Rounding Out Family, Part Three

[luxover]

Part Two

Real Madrid plays a match against Getafe, away at the Coliseum Alfonso Pérez, and it doesn’t go perfectly, but it goes well enough. It’s a nice release of tension; playing lets him lose his head in football rather than in the stupid things he said in last week’s interview, or in thinking about how he needs to baby-proof the very last bits of his house before Cris starts to walk. He doesn’t even think about how Mesut had looked, laid out on his bed a few nights ago. It’s strange and doesn’t make any sense, but out there on the pitch, Mesut’s just Mesut to him, still just a teammate even though Cristiano wants and has had more.

They’ve barely even started playing by the time Angel is dragged down inside the box for a penalty, just nine minutes on the clock, and Cristiano takes the shot. He shoots low and left, and even though Codina guesses right, the ball still finds the back of the net. Cristiano winds up in a huddle, sweaty arms slung around his neck, pressed tightly between Karim and Sergio, Marcelo across from him, whooping and just making a lot of noise. Mesut’s there too, he knows, only there’s Xabi and Sergio between them, and Cristiano can barely see him.

Everyone starts to pull away and go back to mid, but Mesut stays and takes the second to pat the back of Cristiano’s head. He doesn’t say anything, but he smiles like he does and Cristiano smiles back.

He doesn’t have to wait long, not even ten minutes, for Madrid to score again, and this time it’s Angel to Mesut, and Mesut, and Mesut, and goal. The way he winds himself through defenders is out of this world, and his smile is huge as he points his fingers at Angel before turning them up to the sky and praying. Cristiano finds himself wanting to kiss his fingertips.

It’s not all easy, though; they get complacent and Getafe scores, twice, but Karim slots Cristiano the ball late in the second half and he scores, 3-2 to Real Madrid, and that feels good, the winning and his team celebrating and Mesut’s hand sliding from the back of his neck to in between his shoulder blades.

Madrid, he thinks, and he hopes they let him stay for a long time.

Cristiano climbs onto the bus after showering, and it’s about half-full, a lot of the guys still milling about outside in a post-match high. He looks around and there are still a lot of empty doubles, but Mesut is about halfway back and sitting in a window seat, leaving the aisle open, and so Cristiano decides to take that one.

“That was not you being tripped,” Mesut says laughing. “Please.” He’s talking with Angel and Pepe, and Angel has both his hands in the air, a look of surprise on his face.

“It was,” he says. “I didn’t dive. And I won us the free kick, so what more do you want?”

“He was nowhere near you!” Mesut says. “I was right there.”

Cristiano throws himself into the seat next to Mesut and says, “Either way, tripping or diving, you’re off my fantasy team.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Angel says.

“You should’ve just stayed on your feet,” Pepe says, “and, I don’t know, scored or something.”

“Oh, ha ha,” Angel says again, and Mesut laughs loudly at that; Cristiano can feel his shoulders shake. Angel’s always making Mesut laugh; they get along so well, and Cristiano wonders what the secret is. “I was fouled.”

“It was a dive,” Cristiano says.

“And he’s the king of that!” Pepe shouts, pointing to Cristiano. “If he says you dove-”

“But I was tripped,” Angel says, and Pepe just laughs at him.

The bus fills up pretty quickly after that, and once everyone’s back in their seats, they take off, to Madrid. A bit into the drive, Cristiano turns his head to look at Mesut, and Mesut’s got his big headphones on, looking out the window as he moves his head in time to whatever he’s listening to. And then, almost as if he can feel Cristiano watching him, he turns and smiles.

“What?” he asks, pulling his headphones off of one ear.

“Nothing,” Cristiano says back, and Mesut rolls his eyes a little. And then Mesut nudges his knee against Cristiano’s, presses their thighs together where they meet in the middle of the seats, and Cristiano nudges back.

Mesut goes back to looking out the window, and Cristiano wants him.

It shouldn’t be this hard, Cristiano thinks. He wants Mesut, and if that night after the team dinner was any indication, Mesut wants him, too. And that’s all that really should matter, but it’s not because Cristiano has Cris, and Cris is what matters most. Cristiano is a father now, has been for some months now, and being a good one is more important to him than being a good footballer, or a good lover, or a good son, or anything else. And everything he has to offer-his football skills, his money, they way he looks, the muscles in his body-are all things that Cris couldn’t care less about. He thinks about his own dad, and he was-Cristiano couldn’t have asked for anything more, and he wants to be that, for Cris. He’s trying so hard to be that for Cris, but he doesn’t know what he’s doing and his own father isn’t here to tell him.

What he does know-what he does know is that he can’t realistically have them both, can’t juggle casual sex and being a good father on top of his already hectic career. It’s just not who he is, not now that he has Cris, and it’s not something he’ll be able to do; he doesn’t need his father around to tell him that exposing Cris to people who will come and go-people with whom he’s casual-isn’t good for any of them.

Back at the Valdebebas parking lot, everyone gets off the bus and into their cars, to head home and sleep or, in Sergio’s case, to head to a small club that plays live flamenco music on the weekends. Cristiano heads inside, though, to the locker room to pick up a training bag that he had left there earlier in the morning.

He’s the only one there, walking through the dark hallways, and his steps echo loudly around him. It’s a lot like how it is in the morning, actually, except for how it feels like a ghost town instead of feeling comforting.

Cristiano grabs his bag and is about to sling it over his shoulder when he hears the locker room door open and close; two seconds later, Mesut appears, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. And Cristiano knows he shouldn’t, but when Mesut gets close enough, he reaches a hand out for Mesut’s wrist, and pulls him even closer.

They kiss, then, in the locker room that feels like a second home, and Mesut’s hands are on Cristiano’s hips, his fingers digging into Cristiano’s skin. Cristiano doesn’t know how long they stand there, pressed hips to hips, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, but when he pulls back, Mesut’s lips are red and full and Cristiano so, so badly wants Mesut to suck him off.

Instead, he says, “I have to get home.”

“I know,” Mesut says, and he smiles a little. Cristiano doesn’t really know what he means by it, and so he doesn’t comment, just head with Mesut out the door and to their cars.

He tries again to figure out a way to make a casual relationship like this work, with Cris in the picture; he wonders if he even can. But then he remembers that Cris isn’t in the picture, Cris is the picture, and that’s the entire point.

They don’t have morning practice the day after the match, and Cristiano decides to take it easy, to stay home with Cris and just work out at home, sit-ups and free weights until Cris wakes up. The pool is heated and it’s not too cool out, and so Cristiano pulls on some swim trunks, and gets Cris dressed in his own pair. He grabs some pool toys on the way out, Cris balanced on his hip, and then grabs Cris’s flotation ring, too.

Cris loves the pool. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s so big, or that it’s outside, but once he’s in the water, he starts laughing like crazy, and he doesn’t do that in the bath. It makes Cristiano laugh, too, just to see his son go wild over something that he just takes for granted.

“What?” Cristiano asks. “What’s so funny, huh?” He grabs Cris’s tube and pulls him closer, and then pushes him out to arm’s length. Cris just splashes his hands in the water, says, pa pa pa pa, and it’s not quiet Papa, but Cristiano will take it.

For the most part, Cris just does his own thing, splashing around and playing with whatever toys float his way, and Cristiano watches him, and once or twice tugs on his ankle underwater, just to see the smile on Cris’s face when he looks around and realizes there’s no one else there.

There’s a mini-football the colors of the Portuguese flag floating around-part of a set from Kaka, the other being green and yellow-and Cristiano blows it across the surface of the water; Cris reaches out with two hands for it.

“Handball, again!” Cristiano says, and then he falls backwards in the water. Cris laughs when he resurfaces and shakes the water out of his hair.

Cristiano reaches out and pulls Cris closer. He says, “I was serious, you know. You can be a keeper, if you want. Or a vet, or a teacher, or whatever you want.” And he really means it, too, even though Cris is still too young to understand any of it. Of course, he’d love it if his son was a striker, same as him, and if his son lived and breathed football, same as him, but if he didn’t, that would be alright, too. And then after a minute, he says, “It’s just me and I don’t know what I’m doing, but you can tell me if I’m doing it wrong.”

Cris says, ba ba ba, and splashes the water.

His mom comes over just as they’re about to get out of the water. She looks at the two of them and says in a voice that clearly implies she’s talking to Cris, “Look at my boys.” It makes Cristiano’s chest feel warm, the thought of them as hers, as her family. It doesn’t make much sense because of course they’re family-she’s his mother-but still, the feeling is there.

When they get out of the pool, she has a towel out and wraps Cris up in a cocoon.

“He’ll be nice and tired for me today,” she says.

“That was my game plan,” Cristiano tells her cheekily, even though they both know that he never once thought about that.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” she says, and Cristiano just laughs.

His mom takes care of Cris, dries him off and gets him dressed while Cristiano runs through a shower and looks for his practice gear. They meet up in the kitchen for lunch afterwards, and Cristiano runs his fingers through Cris’s damp hair, until it’s styled into something that resembles a Mohawk.

“Looks good,” Cristiano tells him absently. He watches his mom grab food out of the fridge, and she looks so at home here, in a country that neither of them really have ties to. He wonders if she misses her friends, and strangely enough, if she ever thought about getting remarried after his dad died.

“I can hear you thinking from all the way over here,” she says, slicing a tomato. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Cristiano says, and then after a minute, “Are you not lonely, all the way out here?”

“No,” she says, simple as that. And then very carefully, she asks, “Are you?”

“No,” he says. “How can I be?” Between practice and interviews, and spending time with his son, and travelling to make appearances, he doesn’t even have the chance to be lonely.

“It’s okay to want more than you have,” she says. She puts the knife down and turns to look at him.

“But I already have so much,” Cristiano says, and it’s almost like speaking in tongues.

“It’s okay to want more than you have,” his mom repeats, and Cristiano doesn’t respond, just reaches out and tickles Cris’s bare feet. He thinks of Mesut and how he looked, blowing a raspberry on Cris’s stomach, and tripping on a toy as they climbed the stairs, and he thinks about Mesut on the pitch, guiding the football through defenders, and afterwards, on the bus with headphones blocking everyone out. Cristiano doesn’t know how it started, but he wants it, every version of Mesut that he knows about, and even the ones that he doesn’t.

It’s terrifying, wanting to play for keeps.

Cristiano has a dream that night that Cris falls out of the window, and he panics, his heart in his throat as he races down the stairs to get to him. Only when he opens his front door, he’s standing at the edge of the tunnel in the middle of a sold-out crowd at the Bernabeu. He doesn’t see any of his teammates, but Mesut’s there, standing at mid with his head bowed and his palms facing up in front of him, praying. Cristiano can hear him from where he is, reciting a prayer in a language that Cristiano doesn’t understand, but as he walks closer, the words change into Portuguese, and he’s praying for Cristiano. Not on behalf of Cristiano, but really for Cristiano, asking God to give him Cristiano, to love and take care of and to call his own. And then suddenly, Cris falls out of the sky and lands right in Mesut’s outstretched hands.

Mesut says, “Tudo bem, Cristiano?” but he says it to Cris, and Cristiano doesn’t understand. Mesut cradles Cris to his chest as the Bernabeu erupts into cheer, and Cristiano is so happy that he starts to cry.

He wakes up in the morning, fully rested, and with only the vaguest of recollection of feeling loved.

Mesut calls the next night to invite him over for dinner, and Cristiano’s halfway through saying that he can’t when his mom interrupts and says that he better go, and that he needs to get out of the house for things that aren’t football.

“Actually,” Cristiano says through the phone, “never mind. I can; sounds good.”

“Awesome,” Mesut says. “I’m driving back from Sami’s right now, so I’ll be right by your place if you want me to pick you up.”

At the same time as Mesut’s speaking, Cristiano’s mom holds up a box of lightly sweetened cereal and then points at Cris, sitting in his high chair, in a silent question.

“Yeah, sure,” Cristiano answers her, but then Mesut says, “Alright, I’ll see you soon,” and Cristiano doesn’t bother to correct him even though he probably should.

When he hears Mesut’s car pull up to the driveway, Cristiano heads out to meet him. He knows that his mom would probably like to say hello-they’ve met before, after a game or two-but he doesn’t want to deal with that, doesn’t really know how to now that things have changed.

Cristiano climbs into the car and says hi. Mesut’s wearing jeans and a tight black shirt, and his hair is slicked back because it’s getting long. Cristiano doesn’t know whether he wants Mesut to cut it or keep growing it out.

“I hope you’re ready for a full-on German feast,” Mesut says, smiling and looking at him out of the corner of his eyes as he drives.

“I was born ready,” Cristiano says, and Mesut laughs.

“Yeah, right,” he says. “We’ll see.” He puts his arm on the center console so that his elbow is touching Cristiano’s, and Cristiano bites back a smile.

Mesut’s house is in varying stages of lived in. There are parts of it, like the living room and the kitchen, that are cluttered and have little signs of Mesut everywhere, like the open DVD cases or German notes taped to the fridge, but there are other places-the dining room, the back office-that are completely bare except for brand new furniture.

“Sergio says I have a mansion, but live like I’m in a studio apartment,” Mesut says as he goes into the kitchen to get them something to drink. Cristiano follows him and stands on the other side of the counter. “But I just don’t know what to do with an office.”

“Hire a good-looking secretary,” Cristiano says, and Mesut laughs. Cristiano had forgotten that Sergio lived right next door, or maybe he didn’t, maybe he just knew and never thought about it because it didn’t matter. “Sergio come over a lot?”

“Not really,” Mesut says, and he’s digging around his cabinets for a skillet. “He’d come around a lot in the beginning to make sure I was still alive, but now if he needs something, he just shouts over the garden wall. You eat sausage, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cristiano says, and he leans his forearms on the kitchen counter, watching Mesut do his thing. “You’re the picky one between us.”

“I’m religious,” Mesut laughs, rolling his eyes. “It’s different.” He goes into the pantry and grabs some lentils, and then over his shoulder says, “I’m even making you some Spaetzle, so you should be really grateful.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Cristiano tells him, and then he smiles cheekily. “But if you’re making it, I love it.”

Mesut just rolls his eyes, because he’s never gone for that, for any of the charm Cristiano would put on for other people. Maybe that’s why he likes Mesut, he doesn’t know.

They eat dinner in the barely used dining room, and Cristiano gives Mesut decorating tips on how to liven up the place.

“They make posters,” he says. “You know, of me. And I just keep picturing it: Cristiano Ronaldo.” He holds his hands out towards the two largest walls that are completely bare, and says, “I can see it, you know? I really think it would be an improvement.”

Mesut laughs and for a second covers his eyes with his hand, like maybe Cristiano’s emarrassing him, and that makes Cristiano want to laugh. Then Mesut smiles a little, reaches for his water as he says, “No thanks, I’ve got the real thing,” and it’s Cristiano’s turn to be a little embarrassed, although he doesn’t let it show.

“You’re not going to be able to get rid of me, if you keep making me Lizen, Spitzle and Saitan,” Cristiano tells him.

“Linsen, Spaetzle, und Saiten,” Mesut corrects in German, and Cristiano rolls his eyes.

“That’s what I said,” he says, and Mesut just shakes his head and laughs a little.

After dinner, when they’re loading the dishes into the dishwasher, Cristiano can’t help himself and he reaches out, touches Mesut’s hip. And it’s like the second he does that, they’re both reminded of what they want, and they kiss right there, up against the kitchen counter, their hands sliding underneath each other’s shirts, skirting over skin like they’ve got all the time in the world.

He likes that about Mesut, the fact that Mesut doesn’t feel like he has an expiration date, even though everyone does and Mesut is no exception. Cristiano lets himself forget about Cris for a minute, even though he’ll probably feel guilty for it later on, and just lives in the moment, does all the things he would do if he wasn’t a father, and didn’t have to put someone else first.

They don’t make it to Mesut’s bedroom; they barely make it out of the kitchen, stumbling into the living room and tripping over the coffee table. Cristiano tugs his shirt over his head and watches as Mesut pauses at that, stares at Cristiano’s body like he can’t look away, and that’s something Cristiano loves, when people look at him like that. He reaches out, tugs at Mesut’s shirt and then pulls it over his head, and he kisses down the side of Mesut’s neck, across his collarbones and his chest.

His brain shuts off for most of it, when Mesut sits him on the couch and opens his jeans, sucks him off and uses his hands to cover what his lips won’t. Cristiano threads his hands through Mesut’s hair-not to tug, just to hold him there-and his fingertips rub little circles on Mesut’s scalp before he even realizes he’s doing it. He should feel weird about that, he thinks absently, but then he’s coming and every part of his body is tensing, his thighs and his fingers and his stomach, and Mesut just watches the whole time, from right in between Cristiano’s legs.

He pays Mesut back in kind, gets him off with his hand as he mouths at Mesut’s neck, and Mesut makes these noises that Cristiano can’t even believe, breathy and broken and just perfect, and it throws Cristiano for a loop, just how badly he wants to hear them all the time. He kisses Mesut on the mouth when he comes, and then the two of them sit there, breathing heavily on the couch.

Mesut says, “Remind me to make you Linsen, Spaetzle, and Saiten more often,” and Cristiano laughs at that, more than he probably would have any other time, but he’s half-naked and sated on a couch with Mesut, and he’s not letting himself worry about other things just yet, and so he laughs.

Mesut drives him home later that night, after they’ve finished cleaning up from both the dinner and the sex, and after they’ve watched whatever movie happened to be on tv. They didn’t really pay too much attention to it, chose to talk and just idly touch each other instead, and Cristiano can’t even remember which movie it was.

In the car, Mesut says, “We should do this more often,” and Cristiano wants to-he really, really wants to-but he’s back in reality now, and it’s not fair to any of them to keep foisting Cris off on his mom.

“Yeah,” Cristiano says, because it’s sort of non-committal, and he can get away with it. He wonders what his mom is up to, if Cris was good for her or if he threw a tantrum, or if he fell and hurt himself again.

It’s weird, being a father again. Not that Cristiano ever really stopped being one, but for a few hours there, when it was just him and Mesut, he felt like who he used to be, the Cristiano that did things just because he wanted to, had sex because it felt good and stayed out late because he could. Coming back to where he is-to fatherhood-he’s surprised that he doesn’t really feel any great sense of loss. He likes being a father, for the most part; it’s just unfortunate that he happens to like Mesut, too.

“Cris is home,” Cristiano says when they finally pull up to his house. “My mom was staying over to watch him.”

“Okay,” Mesut says, but maybe he doesn’t get what Cristiano’s getting at, because instead of turning his car back on, he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the car.

They walk in silence to the front door, Mesut close enough that Cristiano could touch him if he wanted, and Cristiano can’t help but look at him and at the way the streetlamps light up his face. For the quickest of seconds, Cristiano wishes that Cris wasn’t home, so he could take Mesut upstairs and then take him apart again. He feels bad afterwards, for that.

“Kaka said that I shouldn’t introduce anyone to Cris unless it was serious,” Cristiano says, reaching into his pocket for his keys. Mesut doesn’t say anything, just nods. Cristiano is oddly disappointed, and he doesn’t like that-hates that- how someone can make him feel like that and not even know. “Something about how it’s not fair for him, then, if something happens.”

“Makes sense,” Mesut says, and Cristiano can’t stand that either, can’t stand how, when conversation gets serious, Mesut barely talks because he’s worried about saying the wrong thing, about fucking things up in a language that isn’t his own.

“But, ah,” Cristiano says, and it’s so fucking awkward, standing there, talking to Mesut; he thinks that it shouldn’t feel awkward at all, not when he is who he is. “You already know him. From before. So I guess it doesn’t matter.” He smiles a little, trying to lighten the situation as he opens the door and steps through.

Mesut follows him into the foyer, but not any farther than that. Instead, he just stands at the door and shoves his hands into his front pockets. He looks at the ground for a second, bites his lip, and Cristiano doesn’t know what he did, but he gets this sinking feeling in his stomach like maybe he said something wrong.

And then Mesut looks at him, says, “What if I said that it was serious for me? Or that I wanted it to be?”

And Cristiano doesn’t even know what to say. Hours and hours of interviews have taught him that it’s better to say something meaningless than nothing at all, and what Mesut said was all he wanted to hear, so how can he not know what to say? He doesn’t know, and so he just stands there looking at Mesut, watching as Mesut starts to look anywhere but at Cristiano, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He brushes a piece of hair out of his eyes, tries to tuck it behind his ear but it doesn’t stay; Cristiano wants to reach out and brush it aside once it falls back in his face, but he doesn’t.

“Never mind,” Mesut says. His cheeks are red, and Cristiano tries so hard not to think about that. “Can we just forget that I- I don’t want to-”

He cuts himself off, and Cristiano never finds out what Mesut doesn’t want to do. Cristiano almost says, Hey, don’t worry about it, and he almost waves Mesut’s comments aside, because despite being cocky and sure of himself, Cristiano has never really put himself on the line like this before, has never really let himself be vulnerable in front of someone else, because the idea of giving someone else power over him scares him shitless. But then he thinks about going upstairs alone and of how big his bed is, and of how cold the sheets are, and of how much he just wants Mesut to be there with him, in bed and on the couch in front of the tv and at the kitchen table in the morning, and so he says, “I want it to be serious, too,” but then he keeps talking because it’s important, so important to say this to Mesut while he still can, and so he says, “but I have a son, and that’s a big responsibility, and I’d never ask you to-you don’t have to do anything, but you have to know that he comes first, and if you’re not okay with that-”

“Cristiano,” Mesut says, and he smiles, a small smile that means almost nothing except for how it’s for Cristiano and Cristiano alone, and so instead it means almost everything. “Of course I’m okay with that.”

And Cristiano doesn’t know what he was expecting-he should have expected that- but either way, he’s caught off-guard.

“Oh,” he says, and he feels a smile growing on his face, and he must look like an idiot, standing there in the foyer just smiling at Mesut, but Mesut’s smiling back, and so it’s alright. And Cristiano wants to reach out, to pull him closer, but he only gets as far as wrapping his fingers around Mesut’s wrist before his mother walks into the foyer, little Cris in her arms.

“Mesut,” she says, and she sounds surprised to see him over; Cristiano doesn't bring many people over, not since. “Hello! Did you boys have a good time?”

“Yeah,” Cristiano says, and Mesut just smiles, let’s Cristiano do the talking. “Mesut made German food; he wanted to show me what I was missing out on.”

His mother laughs, says, “Let me make him a home-cooked Portuguese meal, and we’ll see who’s missing out,” and Cristiano’s chest feels tight, just at the thought of his mother cooking for Mesut, like Mesut was a part of the family. He’s never felt that way before.

Mesut laughs and says, “We’ll see, we’ll see.”

They head to the living room, and on the way, Cris reaches his arms out and Cristiano takes him from his mother, balances him on one hip as they walk and then sit themselves down on the couches.

They watch some tv-just whatever sitcom rerun is on-and a few minutes later, his mom says that it’s late and that she has to go. She tells them to have a nice night and Cristiano says that she doesn’t have to leave, but she says that she does and that’s that. She leaves them there, Cris playing with Mesut’s fingers as he sits wedged between him and Mesut on the couch, the tv going in the background.

Cristiano wakes up early in the morning to an empty bed. Mesut didn’t end up staying the night; Cristiano wanted to tell him that he could, but he didn’t and so Mesut left sometime around eleven-thirty. It was probably for the best, Cristiano figures, because they have morning practice and Cristiano has to wake up an hour early to take care of Cris.

He sticks to his usual routine; he feeds Cris and talks with his mom for a few minutes, and then he kisses them both on the cheek right before he gets in his car and heads to practice. He gets there early and spends his time alone in the weight room instead of on the pitch, and ten minutes before practice is set to start, Kaka comes to grab him.

“Come on, we’re meeting in the video room today,” Kaka says, and then he tilts his head a bit as he watches Cristiano do an overhead press. “Things going good, then?” he asks, and Cristiano wonders how he knows everything that he knows.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s nothing but the truth. He’s got Cris, and he’s got Mesut, and even though he doesn’t really know how to juggle the two of them, he knows that he’s at least allowed to try.

Kaka’s smile is small but genuine as he says, “I’m glad.” He sits down at the weight bench across from Cristiano, and for a second he doesn’t say anything, but when he does, he says, “Caroline’s pregnant again. We haven’t told anyone yet, but-”

He cuts himself off and his small smile grows into the kind of smile that leaves creases at the corners of his eyes. Cristiano likes him like that.

“Really?” Cristiano asks, because he can’t believe it. He should, he knew Caroline wanted another, but it still catches him by surprise. “I knew you couldn’t say no to her. I’m happy for you guys.” And of course, he really, really is happy for them. Kaka is the kind of person that deserves everything he wants, and he’ll be so good with a big family.

Kaka hides his face in his hands like he’s embarrassed by his huge, goofy grin, and then he looks over the tips of his fingers. He says, “Can you believe that we’re fathers?”

Cristiano laughs and kicks his foot, and says, “Newsflash: you’ve been a father for a while.”

“I know,” Kaka says, and he rubs at the tops of his thighs as he laughs a little. “I know, but. When it finally set in that we were really going to have another baby… I just got nervous, like it was the first time all over again.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Cristiano says. “You’ve pretty much got a lock on father of the year for the next decade or so.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kaka says, and he smiles as he rolls his eyes. “But I guess it’s like my dad says-if you’re worried about being a good father, that’s usually a pretty good sign that you are one.”

And that-that one knocks Cristiano sideways for a second. He wonders if his dad would have told him the same thing, if he were still alive.

“In that case,” Cristiano jokes, “you can actually just hand over those father of the year awards right now.”

Kaka laughs and looks at the time. He says, “Five minutes. Video room,” and he fixes Cristiano with a stare before he leaves and heads down the hall.

Cristiano sits there and thinks that if someone like Kaka can worry about being a dad, then it’s alright for him to worry, too, at least a little bit. And if what Kaka said was true, that wanting to be a good father goes a long way, well then maybe he’s doing alright by Cris; maybe they’re doing alright by each other.

It’s a relief, to finally realize that.

Mesut comes over that night after practice, once Cristiano’s mother has gone home and Cris has been put to bed, and Cristiano wants to tell him all about Kaka’s good news, only he doesn’t because he can’t. He’s so happy, though, for Kaka, and for himself for having figured everything out, and even if Mesut doesn’t understand why he’s so happy, he can still tell that he is.

They’re sitting on the couch, picking at some popcorn, and Mesut says, “You look really happy.”

Cristiano smiles back at him and says, “I am really happy.”

“Me too,” Mesut says. “With you, and Madrid. Just, everything worked out.”

And Cristiano doesn’t really know how to respond to that, so instead he just leans over and kisses Mesut on the mouth. He means for it to be quick, but things never work out that way, and he and Mesut are sliding closer, pressing against each other on the couch. Cristiano’s half hard and getting there when Mesut pops the button on his jeans and shoves his hand down the front of Cristiano’s pants. But the second after he has his fingers wrapped around Cristiano’s cock, the baby monitor on the coffee table goes crazy, Cris crying in his crib, and that’s unusual for him, considering he usually sleeps right through the night.

Cristiano groans, and Mesut pulls his hand back.

“Sorry,” Cristiano says. “Sorry, I gotta-”

“No, it’s okay,” Mesut says, and when Cristiano gets up to go upstairs, Mesut follows him.

Cris is sitting up in his crib, still crying by the time they get there, and Cristiano’s eyes automatically sweep the room to see if there is anything that could have caused it. Cris’s toy football is on the floor, and Cristiano picks it up, passes it to him, and he stops crying the minute he gets the toy back.

“Wow,” Mesut says from the doorway. “He really is your son.”

“Yeah,” Cristiano says, and even though he just got pretty solidly cock-blocked, he’s proud. He reaches into the crib and grabs Cris’s hand, and says, “Go to sleep,” accentuating each word with a shake of his hand. “Go. To. Sleep.”

Mesut walks over until he’s next to Cristiano, and he hunches over, folds his arms on the edge of the crib. His hair is dark and hangs in his eyes, and Cristiano can’t help but reach out and tug on a strand with his free hand.

“Hey now,” Mesut says. “Can’t have your son thinking that’s acceptable behavior.”

“My son’s gonna grow up with the most impeccable manners ever,” Cristiano says, only he doesn’t stop there, because he’s on a roll and finally realizes that everything’s going to be okay, for the three of them, however things work out. The thought just makes his chest feel light. “And he’s going to be the best at what he does, and he’s going to do charity, and he’s going to be smart, and funny, and he’s going to have a six pack that drives everyone wild.” He tickles at Cris’s stomach and then says to him, “But not now, okay? Six packs aren’t for babies. Babies only get chubby cheeks, you hear?”

Cris doesn’t understand, but he laughs, and so does Mesut, and Cristiano can’t help but look between the two of them, because he can’t believe this actually worked out, that he actually got to keep the both of them. Mesut knows what he’s like, knows it’s not going to be all easy, but they’ll make it happen, he thinks. And Cris-Cris doesn’t know anything about him, or maybe he knows everything about him; either way, it doesn’t matter because what Cris will know, one hundred percent and without a doubt, is that Cristiano loves him so much that even though it’s not possible to love someone any more, he still worries that it’s not enough. And if what Kaka says is true, that must make him a pretty good dad.

Cristiano Ronaldo: father extraordinaire and the winner of the Padre d’Or. But it’s not that big of a surprise, he supposes; he’s already good at everything else, and so it only makes sense that he’d be good at this, too.