fic: the one where cristiano thinks he's a spy
title: the one where cristiano thinks he's a spy
rating: g
characters: cristiano ronaldo, pepe, marcelo and brief appearances from other rm players
disclaimer: this story is complete fiction.
summary: with teammates like these, who needs rival clubs?
Outside the Bernabeu stadium, hiding behind the bushes in the car park, three highly paid football players (one slightly more well paid than the others) are squatting in giddy anticipation. Well, only one of them is, the other two are playing naughts and crosses in the dirt.
Pepe draws a circle with his finger and sighs loudly.
Cristiano turns to shush him.
Unperturbed, Pepe says, ‘You told me we were going to go mini-golfing.’
‘We will.’ Cristiano hisses, ‘just after we-‘
‘Mini-golfing?’ Marcelo interrupts, waving a stick he had picked up to draw crosses with. ‘I thought we were going to the movies! I still haven’t seen Toy Story 3.’
‘Uh. I don’t think Toy Story 3 is playing at the cinemas anymore.’ Pepe says while trying to subtly rub out one of Marcelo’s well-placed cross.
‘What?!’ Marcelo jabs his small but surprisingly sharp stick into Cristiano’s forearm.
‘Ow!’
‘You told me to wait for you.’
With Marcelo distracted, Pepe replaces the rubbed out cross with his own naught.
Cristiano rubs his arm, ‘We can still watch it together.’
‘It’s not the same and you know it. And why are we even here ? You rushed us out of the change room just so we can hang out in the car park?' He points dramatically at his head, 'my hair isn’t even dry yet!’
Pepe reaches over to touch Marcelo’s afro.
‘Ok! Stop yelling. You’ll blow our cover.’ Cristiano resumes his position of peering out of the bushes towards the player’s entrance.
‘Cover?’ Pepe and Marcelo say at the same time.
‘Yeah, we’re spying.’ When he doesn’t get a reply he looks over his shoulder, ‘didn’t you get the email I sent last night?’
‘I actually don’t read your emails anymore.’
Pepe rubs his head in agreement. ‘They’re either shirtless modelling photos of you or pictures of cats with weird captions.’
Cristiano looks blankly at his teammates, ‘and you guys don’t like that?’
They both stare back at him. After a moment, Marcelo flicks the stick at Cristiano, it lightly taps him on the forehead before falling harmlessly onto the dirt.
Cristiano resists the instinctive urge to throw himself onto the ground and roll around. Instead he reaches into the back pocket of his tight jeans and wretches out a piece of paper he hands to Marcelo.
‘We’re spying. These are our codenames.’
‘Who are we spying on?’
Cristiano answers Pepe’s question by shushing him again.
Marcelo carefully unfolds the paper with his fingertips, wary of something that was pressed up so closely to Cristiano’s ass. ‘Hmm,’ he says and if he had a beard he would have strocked it. ‘I thought the point of codenames were that they hide the person’s identity and also sounded cool. This looks more like a short but accurate description of us.’
Pepe scoots closer so he can read over his friend’s shoulder.
Marcelo ~ Little Afro
Pepe ~ Shaved Head
Me ~ Gelled Spikes (of Awesome!!!)
‘We could change it around. I could be Gelled Spikes of Awesome,’ Pepe suggests.
‘No codename swapping!’ Cristiano snatches the paper back, and using all his might, attempts to shove the paper back into his pocket. ‘Here they come!' The paper stubbornly refuses to obey him, annoyed, he shoves it into Pepe's hands.
Pepe hands it to Marcelo who spears it into the ground with the previously discarded stick.
'Now be quiet.’
Only sheer curiosity stops Marcelo and Pepe from pulling Cristiano into a headlock and messing up his hair. So they silently watch their teammates filter out, saying their goodbyes before splintering off into pairs and small groups.
Ramos and Arbeloa start heading towards them, chatting cheerily to each other. The three dudes in the bushes duck lower, limiting their vision only to the pavement in front of them.
Sergio’s ridiculously shiny silver boots (the ones Cristiano secretly covets but would never admit out loud) crunches past followed half a beat later by Arbeloa’s more sensible white sneakers.
‘And have you noticed that character looks a little like Xabi?’
‘Are you serious? That’s why I lent it to you. That’s why we all started watching it.’
‘Oh really?’ Sergio laughs. ‘I thought it was just a funny coincidence. ’ He laughs again.
Once Sergio's laughter had faded and Cristiano was sure they were out of ear shot, he turns to his friends and with great seriousness in both his voice and eyebrows, asks, ‘ok men. what new information have we gathered?’
‘Uh.’ Marcelo and Pepe glance at each other. ‘Xabi looks like someone?’ Marcelo offers.
‘Yes. That sounds important. Write that down.' Cristiano waves a distracted hand at them, apparently trying to spot another person from the crowd still exiting the stadium.
Pepe yanks out Marcelo’s stick (and calmly watches the piece of paper get caught in a sudden updraft and flutter away) and scratches it into the dirt.
‘So we’re spying on Sergio?’ Pepe asks as he starts to doodle stick figures.
‘We’re spying on all of them.’
‘All of who?’
‘The Four Musketeers!’
Pepe and Marcelo look at Cristiano, then at each other and then back to Cristiano.
Cristiano sighs, ‘if you had both gotten Twitter like I told you to, you would know what I was talking about.’
‘I doubt that.’ Pepe says slowly.
Cristiano rubs his temples like Pepe and Marcelo were the ones being unreasonable. ‘On Twitter, Sergio called himself, Alvaro, Raul and Xabi the Four Musketeers.’
‘...So?’
‘The fangirls love it! They’re all over these kinds of things. They think The Four Musketeers are the coolest!’
‘I think we’re all pretty cool.’ Pepe reasons.
‘But there can be only one!’
‘One of what?’
Cristiano throws his hands up in the air in frustration. ‘One popular group! Have you not been listening?’
Marcelo, who was staring off into the distance, shrugs and says, ‘not really.'
'Don't you get it? We are the popular group.''
Pepe takes a moment to think about this before finally saying, ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re an overly competitive person?’
‘In sports?’
‘In everything,’ Marcelo says with a roll of his eyes.
‘My mum says when people talk to me like that it is because they are jealous.’
‘Does your mum also tell you you’re cool?’
‘Yes!’ Cristiano snaps hotly, jumping to his feet. ‘Now we’re all going back to my house so we can plan what we need to do next.’
‘There’s more?’ Pepe moans as he rises to his feet, partly because he just wants to play mini-golf and partly because all that squatting made one of his legs go to sleep.
‘Who made you the leader?’ Marcelo springs up, completely missing the point.
‘First of all, this was my idea. And secondly, and most importantly, I’m the Captain of the Portugal Team.’
‘This isn’t the Portugal Team. This isn't even Portugal!’
'Portugal is right over there.' Cristiano smugly points in a random direction that had one out of four chances of being vaguely correct. He smirks, ‘and put your hand up if you play for Portugal!’ Cristiano sticks his hand straight up in the air and then elbows Pepe when he doesn't immediately follow.
Pepe shrugs apologetically, Marcelo narrows his eyes at him, before slowly raising his hand.
‘That’s discrimination!’ The Brazillian who plays for the Brazillian National Team (not to be confused with The Brazillian who plays for the Portugese National Team) declares, putting both hands on his hips.
‘Calm down, Little Afro. It’s not discrimination, it is simple math. There are two of us and one of you.’ And with that Cristiano turned on his heel and headed towards his car.
‘I wish Kaka wasn’t still injured. Then we’d show you.’
‘Cris is a lot less weirdly obsessive when he’s around.’
‘Yeah. Also, I can’t believe you cheated at naughts and crosses.’
Pepe gasps. ‘I did not cheat! And I will not have you going around slandering my good and honest name.’
Marcelo laughs loudly and sarcastically but before he can reply, Cristiano interrupts with a whiny, ‘Guys! Come on!’
Meanwhile, on the other side of the parking lot, Khedria and Ozil watch Cristiano march determinedly with Marcelo and Pepe trailing less enthusiastically behind him.
‘Did they just pop out from behind the bushes?’ Khedira wonders out loud.
‘Yes.’ Ozil answers, ‘yes, they did.’
They look at each other, shrug and continue on their merry way, not particularly fazed, they are, after all on the German National Team
(note: other real madrid shenanigans can be found here and here )
rating: g
characters: cristiano ronaldo, pepe, marcelo and brief appearances from other rm players
disclaimer: this story is complete fiction.
summary: with teammates like these, who needs rival clubs?
Outside the Bernabeu stadium, hiding behind the bushes in the car park, three highly paid football players (one slightly more well paid than the others) are squatting in giddy anticipation. Well, only one of them is, the other two are playing naughts and crosses in the dirt.
Pepe draws a circle with his finger and sighs loudly.
Cristiano turns to shush him.
Unperturbed, Pepe says, ‘You told me we were going to go mini-golfing.’
‘We will.’ Cristiano hisses, ‘just after we-‘
‘Mini-golfing?’ Marcelo interrupts, waving a stick he had picked up to draw crosses with. ‘I thought we were going to the movies! I still haven’t seen Toy Story 3.’
‘Uh. I don’t think Toy Story 3 is playing at the cinemas anymore.’ Pepe says while trying to subtly rub out one of Marcelo’s well-placed cross.
‘What?!’ Marcelo jabs his small but surprisingly sharp stick into Cristiano’s forearm.
‘Ow!’
‘You told me to wait for you.’
With Marcelo distracted, Pepe replaces the rubbed out cross with his own naught.
Cristiano rubs his arm, ‘We can still watch it together.’
‘It’s not the same and you know it. And why are we even here ? You rushed us out of the change room just so we can hang out in the car park?' He points dramatically at his head, 'my hair isn’t even dry yet!’
Pepe reaches over to touch Marcelo’s afro.
‘Ok! Stop yelling. You’ll blow our cover.’ Cristiano resumes his position of peering out of the bushes towards the player’s entrance.
‘Cover?’ Pepe and Marcelo say at the same time.
‘Yeah, we’re spying.’ When he doesn’t get a reply he looks over his shoulder, ‘didn’t you get the email I sent last night?’
‘I actually don’t read your emails anymore.’
Pepe rubs his head in agreement. ‘They’re either shirtless modelling photos of you or pictures of cats with weird captions.’
Cristiano looks blankly at his teammates, ‘and you guys don’t like that?’
They both stare back at him. After a moment, Marcelo flicks the stick at Cristiano, it lightly taps him on the forehead before falling harmlessly onto the dirt.
Cristiano resists the instinctive urge to throw himself onto the ground and roll around. Instead he reaches into the back pocket of his tight jeans and wretches out a piece of paper he hands to Marcelo.
‘We’re spying. These are our codenames.’
‘Who are we spying on?’
Cristiano answers Pepe’s question by shushing him again.
Marcelo carefully unfolds the paper with his fingertips, wary of something that was pressed up so closely to Cristiano’s ass. ‘Hmm,’ he says and if he had a beard he would have strocked it. ‘I thought the point of codenames were that they hide the person’s identity and also sounded cool. This looks more like a short but accurate description of us.’
Pepe scoots closer so he can read over his friend’s shoulder.
Marcelo ~ Little Afro
Pepe ~ Shaved Head
Me ~ Gelled Spikes (of Awesome!!!)
‘We could change it around. I could be Gelled Spikes of Awesome,’ Pepe suggests.
‘No codename swapping!’ Cristiano snatches the paper back, and using all his might, attempts to shove the paper back into his pocket. ‘Here they come!' The paper stubbornly refuses to obey him, annoyed, he shoves it into Pepe's hands.
Pepe hands it to Marcelo who spears it into the ground with the previously discarded stick.
'Now be quiet.’
Only sheer curiosity stops Marcelo and Pepe from pulling Cristiano into a headlock and messing up his hair. So they silently watch their teammates filter out, saying their goodbyes before splintering off into pairs and small groups.
Ramos and Arbeloa start heading towards them, chatting cheerily to each other. The three dudes in the bushes duck lower, limiting their vision only to the pavement in front of them.
Sergio’s ridiculously shiny silver boots (the ones Cristiano secretly covets but would never admit out loud) crunches past followed half a beat later by Arbeloa’s more sensible white sneakers.
‘And have you noticed that character looks a little like Xabi?’
‘Are you serious? That’s why I lent it to you. That’s why we all started watching it.’
‘Oh really?’ Sergio laughs. ‘I thought it was just a funny coincidence. ’ He laughs again.
Once Sergio's laughter had faded and Cristiano was sure they were out of ear shot, he turns to his friends and with great seriousness in both his voice and eyebrows, asks, ‘ok men. what new information have we gathered?’
‘Uh.’ Marcelo and Pepe glance at each other. ‘Xabi looks like someone?’ Marcelo offers.
‘Yes. That sounds important. Write that down.' Cristiano waves a distracted hand at them, apparently trying to spot another person from the crowd still exiting the stadium.
Pepe yanks out Marcelo’s stick (and calmly watches the piece of paper get caught in a sudden updraft and flutter away) and scratches it into the dirt.
‘So we’re spying on Sergio?’ Pepe asks as he starts to doodle stick figures.
‘We’re spying on all of them.’
‘All of who?’
‘The Four Musketeers!’
Pepe and Marcelo look at Cristiano, then at each other and then back to Cristiano.
Cristiano sighs, ‘if you had both gotten Twitter like I told you to, you would know what I was talking about.’
‘I doubt that.’ Pepe says slowly.
Cristiano rubs his temples like Pepe and Marcelo were the ones being unreasonable. ‘On Twitter, Sergio called himself, Alvaro, Raul and Xabi the Four Musketeers.’
‘...So?’
‘The fangirls love it! They’re all over these kinds of things. They think The Four Musketeers are the coolest!’
‘I think we’re all pretty cool.’ Pepe reasons.
‘But there can be only one!’
‘One of what?’
Cristiano throws his hands up in the air in frustration. ‘One popular group! Have you not been listening?’
Marcelo, who was staring off into the distance, shrugs and says, ‘not really.'
'Don't you get it? We are the popular group.''
Pepe takes a moment to think about this before finally saying, ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’re an overly competitive person?’
‘In sports?’
‘In everything,’ Marcelo says with a roll of his eyes.
‘My mum says when people talk to me like that it is because they are jealous.’
‘Does your mum also tell you you’re cool?’
‘Yes!’ Cristiano snaps hotly, jumping to his feet. ‘Now we’re all going back to my house so we can plan what we need to do next.’
‘There’s more?’ Pepe moans as he rises to his feet, partly because he just wants to play mini-golf and partly because all that squatting made one of his legs go to sleep.
‘Who made you the leader?’ Marcelo springs up, completely missing the point.
‘First of all, this was my idea. And secondly, and most importantly, I’m the Captain of the Portugal Team.’
‘This isn’t the Portugal Team. This isn't even Portugal!’
'Portugal is right over there.' Cristiano smugly points in a random direction that had one out of four chances of being vaguely correct. He smirks, ‘and put your hand up if you play for Portugal!’ Cristiano sticks his hand straight up in the air and then elbows Pepe when he doesn't immediately follow.
Pepe shrugs apologetically, Marcelo narrows his eyes at him, before slowly raising his hand.
‘That’s discrimination!’ The Brazillian who plays for the Brazillian National Team (not to be confused with The Brazillian who plays for the Portugese National Team) declares, putting both hands on his hips.
‘Calm down, Little Afro. It’s not discrimination, it is simple math. There are two of us and one of you.’ And with that Cristiano turned on his heel and headed towards his car.
‘I wish Kaka wasn’t still injured. Then we’d show you.’
‘Cris is a lot less weirdly obsessive when he’s around.’
‘Yeah. Also, I can’t believe you cheated at naughts and crosses.’
Pepe gasps. ‘I did not cheat! And I will not have you going around slandering my good and honest name.’
Marcelo laughs loudly and sarcastically but before he can reply, Cristiano interrupts with a whiny, ‘Guys! Come on!’
Meanwhile, on the other side of the parking lot, Khedria and Ozil watch Cristiano march determinedly with Marcelo and Pepe trailing less enthusiastically behind him.
‘Did they just pop out from behind the bushes?’ Khedira wonders out loud.
‘Yes.’ Ozil answers, ‘yes, they did.’
They look at each other, shrug and continue on their merry way, not particularly fazed, they are, after all on the German National Team
(note: other real madrid shenanigans can be found here and here )