and into the trash bin where he lands with a crumpled swoosh.
"Want a refill?" Stevie jiggles his empty Carling bottle in his general direction, hoping to coax Xabi away from staring at his Mac until Neymar materializes from behind the screen demanding a red shirt and a number.
"I don't really drink anymore," Xabi says quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose and pressing hard into the inner corners of his eyes. He nods towards the half-empty bottle in front of him. "I don't really drink too much anymore," like it's important to prove a point to himself.
"Have you tried any pain management therapy? There's got to be specialists..."
Stevie regrets blurting it out as soon as he does it, thinks that maybe it's not his place to pry (not anymore), to give Xabi no choice but to talk about it. He doesn't seem to mind though, looks at Stevie openly and with no trace of surprise.
"I was operated by the best spinal surgeons in the world and it worked for a while. Until it didn't..." Then. "You know I would never do anything to harm the club or this team, right?"
The two little frown lines above his nose deepen.
"That's not why I asked, you tit!" Stevie huffs out fondly. "I saw it live on Sky... I saw you stretchered off the Bernabeu and I knew..."
He gives up because he's had about five beers too few do delve any deeper into this particular conversation. There'd been texts and phone calls shortly after Xabi's hospital stay and then there'd been silence. For years.
"The pills are now just for when it's... like the fire... when it flares. It's under control now, I swear, but that wasn't always the case. I'm sure you must have heard..."
"I don't pay attention to rumors," Stevie cuts him off swiftly, borrowing a swig from Xabi's abandoned beer.
"If it ever comes up though, I don't want you to be blindsided by some Daily Mail reporter on a slow news day. Mr. Gerrard, were you aware Liverpool's director of football is a pill popping alcoholic who drove everyone away and sees his only child three times a year because he can't even look him in the eye? Any comment, sir?"
"Other than fuck off, there's ambulances that need chasing, you shit-peddling snake?... I'd say if you tell me it's under control, then it's under control."
You shouldn't trust an addict, Steven. Xabi bites the inside of his cheek to not say it, distracting himself for the ache pulsating deep inside his rib cage. He feels lighter than he's felt in years though. Or perhaps in weeks, since the first time he'd heard The Kop sing the Alonso song after so many years, perhaps with a
little less bitter guilt mixed in this time.
"And if you need anything..."
"I know," Xabi whispers because he knows, he does know now.
Nothing else is said for plenty of minutes until Xabi says: "Markoutz's people are ready to talk."
His fingers launch into a flurry of taps on the keyboard.
~
"I'm flying to Lille at three," Xabi tells him as the team shuffles back to the gym, breaths billowing in the early morning frost with their Hola-s and Como va, jefe-s.
Stevie's hair is sweaty, his eyes luminous. No matter how many times Rodolfo makes fun of him for trying to keep up with the youngsters while leaving all the hard work to his assistant manager, Stevie fucking loves morning training sessions and getting a lungful of Melwood in the fog.
"You want to stay over the weekend? We've got phones, the internet..."
"There was no time to make plans with Nagore and well... It will be too frantic anyway. I should be back tomorrow night. I'll know if Markoutz is serious in the first 20 minutes."
Stevie picks up a football and gives it a vicious, satisfying kick for old times' sake. Says casually:
"You should... I was thinking you could bring Jon over on some weekend when things are less crazy around here. Lexie'd love to give him the grand tour at Anfield, the last time he was there he was still trying to walk without falling on his bum."
"He's not interested in football," Xabi smiles warmly and Stevie doesn't understand how he can do that, even though he'd made peace with Lilly Ella's indiference to the beautiful game a long time ago.
"We went to the Donosti Cup with my Dad last summer and he tried but... I think he was just bored. Anyway, I don't want him to feel like he has to, like it's an obligation. He loves computer games, is very good at math..."
Stevie can't help but smile himself when he sees the look in Xabi's eyes, wishes he could shove his stupid head in front of the mirror right about now. "He loves Paris, it's a great place for him. I'm taking the train after the game when we go to White Hart Lane in two weeks," he says finally and wraps his black tailored coat tighter around himself.
"I'll call when I know if we have an Austrian striker or not. You staying to freeze your bollocks off some more?"
"Just five more minutes."
~
They're wasting our time. His idiot father thinks Chelsea want him. Call you when I land back.
Stevie's hands grip the steering wheel a little harder and he glances into the rear view mirror for the thousdandth time since he'd left Manchester that night.
January 2018
At some point after one am, on the last Thursday of the January transfer season, Stevie is struck by how much
Xabi's Melwood office now looks like a detective's den from a pulp crime novel. However, the meticulously structured whiteboard by his desk is littered with pictures of leftbacks, wingers and strikers (mostly strikers) rather than serial killers and rapists.
The room is dimly lit and spotlessly clean, despite the clutter of pictures, press clippings, folders and assorted Liverpool paraphernalia. Xabi's tennis rackets are leaning against a wall in a corner. It smells and feels like
Xabi, like everything's where it should be, like controlled chaos. Stevie knows there are crisp white shirts packed neatly in the spacious drawers of his desk, just like he knows the leather sofa in the office is getting plenty of use because the janitors at Melwood have known him for decades now and can't help but want to tell him things.
"Kovačić's agent is in Milan, it's already a done deal," Xabi mutters bitterly into his smartphone and twists in his chair to reach for the offender's mugshot.
Off the board Kovačić goes and into the trash bin where he lands with a crumpled swoosh.
"Want a refill?" Stevie jiggles his empty Carling bottle in his general direction, hoping to coax Xabi away from staring at his Mac until Neymar materializes from behind the screen demanding a red shirt and a number.
"I don't really drink anymore," Xabi says quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose and pressing hard into the inner corners of his eyes. He nods towards the half-empty bottle in front of him. "I don't really drink too much anymore," like it's important to prove a point to himself.
"Have you tried any pain management therapy? There's got to be specialists..."
Stevie regrets blurting it out as soon as he does it, thinks that maybe it's not his place to pry (not anymore), to give Xabi no choice but to talk about it. He doesn't seem to mind though, looks at Stevie openly and with no trace of surprise.
"I was operated by the best spinal surgeons in the world and it worked for a while. Until it didn't..." Then. "You know I would never do anything to harm the club or this team, right?"
The two little frown lines above his nose deepen.
"That's not why I asked, you tit!" Stevie huffs out fondly. "I saw it live on Sky... I saw you stretchered off the Bernabeu and I knew..."
He gives up because he's had about five beers too few do delve any deeper into this particular conversation. There'd been texts and phone calls shortly after Xabi's hospital stay and then there'd been silence. For years.
"The pills are now just for when it's... like the fire... when it flares. It's under control now, I swear, but that wasn't always the case. I'm sure you must have heard..."
"I don't pay attention to rumors," Stevie cuts him off swiftly, borrowing a swig from Xabi's abandoned beer.
"If it ever comes up though, I don't want you to be blindsided by some Daily Mail reporter on a slow news day. Mr. Gerrard, were you aware Liverpool's director of football is a pill popping alcoholic who drove everyone away and sees his only child three times a year because he can't even look him in the eye? Any comment, sir?"
"Other than fuck off, there's ambulances that need chasing, you shit-peddling snake?... I'd say if you tell me it's under control, then it's under control."
You shouldn't trust an addict, Steven. Xabi bites the inside of his cheek to not say it, distracting himself for the ache pulsating deep inside his rib cage. He feels lighter than he's felt in years though. Or perhaps in weeks, since the first time he'd heard The Kop sing the Alonso song after so many years, perhaps with a
little less bitter guilt mixed in this time.
"And if you need anything..."
"I know," Xabi whispers because he knows, he does know now.
Nothing else is said for plenty of minutes until Xabi says: "Markoutz's people are ready to talk."
His fingers launch into a flurry of taps on the keyboard.
~
"I'm flying to Lille at three," Xabi tells him as the team shuffles back to the gym, breaths billowing in the early morning frost with their Hola-s and Como va, jefe-s.
Stevie's hair is sweaty, his eyes luminous. No matter how many times Rodolfo makes fun of him for trying to keep up with the youngsters while leaving all the hard work to his assistant manager, Stevie fucking loves morning training sessions and getting a lungful of Melwood in the fog.
"You want to stay over the weekend? We've got phones, the internet..."
"There was no time to make plans with Nagore and well... It will be too frantic anyway. I should be back tomorrow night. I'll know if Markoutz is serious in the first 20 minutes."
Stevie picks up a football and gives it a vicious, satisfying kick for old times' sake. Says casually:
"You should... I was thinking you could bring Jon over on some weekend when things are less crazy around here. Lexie'd love to give him the grand tour at Anfield, the last time he was there he was still trying to walk without falling on his bum."
"He's not interested in football," Xabi smiles warmly and Stevie doesn't understand how he can do that, even though he'd made peace with Lilly Ella's indiference to the beautiful game a long time ago.
"We went to the Donosti Cup with my Dad last summer and he tried but... I think he was just bored. Anyway, I don't want him to feel like he has to, like it's an obligation. He loves computer games, is very good at math..."
Stevie can't help but smile himself when he sees the look in Xabi's eyes, wishes he could shove his stupid head in front of the mirror right about now. "He loves Paris, it's a great place for him. I'm taking the train after the game when we go to White Hart Lane in two weeks," he says finally and wraps his black tailored coat tighter around himself.
"I'll call when I know if we have an Austrian striker or not. You staying to freeze your bollocks off some more?"
"Just five more minutes."
~
They're wasting our time. His idiot father thinks Chelsea want him. Call you when I land back.
Stevie's hands grip the steering wheel a little harder and he glances into the rear view mirror for the thousdandth time since he'd left Manchester that night.