Football AU: Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 7/22
Struan Marshall really is Stevie's agent. The rest... well... you know.
January 2018
Jake follows the smell of eggs into the kitchen, his stomach rumbling louder with each step. He finds Xabi leaning over the counter where he's perusing The Echo over a cup of coffee, hair still damp, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up.
"Morning...?" it comes out like a question and Jake wants to slap his numb face for the sheer stupidity of it all.
"Yes, it technically still is at this hour. Breakfast?"
Xabi produces a plate without waiting for an answer, operating on the assumption that Stevie did not stop for kebab on the road from Manchester.
"Yeah... sure, thanks."
Xabi takes a quick look at the bedraggled footballer standing in his kitchen and shoving generous amounts of herb-spiced scrambled eggs under his nose. He's a bit taller than on camera, but otherwise the olive skin, the old-for-his age light brown eyes and the absolutely appalling High Street sense of fashion paint the same picture of Jake Ginto, "soccer" prodigy, coveted asset of both his mother and father's footballing nations and all around insufferable primadonna. Not that you could tell from the pathetically hungover figure he cuts in his present circumstances.
"Coffee?"
This time Xabi does wait for an answer and it's an emphatic head shake because Jake's mouth is too busy wolfing down the best fucking eggs he's ever had.
"Um... you got any toast maybe?"
"I don't keep bread in the apartment."
"Oh."
"Plenty more eggs if you want." Xabi finishes the last sip of his coffee and places the cup in the sink, acutely aware that his every move is being carefully scrutinized. "There's also... tea if you feel like it and lots of fresh oranges and... that's about it."
"Did I hit on you last night by any chance?" The kind of silence that comes with its own speakers and mic amped up to the max settles on the room and lingers there instead of an answer. "Oh, man... I'm that guy when I get plastered..." surprisingly, he has the decency to roll his eyes out at himself, although Xabi somehow gets the feeling that Jake doesn't really do soul-searching penitence or anything close to it. "I even hit on a chick once."
Xabi wants to laugh at how casual it all sounds, at how he has possibly missed out on being 19 alltogether.
"At least it prevented you from making advances on your future manager. I assume you haven't changed your mind now that sobriety's starting to hit?"
"Nope." Another mouthful of eggs goes down. "Sign me up! I want to never walk by myself and all that jazz."
Xabi's eyes narrow just the slightest bit and Jake feels like a very green, very insignificant insect.
"There's a change of clean clothes for you in the bathroom. After you're showered and presentable, we're off to meet your new agent. Who is doing this as a favor to Steven Gerrard, by the way... But of course, if you prefer to make some phone calls to someone unaffiliated with us... you just need to make it quick."
"Gerrard's a fucking boyscout, I ain't worried about that," Jake snorts, leaving Xabi to wonder if a fucking boyscout is a compliment or not in the kid's neighborhood. "I'm not the kind of footballer who needs help with tying his shoelaces. I can chew gum and know exactly how much I'm worth to Liverpool at the same time and I can sure read a fucking contract myself."
"You can learn it by heart and recite it in your sleep for all I care, Guinto, but you're not signing a contract with us while unrepresented. Bathroom's second door to the right."
Jake weighs his options for a second and the one that involves taking the afternoon train to Manchester loses.
"Is he going to be OK with me not dating supermodels?"
Xabi turns from the dishes he's drying over the sink, handling them with care to protect his rolled up sleeves, and looks him in the eye for the first time since they've met.
"You're here to play football. He's here to make money off of you playing football. It's none of his business which consenting adults you sleep with and it's none of our business for that matter."
Later, as he rides to Melwood in Xabi's car to the tune of whichever world news station is now contributing to his brain-splitting head ache, the reality of it all starts to actually sink in for Jake.
"I don't date footballers either," he supplies as an afterthought. "Gross legs, shitty attitude."
The corners of Xabi's mouth curl up almost imperceptibly, but he goes back quickly to focusing on the situation in Iran.
Quickie in honor of my almost return to civilization. This has practically been a writing vacation... with a bit of editing time, there'll be bigger chapters soon.
January 2018
Jake follows the smell of eggs into the kitchen, his stomach rumbling louder with each step. He finds Xabi leaning over the counter where he's perusing The Echo over a cup of coffee, hair still damp, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up.
"Morning...?" it comes out like a question and Jake wants to slap his numb face for the sheer stupidity of it all.
"Yes, it technically still is at this hour. Breakfast?"
Xabi produces a plate without waiting for an answer, operating on the assumption that Stevie did not stop for kebab on the road from Manchester.
"Yeah... sure, thanks."
Xabi takes a quick look at the bedraggled footballer standing in his kitchen and shoving generous amounts of herb-spiced scrambled eggs under his nose. He's a bit taller than on camera, but otherwise the olive skin, the old-for-his age light brown eyes and the absolutely appalling High Street sense of fashion paint the same picture of Jake Ginto, "soccer" prodigy, coveted asset of both his mother and father's footballing nations and all around insufferable primadonna. Not that you could tell from the pathetically hungover figure he cuts in his present circumstances.
"Coffee?"
This time Xabi does wait for an answer and it's an emphatic head shake because Jake's mouth is too busy wolfing down the best fucking eggs he's ever had.
"Um... you got any toast maybe?"
"I don't keep bread in the apartment."
"Oh."
"Plenty more eggs if you want." Xabi finishes the last sip of his coffee and places the cup in the sink, acutely aware that his every move is being carefully scrutinized. "There's also... tea if you feel like it and lots of fresh oranges and... that's about it."
"Did I hit on you last night by any chance?" The kind of silence that comes with its own speakers and mic amped up to the max settles on the room and lingers there instead of an answer. "Oh, man... I'm that guy when I get plastered..." surprisingly, he has the decency to roll his eyes out at himself, although Xabi somehow gets the feeling that Jake doesn't really do soul-searching penitence or anything close to it. "I even hit on a chick once."
Xabi wants to laugh at how casual it all sounds, at how he has possibly missed out on being 19 alltogether.
"At least it prevented you from making advances on your future manager. I assume you haven't changed your mind now that sobriety's starting to hit?"
"Nope." Another mouthful of eggs goes down. "Sign me up! I want to never walk by myself and all that jazz."
Xabi's eyes narrow just the slightest bit and Jake feels like a very green, very insignificant insect.
"There's a change of clean clothes for you in the bathroom. After you're showered and presentable, we're off to meet your new agent. Who is doing this as a favor to Steven Gerrard, by the way... But of course, if you prefer to make some phone calls to someone unaffiliated with us... you just need to make it quick."
"Gerrard's a fucking boyscout, I ain't worried about that," Jake snorts, leaving Xabi to wonder if a fucking boyscout is a compliment or not in the kid's neighborhood. "I'm not the kind of footballer who needs help with tying his shoelaces. I can chew gum and know exactly how much I'm worth to Liverpool at the same time and I can sure read a fucking contract myself."
"You can learn it by heart and recite it in your sleep for all I care, Guinto, but you're not signing a contract with us while unrepresented. Bathroom's second door to the right."
Jake weighs his options for a second and the one that involves taking the afternoon train to Manchester loses.
"Is he going to be OK with me not dating supermodels?"
Xabi turns from the dishes he's drying over the sink, handling them with care to protect his rolled up sleeves, and looks him in the eye for the first time since they've met.
"You're here to play football. He's here to make money off of you playing football. It's none of his business which consenting adults you sleep with and it's none of our business for that matter."
Later, as he rides to Melwood in Xabi's car to the tune of whichever world news station is now contributing to his brain-splitting head ache, the reality of it all starts to actually sink in for Jake.
"I don't date footballers either," he supplies as an afterthought. "Gross legs, shitty attitude."
The corners of Xabi's mouth curl up almost imperceptibly, but he goes back quickly to focusing on the situation in Iran.
Quickie in honor of my almost return to civilization. This has practically been a writing vacation... with a bit of editing time, there'll be bigger chapters soon.