Football AU: Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 8/22
Stevie really did get shitfaced that night after a mild breakdown in front of the TV (or rather trying hard to keep away from the TV). The rest is pretty much crack.
January 2018
“It’s 2:23 am. You’re calling me at 2:23 am.”
“I know.”
“So why aren’t you asleep?” Stevie asks conversationally, figuring it’s futile to even attempt righteous indignation at this point.
My back hurts.
“It’s 9:23 PM in Boston. I had a very interesting conversation with our boss a bit earlier. He apparently likes the idea of kidnapping Dennis the Menace from Manchester United.”
"But you still don’t like it?”
“I’ll like it if it works.”
…
“Xabi?”
“Hmm?”
“Is this conversation going somewhere?”
“We’re going to have to have The Talk with him before his transfer breaks out in the media tomorrow”
“It’s 2018 for fuck’s sakes… You’d think we wouldn’t have to.”
“We’ll have to. Jake says nobody at United knows, his agent worked hard to give him hired publicity girlfriends since he came to England,” the note of pure disgust dripping from Xabi’s voice is not lost on Stevie, “but he’s now a disgruntled former employee who’s losing a sizeable commission. Is enough for one whisper to the press… I told him who knows what and what kind of public exposure he wants is all ultimately his decision.”
“Can’t blame the kid for not wanting to be anybody’s hero.”
"Yeah..."
Xabi rubs the pad of his thumb against the ignition of the lighter past his relatively high threshold of pain. The fresh nicotine hit seems more satisfying the deeper he digs the cog into his nail. The lighter is cheap, disposable plastic and he feels slightly ridiculous for keeping it hidden behind the coffee table, on the balcony of an apartment in which he's the only tenant, with the occasional guest like the one currently sleeping on his couch. It dawns on him that some habits are harder to break than others.
"Are you outside?"
"On the balcony." Xabi's always loved the eerie, dull buzz of the Dock at night. He realizes he's been numb to the cold for a while now. "I'm sorry, you should go back to bed, need your sleep of beauty for the press tomorrow."
"I'm taking Lou to the dentist in about five hours, what I need is a stiff Jack and Coke."
Judging by the sounds of rustling fabric, he knows Stevie has now moved to the living room couch.
"Something I realized earlier today..." Xabi's mouth tastes bitter when he pushes his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Jake was born the year I debuted in the first team with La Real, you know. He shouldn't have to be anybody's hero by now."
"No... he shouldn't." He can hear the same tinge of defeat that coats his tongue reflected in Stevie's voice. "But the lad'll find his own way. I'm far more worried about him being an ex Manc to tell you the truth. Yank and Manc are just begging to be put to some interesting uses in stadium chanting... And I'm not talking about rival fans either..."
Xabi's face breaks out into a full blown grin that reminds him of just how cold his cheeks are.
"Good luck with Lola tomorrow. Don't mess up her front teeth, she is so far the only person in the whole of England who pronounces my name correctly."
"Go to sleep, Javier!"
"OK."
He doesn't.
14 April 2005
6 missed calls from Steven.
All of them drunk-dialing from a Southport pub (pubs) while Xabi's almost collapsed in the Stadio delle Alpi dressing room with relief and adrenaline fading from his blood stream, barely supported by fatigued muscles that aren't quite ready for this level of exertion after almost four months out of the game.
It's seventh time lucky for Stevie in the morning, right before Xabi boards the plane that's going to take them back to Liverpool as semifinalists of the Champions League, there but for the grace of Cannavaro hitting the post, but there with a fighting chance.
"I still can't believe it's real," Stevie's throat is scratchy with telltale signs of the impending hangover he hadn't slept enough to get just yet.
Xabi wonders if Stevie has any idea how many hours have passed since the last time he hung up on him the previous night or if in his mind they're just continuing the same one-sided conversation.
"Good morning, Captain. It is real... It happened. Carra says to tell you you're a... erm… blert. He heard you couldn't even watch the game."
"Tell him I was too worried he'd score a beaut for Juventus..."
"Are you all right?" there's an edge to the question that goes straight to the pit of Stevie's stomach.
"Nothing a beer won't fix. Listen, last night... Did I... say anything...?"
Xabi's quiet for far longer than he'd want to be.
"You said many things. Well... you tried. You did not make much sense."
You said you wanted to kiss me. But not like Raúl would kiss me, you were pretty clear on that... "snog you senseless" was the exact expression.
"Sorry 'bout that... erm... whatever it was."
Xabi ducks out of sight from his team mates, hiding behind the Hermes stand at the duty free store when he realizes he's chewing on the nail of his index finger. He's suddenly irrationally angry at himself. His voice stays deceptively warm though.
"I do not listen to you when you're sober, let alone drunk, don't worry..."
Before Xabi gets the chance to hang up on him again, they agree that once they're through to the final he can take his turn at drunk-dialing.
January 2018
“It’s 2:23 am. You’re calling me at 2:23 am.”
“I know.”
“So why aren’t you asleep?” Stevie asks conversationally, figuring it’s futile to even attempt righteous indignation at this point.
My back hurts.
“It’s 9:23 PM in Boston. I had a very interesting conversation with our boss a bit earlier. He apparently likes the idea of kidnapping Dennis the Menace from Manchester United.”
"But you still don’t like it?”
“I’ll like it if it works.”
…
“Xabi?”
“Hmm?”
“Is this conversation going somewhere?”
“We’re going to have to have The Talk with him before his transfer breaks out in the media tomorrow”
“It’s 2018 for fuck’s sakes… You’d think we wouldn’t have to.”
“We’ll have to. Jake says nobody at United knows, his agent worked hard to give him hired publicity girlfriends since he came to England,” the note of pure disgust dripping from Xabi’s voice is not lost on Stevie, “but he’s now a disgruntled former employee who’s losing a sizeable commission. Is enough for one whisper to the press… I told him who knows what and what kind of public exposure he wants is all ultimately his decision.”
“Can’t blame the kid for not wanting to be anybody’s hero.”
"Yeah..."
Xabi rubs the pad of his thumb against the ignition of the lighter past his relatively high threshold of pain. The fresh nicotine hit seems more satisfying the deeper he digs the cog into his nail. The lighter is cheap, disposable plastic and he feels slightly ridiculous for keeping it hidden behind the coffee table, on the balcony of an apartment in which he's the only tenant, with the occasional guest like the one currently sleeping on his couch. It dawns on him that some habits are harder to break than others.
"Are you outside?"
"On the balcony." Xabi's always loved the eerie, dull buzz of the Dock at night. He realizes he's been numb to the cold for a while now. "I'm sorry, you should go back to bed, need your sleep of beauty for the press tomorrow."
"I'm taking Lou to the dentist in about five hours, what I need is a stiff Jack and Coke."
Judging by the sounds of rustling fabric, he knows Stevie has now moved to the living room couch.
"Something I realized earlier today..." Xabi's mouth tastes bitter when he pushes his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Jake was born the year I debuted in the first team with La Real, you know. He shouldn't have to be anybody's hero by now."
"No... he shouldn't." He can hear the same tinge of defeat that coats his tongue reflected in Stevie's voice. "But the lad'll find his own way. I'm far more worried about him being an ex Manc to tell you the truth. Yank and Manc are just begging to be put to some interesting uses in stadium chanting... And I'm not talking about rival fans either..."
Xabi's face breaks out into a full blown grin that reminds him of just how cold his cheeks are.
"Good luck with Lola tomorrow. Don't mess up her front teeth, she is so far the only person in the whole of England who pronounces my name correctly."
"Go to sleep, Javier!"
"OK."
He doesn't.
14 April 2005
6 missed calls from Steven.
All of them drunk-dialing from a Southport pub (pubs) while Xabi's almost collapsed in the Stadio delle Alpi dressing room with relief and adrenaline fading from his blood stream, barely supported by fatigued muscles that aren't quite ready for this level of exertion after almost four months out of the game.
It's seventh time lucky for Stevie in the morning, right before Xabi boards the plane that's going to take them back to Liverpool as semifinalists of the Champions League, there but for the grace of Cannavaro hitting the post, but there with a fighting chance.
"I still can't believe it's real," Stevie's throat is scratchy with telltale signs of the impending hangover he hadn't slept enough to get just yet.
Xabi wonders if Stevie has any idea how many hours have passed since the last time he hung up on him the previous night or if in his mind they're just continuing the same one-sided conversation.
"Good morning, Captain. It is real... It happened. Carra says to tell you you're a... erm… blert. He heard you couldn't even watch the game."
"Tell him I was too worried he'd score a beaut for Juventus..."
"Are you all right?" there's an edge to the question that goes straight to the pit of Stevie's stomach.
"Nothing a beer won't fix. Listen, last night... Did I... say anything...?"
Xabi's quiet for far longer than he'd want to be.
"You said many things. Well... you tried. You did not make much sense."
You said you wanted to kiss me. But not like Raúl would kiss me, you were pretty clear on that... "snog you senseless" was the exact expression.
"Sorry 'bout that... erm... whatever it was."
Xabi ducks out of sight from his team mates, hiding behind the Hermes stand at the duty free store when he realizes he's chewing on the nail of his index finger. He's suddenly irrationally angry at himself. His voice stays deceptively warm though.
"I do not listen to you when you're sober, let alone drunk, don't worry..."
Before Xabi gets the chance to hang up on him again, they agree that once they're through to the final he can take his turn at drunk-dialing.