Fic: A Week of Losses
Title: A Week of Losses
Pairing: Daniel Agger/Fernando Torres. Mention of Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramos.
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: Any fictitious relationships described within is true in the land of imagination only.
Summary: The last two defeats bring out the worst in some players.
Word Count: 2794
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated! Good/bad, either is fine. Thanks!
A Week of Losses
The men gathered in a hubbub of easy friendship at the doorstep; they were a little early but they were sure their host did not mind. Of the three of them, two had personal ties to the event, albeit of different sorts, and one was tagging along for the fun of it. The door opened and Xabi Alonso greeted them warmly. It was starting to become a custom, now, for the four Real Madrid players to meet and watch Liverpool play. Despite the welcoming gestures, Xabi wished he had not extended the offer to watch the match together. He did not want his friends to see the uncertainty and the fears that he had for his old club, for if he too, had lost hope, then he did not want to know how many people out there could still have faith.
Sergio nearly skipped into the Basque’s large sitting room. He had heard that Fernando was starting which meant that he’ll be able to see his lovely blonde striker on Xabi’s huge television screen. He grabbed himself a drink and settled down in the beanbag that he’d claim as his seat in Alonso’s house. Álvaro Arbeloa and Iker Casillas opted to seat themselves on the soft sofa. Only Xabi Alonso lingered at the doorway, as if by refusing to enter and turn the television on, he can avoid the inevitable.
“Hey,” Sergio’s neck twisted around as he tried to find Xabi, “Are we watching this match or what?”
Caught, Xabi gave a weak smile, “Of course, let me just get the TV.” He walked over and turned the TV on, switched to the right channel, and finally sank into a chair, the dread surrounding the match overwhelming him. Sure, Liverpool’s had a recent run of good results, but their ties no longer filled him with the solid belief that Liverpool can confidently win.
Four pairs of eyes witnessed the awkwardness that was the terrible match against Wigan. Passes were going astray, possession lost, a horrible jim jam of people blindly kicking a ball around. They were hardly vintage Liverpool; in fact, Xabi and Álvaro had trouble recognizing their old team mates. To be fair, the backline was makeshift; injuries forcing the lesser used combination of Jamie Carragher and Sotirios Kyrgiakos in the centre with Javier Mascherano taking up the right back helm. Still, what was more worrying was the lack of creativity, the absence of a fluidity to their game that they used to have and most strikingly, the complete inability to score. They had had chances; few, not many, yet they spurned them all. The manner in which they had conceded was also disturbing. Kuyt’s misplaced pass deep in their own half gifted Wigan half an opportunity. The difference was, Wigan took their chance well.
Xabi could not bear to watch. Even after conceding, which used to spark a fiery desire in the squad to retaliate, to make their comeback, Liverpool did not look like they were going to find that equaliser. Xabi found himself counting down the minutes. Not, as he used to do, in the belief that each minute left on the board were glimmers of hope, but in a plea to keep the goals conceded to just one. It shocked him that he could think this way of Liverpool, of the club which had come second in the league just last season, of a club with such talents, but he did. And he refused to let the guilt he carried with him wash over him. One man cannot make such a difference. He would not succumb to the egotistical belief that his departure left Liverpool drowning. But there was no denying that Liverpool had lost their spirit.
Iker noted the presence of Daniel Agger on the bench with some surprise. He didn’t know the Dane personally, but he’d heard enough from the two ex-Liverpool players to know of Daniel’s qualities. He’d also heard of the injury Daniel had picked up after the last match so perhaps that was the reason? Still, if it were him as the manager, he’d be throwing everything he had to ensure they snatch fourth place in the league. Surely fourth place and securing a spot in next season’s Champion’s League was just as important, if not more, than winning this season’s Europa League?
Meanwhile, Sergio watched with both glee and empathy as the camera showed Fernando’s obvious frustration. The striker had on multiple occasions given up chasing the ball. Several times he had fallen to the ground, prone on the pitch, his arms flung out in defeat. The expression on his face was weary, with fuming anger simmering beneath his angelic looks, contorting his face in an annoyed grimace. For a brief moment, Sergio wanted to reach out and pull Nando into his arms and rock away all that displeasure. Then, a malicious smile tweaked the corners of his lips upwards. That’ll show Fernando for leaving Spain.
* * * * * *
“Fernando, it’s me, Sergio,” Fernando closed his eyes at the sound of Sergio’s voice. The only reason why he was listening to Sergio speak now was because the little bastard had called so many times he’d gotten sick of hearing the phone ring.
“What do you want?” Fernando’s reply was flat, making it plain that he did not welcome the intrusion from defender.
Sergio knew what he was about to say was cruel, he knew it wasn’t fair. But if by saying them, he could convince Fernando to return to Spain… then it was worth it. Biting his lip, Sergio said, “That was a terrible match, Fernando.”
“You don’t say,” came the sardonic retort.
“Seriously, Fer, you’re losing it. Ever since you’ve moved to Liverpool, you’ve not gotten better; you’ve gotten worse!”
An indignant frown formed on Fernando’s face, “That is not true and you know it, Sergio. We’ve had good seasons, we’re just having a bad one now.”
“Ah,” Sergio said knowingly, “That’s because they know what to expect from you now. Before, they didn’t know so they couldn’t stop you. But now they do, and you’ve got no new tricks. I know you. You’ve stalled.”
Fernando bristled vehemently. Sergio’s words were striking perhaps a bit too close to home. How many nights had he lain awake, troubled by his inability create. He had always been his own worst critic, and he hated the fact that in the seasons past, he had glided all over the English clubs’ defences and yet was reduced to running into walls now. Still, he’d rather die that admit that to a gloating Sergio. “That’s low, Sergio,” he hissed hotly down the phone, “Injuries have been a pain, that’s all. You try getting back to your best form when your whole season’s peppered with injuries. And it’s not just me, I’m not, no matter how lovely it may be, the be all and end all of this club. It’s called a team sport for a reason. Our whole squad’s been unlucky with injuries.”
When Sergio didn’t answer, Fernando uttered a few last damning lines before hanging up on the Andalusian, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s ungentlemanly to kick a man when he’s down? Go and annoy someone else, Sergio. I don’t have time for this. Goad all you like, I don’t really care what you think.”
Throwing the phone down, Fernando hated Sergio.
Miles away, Sergio watched his phone shamefully. Maybe he had gone too far, but he knew it would be worthless to call now and try to apologise. Fernando won’t listen, not after what he’d just said.
* * * * * *
“Daniel, please,” The plea was plain in Fernando’s drained voice. “Please.”
Finding one of his friends unsympathetic to his plight, Fernando had sought the company of another friend. Daniel had his own troubles, still, he shrugged his jacket on and made his way down to the isolated park he and Fernando frequented. There, he found Fernando with his head in his hands. He noted the lone football sitting quietly by Fernando’s side and the emptiness of their surroundings. Sighing, Daniel settled down next to Fernando and placed an arm around his friend’s shoulders silently.
After what seemed like half a day, Fernando lifted his head. He placed his hand on the ball and looked at Daniel. Daniel watched him sleepily. Then, he grinned and got to his feet. He took off his jacket and dumped it in a heap. Pulling Fernando to him, he slid Torres’s coat off him slowly, his eyes laughing as Nando watched him intently. When he finally freed Nando of his outer garment, Daniel threw it to the ground too, next to his own, creating a small goal. Raising his eyebrows and rolling his sleeves up, he took up his position in front of the improvised goal.
Fernando feinted right, then left. He shimmied and he danced. Yet every move he made, Daniel countered. It was as if Daniel knew the same choreography, every step Fernando took, Daniel was always in time with him. Frowning, Fernando remembered Sergio’s words. They know what to expect from you now. Desperate to prove Sergio wrong, Fernando tried something new.
Daniel’s eyes were alert and with a last gasp tackle, the ball rolled safely past his own jacket, on the outside of the goal. Fernando threw his arms up in disgust and then fell back in surrender. His hair flopped messily into his eyes and he stared up at the grey sky stonily. He couldn’t do it and he hated himself for it.
“Hey.” Daniel’s deep voice made him shift his line of sight to Daniel’s face. The ball was cradled in his arms as Agger had gone to retrieve it when Fernando had thrown in the towel. “You can’t just give up like that, Nando,” he said, not unkindly.
Bitterness rose up and Fernando’s face contorted into an unsightly scowl. First Sergio, and now Daniel too. He didn’t need their lectures. Feeling cruel, he jibed, “At least I’m not injured all the time.”
Fernando immediately regretted those words as the understanding fell from Daniel’s face and was replaced with the cold, faraway persona he uses for the media. “I’m not even going to say anything to that, Fernando. But I’m doing something about it, aren’t I? Sure, I may not be as good as the golden boy, Liverpool’s number nine, but I work hard, I put effort into bettering myself, improvement. Which is more than what I can say about you these days. You were pathetic out there today and yet, that’s not why I feel sorry for you. You could have been having a bad match, everyone has one of those every now and then. It’s this lack of trying, this apathy that is disgusting. I don’t care what you do, cut your goddamn hair if that’s what makes you work, but you have to stop this. You’re the only one holding yourself back, Nando.”
Throwing the ball angrily down at Fernando, Daniel turned on his heels and left the Spaniard alone, holding a football in the middle of a deserted park.
* * * * * *
Iker Casillas should be outside running laps. He should be practicing, training, preparing for their match tomorrow. Instead, he was huddled indoors, sneakily watching a match. Arsenal vs Porto. Too bad Cesc was sidelined with an injury. Watching the Gunners spread their play all over the pitch, Iker couldn’t help noticing the stark difference between this match and the match he’d seen the night before. As if to add weight to the evidence, the score line was a resounding 5-0.
It was easy, however, to belittle Liverpool now with the season they’re having. But it was a foolish man who would forget that with almost the same squad, Liverpool had knocked his own team out of the Champions League last season. So with a tinge of guilt, he apologized to Liverpool in his head and also in a kind gesture, wished for their true form to return.
* * * * * *
Four days after their disappointing 1-0 loss to Wigan, Liverpool suffered yet another one at the hands of Lille. Despite their recent exit from the Champions League again, Iker, Sergio and Álvaro managed to convene at Xabi’s house for the airing of the match. Xabi’s irritation at sitting hopelessly in the crowd as he watched his team lose was doubled as he sat through Liverpool’s match. It was not the best performance Liverpool could produce, but with Daniel Agger restored to the heart of the defence with Carra, and Glen Johnson on the right, Liverpool’s back line had looked much more promising and sturdy. The inclusion of Babel was also encouraging. Too bad the Dutchman lost possession too easily and too often despite his skillful footwork. Still, it was not as dreadful as the Wigan match and there were times when Xabi felt a rekindling of the hope as the ball was dribbled and passed up the field. There were, they noted, several glimpses of what should be.
Unfortunately, glimpses were still not good enough. Liverpool were undone by a free kick that eluded everyone, including Pepe, to nestle sweetly into the back of the net. With five minutes to go, Liverpool upped the ante too late and were left to return home with a 1-0 loss. In fact, they were lucky escape with just one goal conceded as Lille had another chance bounce off the post. In any case, the Liverpool squad and their fans would take comfort in the fact that the second leg was at home, and they will pray and will Anfield and its crowd to play their part in the second leg.
Sergio watched Fernando sadly. He knew how Fernando was feeling. Years of being with him made it easy to read his emotions. He didn’t know who was in the better position, to be definitively out of the Champions League, or still have a shot at Europa League? Sergio tried Fernando’s number, but the phone kept ringing out. Sergio wondered how long before Fernando forgave him.
* * * * * *
The phone was really starting to aggravate him as it’s incessant ringing tinkled in the empty dressing room like a siren. Fernando buried his phone deep in his bag in an attempt to muffle the sound. When the noise continued to annoy him, Fernando dug it back out and turned it off. He was too busy growling at Sergio to notice Daniel’s entrance.
The Dane brushed past Fernando, limping gingerly. The contact made Fernando look up. They had not spoken to each other since that argument they had in the park. Feeling vindictive, Fernando saw an opportunity to hurt the defender, “So much for doing something about things, you’re injured again.”
Daniel’s head whipped around angrily. That was below the belt, and Fernando knew it. Daniel’s eyes searched Nando’s face for a trace of the warm, loving person he used to be. He didn’t find any hint of it. So it was war, was it? Turning his back on Fernando, Daniel spoke neutrally, “Thanks for your concern, Torres, but that’s something for me to worry about. You, on the other hand, have yet to find the net. In addition, you were so worked up by your inability to score, you got yourself unnecessarily booked.”
“Fuck off, Agger,” Fernando sniped back, “After all, you very nearly did find the net, in your own half, hah!”
Daniel shook his head sadly. Turning, he addressed Fernando, with a melancholy smile, “I don’t even know who you are anymore. I’m hoping it’s just the frustration talking. Maybe if you let yourself be who you were, you’ll be able to score again. Because you can, and you will.”
Daniel Agger reached out to touch Fernando’s face, to let his fingers trail along the familiar pattern of freckles over Torres’s face but Fernando turned away sharply. Daniel nodded resignedly and hobbled out of the dressing room.
Alone again, Fernando sat down heavily and sighed. Daniel was right, he was being a brute and it was turning his friends against him. He knew what he needed to do; he just couldn’t find it in himself to believe he could. Maybe, he just needed to try harder. Maybe, like Daniel said, he just needed to chill out and trust himself. Enjoy the game again, instead of always feeling pressured by it. Suddenly buoyed with faith, Fernando picked up a stray football and headed out to the training ground. He can win them back - all of them - and along the way, perhaps Liverpool FC can be resuscitated.
And maybe he did need to cut his hair.
Pairing: Daniel Agger/Fernando Torres. Mention of Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramos.
Rating: PG 13
Disclaimer: Any fictitious relationships described within is true in the land of imagination only.
Summary: The last two defeats bring out the worst in some players.
Word Count: 2794
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated! Good/bad, either is fine. Thanks!
A Week of Losses
The men gathered in a hubbub of easy friendship at the doorstep; they were a little early but they were sure their host did not mind. Of the three of them, two had personal ties to the event, albeit of different sorts, and one was tagging along for the fun of it. The door opened and Xabi Alonso greeted them warmly. It was starting to become a custom, now, for the four Real Madrid players to meet and watch Liverpool play. Despite the welcoming gestures, Xabi wished he had not extended the offer to watch the match together. He did not want his friends to see the uncertainty and the fears that he had for his old club, for if he too, had lost hope, then he did not want to know how many people out there could still have faith.
Sergio nearly skipped into the Basque’s large sitting room. He had heard that Fernando was starting which meant that he’ll be able to see his lovely blonde striker on Xabi’s huge television screen. He grabbed himself a drink and settled down in the beanbag that he’d claim as his seat in Alonso’s house. Álvaro Arbeloa and Iker Casillas opted to seat themselves on the soft sofa. Only Xabi Alonso lingered at the doorway, as if by refusing to enter and turn the television on, he can avoid the inevitable.
“Hey,” Sergio’s neck twisted around as he tried to find Xabi, “Are we watching this match or what?”
Caught, Xabi gave a weak smile, “Of course, let me just get the TV.” He walked over and turned the TV on, switched to the right channel, and finally sank into a chair, the dread surrounding the match overwhelming him. Sure, Liverpool’s had a recent run of good results, but their ties no longer filled him with the solid belief that Liverpool can confidently win.
Four pairs of eyes witnessed the awkwardness that was the terrible match against Wigan. Passes were going astray, possession lost, a horrible jim jam of people blindly kicking a ball around. They were hardly vintage Liverpool; in fact, Xabi and Álvaro had trouble recognizing their old team mates. To be fair, the backline was makeshift; injuries forcing the lesser used combination of Jamie Carragher and Sotirios Kyrgiakos in the centre with Javier Mascherano taking up the right back helm. Still, what was more worrying was the lack of creativity, the absence of a fluidity to their game that they used to have and most strikingly, the complete inability to score. They had had chances; few, not many, yet they spurned them all. The manner in which they had conceded was also disturbing. Kuyt’s misplaced pass deep in their own half gifted Wigan half an opportunity. The difference was, Wigan took their chance well.
Xabi could not bear to watch. Even after conceding, which used to spark a fiery desire in the squad to retaliate, to make their comeback, Liverpool did not look like they were going to find that equaliser. Xabi found himself counting down the minutes. Not, as he used to do, in the belief that each minute left on the board were glimmers of hope, but in a plea to keep the goals conceded to just one. It shocked him that he could think this way of Liverpool, of the club which had come second in the league just last season, of a club with such talents, but he did. And he refused to let the guilt he carried with him wash over him. One man cannot make such a difference. He would not succumb to the egotistical belief that his departure left Liverpool drowning. But there was no denying that Liverpool had lost their spirit.
Iker noted the presence of Daniel Agger on the bench with some surprise. He didn’t know the Dane personally, but he’d heard enough from the two ex-Liverpool players to know of Daniel’s qualities. He’d also heard of the injury Daniel had picked up after the last match so perhaps that was the reason? Still, if it were him as the manager, he’d be throwing everything he had to ensure they snatch fourth place in the league. Surely fourth place and securing a spot in next season’s Champion’s League was just as important, if not more, than winning this season’s Europa League?
Meanwhile, Sergio watched with both glee and empathy as the camera showed Fernando’s obvious frustration. The striker had on multiple occasions given up chasing the ball. Several times he had fallen to the ground, prone on the pitch, his arms flung out in defeat. The expression on his face was weary, with fuming anger simmering beneath his angelic looks, contorting his face in an annoyed grimace. For a brief moment, Sergio wanted to reach out and pull Nando into his arms and rock away all that displeasure. Then, a malicious smile tweaked the corners of his lips upwards. That’ll show Fernando for leaving Spain.
* * * * * *
“Fernando, it’s me, Sergio,” Fernando closed his eyes at the sound of Sergio’s voice. The only reason why he was listening to Sergio speak now was because the little bastard had called so many times he’d gotten sick of hearing the phone ring.
“What do you want?” Fernando’s reply was flat, making it plain that he did not welcome the intrusion from defender.
Sergio knew what he was about to say was cruel, he knew it wasn’t fair. But if by saying them, he could convince Fernando to return to Spain… then it was worth it. Biting his lip, Sergio said, “That was a terrible match, Fernando.”
“You don’t say,” came the sardonic retort.
“Seriously, Fer, you’re losing it. Ever since you’ve moved to Liverpool, you’ve not gotten better; you’ve gotten worse!”
An indignant frown formed on Fernando’s face, “That is not true and you know it, Sergio. We’ve had good seasons, we’re just having a bad one now.”
“Ah,” Sergio said knowingly, “That’s because they know what to expect from you now. Before, they didn’t know so they couldn’t stop you. But now they do, and you’ve got no new tricks. I know you. You’ve stalled.”
Fernando bristled vehemently. Sergio’s words were striking perhaps a bit too close to home. How many nights had he lain awake, troubled by his inability create. He had always been his own worst critic, and he hated the fact that in the seasons past, he had glided all over the English clubs’ defences and yet was reduced to running into walls now. Still, he’d rather die that admit that to a gloating Sergio. “That’s low, Sergio,” he hissed hotly down the phone, “Injuries have been a pain, that’s all. You try getting back to your best form when your whole season’s peppered with injuries. And it’s not just me, I’m not, no matter how lovely it may be, the be all and end all of this club. It’s called a team sport for a reason. Our whole squad’s been unlucky with injuries.”
When Sergio didn’t answer, Fernando uttered a few last damning lines before hanging up on the Andalusian, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s ungentlemanly to kick a man when he’s down? Go and annoy someone else, Sergio. I don’t have time for this. Goad all you like, I don’t really care what you think.”
Throwing the phone down, Fernando hated Sergio.
Miles away, Sergio watched his phone shamefully. Maybe he had gone too far, but he knew it would be worthless to call now and try to apologise. Fernando won’t listen, not after what he’d just said.
* * * * * *
“Daniel, please,” The plea was plain in Fernando’s drained voice. “Please.”
Finding one of his friends unsympathetic to his plight, Fernando had sought the company of another friend. Daniel had his own troubles, still, he shrugged his jacket on and made his way down to the isolated park he and Fernando frequented. There, he found Fernando with his head in his hands. He noted the lone football sitting quietly by Fernando’s side and the emptiness of their surroundings. Sighing, Daniel settled down next to Fernando and placed an arm around his friend’s shoulders silently.
After what seemed like half a day, Fernando lifted his head. He placed his hand on the ball and looked at Daniel. Daniel watched him sleepily. Then, he grinned and got to his feet. He took off his jacket and dumped it in a heap. Pulling Fernando to him, he slid Torres’s coat off him slowly, his eyes laughing as Nando watched him intently. When he finally freed Nando of his outer garment, Daniel threw it to the ground too, next to his own, creating a small goal. Raising his eyebrows and rolling his sleeves up, he took up his position in front of the improvised goal.
Fernando feinted right, then left. He shimmied and he danced. Yet every move he made, Daniel countered. It was as if Daniel knew the same choreography, every step Fernando took, Daniel was always in time with him. Frowning, Fernando remembered Sergio’s words. They know what to expect from you now. Desperate to prove Sergio wrong, Fernando tried something new.
Daniel’s eyes were alert and with a last gasp tackle, the ball rolled safely past his own jacket, on the outside of the goal. Fernando threw his arms up in disgust and then fell back in surrender. His hair flopped messily into his eyes and he stared up at the grey sky stonily. He couldn’t do it and he hated himself for it.
“Hey.” Daniel’s deep voice made him shift his line of sight to Daniel’s face. The ball was cradled in his arms as Agger had gone to retrieve it when Fernando had thrown in the towel. “You can’t just give up like that, Nando,” he said, not unkindly.
Bitterness rose up and Fernando’s face contorted into an unsightly scowl. First Sergio, and now Daniel too. He didn’t need their lectures. Feeling cruel, he jibed, “At least I’m not injured all the time.”
Fernando immediately regretted those words as the understanding fell from Daniel’s face and was replaced with the cold, faraway persona he uses for the media. “I’m not even going to say anything to that, Fernando. But I’m doing something about it, aren’t I? Sure, I may not be as good as the golden boy, Liverpool’s number nine, but I work hard, I put effort into bettering myself, improvement. Which is more than what I can say about you these days. You were pathetic out there today and yet, that’s not why I feel sorry for you. You could have been having a bad match, everyone has one of those every now and then. It’s this lack of trying, this apathy that is disgusting. I don’t care what you do, cut your goddamn hair if that’s what makes you work, but you have to stop this. You’re the only one holding yourself back, Nando.”
Throwing the ball angrily down at Fernando, Daniel turned on his heels and left the Spaniard alone, holding a football in the middle of a deserted park.
* * * * * *
Iker Casillas should be outside running laps. He should be practicing, training, preparing for their match tomorrow. Instead, he was huddled indoors, sneakily watching a match. Arsenal vs Porto. Too bad Cesc was sidelined with an injury. Watching the Gunners spread their play all over the pitch, Iker couldn’t help noticing the stark difference between this match and the match he’d seen the night before. As if to add weight to the evidence, the score line was a resounding 5-0.
It was easy, however, to belittle Liverpool now with the season they’re having. But it was a foolish man who would forget that with almost the same squad, Liverpool had knocked his own team out of the Champions League last season. So with a tinge of guilt, he apologized to Liverpool in his head and also in a kind gesture, wished for their true form to return.
* * * * * *
Four days after their disappointing 1-0 loss to Wigan, Liverpool suffered yet another one at the hands of Lille. Despite their recent exit from the Champions League again, Iker, Sergio and Álvaro managed to convene at Xabi’s house for the airing of the match. Xabi’s irritation at sitting hopelessly in the crowd as he watched his team lose was doubled as he sat through Liverpool’s match. It was not the best performance Liverpool could produce, but with Daniel Agger restored to the heart of the defence with Carra, and Glen Johnson on the right, Liverpool’s back line had looked much more promising and sturdy. The inclusion of Babel was also encouraging. Too bad the Dutchman lost possession too easily and too often despite his skillful footwork. Still, it was not as dreadful as the Wigan match and there were times when Xabi felt a rekindling of the hope as the ball was dribbled and passed up the field. There were, they noted, several glimpses of what should be.
Unfortunately, glimpses were still not good enough. Liverpool were undone by a free kick that eluded everyone, including Pepe, to nestle sweetly into the back of the net. With five minutes to go, Liverpool upped the ante too late and were left to return home with a 1-0 loss. In fact, they were lucky escape with just one goal conceded as Lille had another chance bounce off the post. In any case, the Liverpool squad and their fans would take comfort in the fact that the second leg was at home, and they will pray and will Anfield and its crowd to play their part in the second leg.
Sergio watched Fernando sadly. He knew how Fernando was feeling. Years of being with him made it easy to read his emotions. He didn’t know who was in the better position, to be definitively out of the Champions League, or still have a shot at Europa League? Sergio tried Fernando’s number, but the phone kept ringing out. Sergio wondered how long before Fernando forgave him.
* * * * * *
The phone was really starting to aggravate him as it’s incessant ringing tinkled in the empty dressing room like a siren. Fernando buried his phone deep in his bag in an attempt to muffle the sound. When the noise continued to annoy him, Fernando dug it back out and turned it off. He was too busy growling at Sergio to notice Daniel’s entrance.
The Dane brushed past Fernando, limping gingerly. The contact made Fernando look up. They had not spoken to each other since that argument they had in the park. Feeling vindictive, Fernando saw an opportunity to hurt the defender, “So much for doing something about things, you’re injured again.”
Daniel’s head whipped around angrily. That was below the belt, and Fernando knew it. Daniel’s eyes searched Nando’s face for a trace of the warm, loving person he used to be. He didn’t find any hint of it. So it was war, was it? Turning his back on Fernando, Daniel spoke neutrally, “Thanks for your concern, Torres, but that’s something for me to worry about. You, on the other hand, have yet to find the net. In addition, you were so worked up by your inability to score, you got yourself unnecessarily booked.”
“Fuck off, Agger,” Fernando sniped back, “After all, you very nearly did find the net, in your own half, hah!”
Daniel shook his head sadly. Turning, he addressed Fernando, with a melancholy smile, “I don’t even know who you are anymore. I’m hoping it’s just the frustration talking. Maybe if you let yourself be who you were, you’ll be able to score again. Because you can, and you will.”
Daniel Agger reached out to touch Fernando’s face, to let his fingers trail along the familiar pattern of freckles over Torres’s face but Fernando turned away sharply. Daniel nodded resignedly and hobbled out of the dressing room.
Alone again, Fernando sat down heavily and sighed. Daniel was right, he was being a brute and it was turning his friends against him. He knew what he needed to do; he just couldn’t find it in himself to believe he could. Maybe, he just needed to try harder. Maybe, like Daniel said, he just needed to chill out and trust himself. Enjoy the game again, instead of always feeling pressured by it. Suddenly buoyed with faith, Fernando picked up a stray football and headed out to the training ground. He can win them back - all of them - and along the way, perhaps Liverpool FC can be resuscitated.
And maybe he did need to cut his hair.