Football AU: Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 3/?
Part 1 | Part 2
Xabi's boyhood midfield hero really was Mauro Silva. The rest is pretty much crack.
October 2004
"To Xabi Alonso!" Carra's voice thunders over the Match of the Day commentary which has half the team huddled
together in a few booths surrounding the pub's noisiest corner. "The... er... inspiration behind Liverpool's thrilling comeback an'... what was it, Didi?"
"A much more suitable midfield option in this type of tight match than Liverpool's adventurous injured captain," Hamann declares, his Teutonic accented Scouse coming together for a surreally spot on impression of Adrian Chiles.
Stevie's beer is the first to go up in the air.
"Fuck yes, I'll drink to that! Since I'm the only one around here who can have more than one beer... You keep your Champions League football,
thank you very much," he smiles ruefully and then Xabi thinks Carra says something about taking the piss.
He's not yet completely mastered the art of snatching fragments of coherence from Carra's jaws, but Xabi's already intensley fond of the larger than life lad, plus there's always Sami, his brother from a Scandinavian mother, to act as interpreter when needed.
"That was a crackling goal," Stevie says with unaffected admiration. Their wrists are aligned on the oak table, not quite touching. "Wish we could celebrate it properly, get you well and pissed."
"Is better to celebrate after we win with Deportivo, no?"
"You excited to lock horns with Spaniards again?" Stevie asks before he has a chance to consider that maybe Spanish deer don't necessarily pop up in every day conversation.
"We could use you against Mauro Silva," Xabi responds after a brief moment of wrestling with the mental image.
"Sami's mentioned you rate him almost as much as Guardiola."
"He's a rock! His positioning... he is boss of the midfield. Rafa has already showed everyone the... records... er... recordings of when I could barely keep up with him in La Liga two seasons ago."
"Liverpool got you not him though, didn't we?"
Xabi doesn't have time to mull that though because Sami crashes next to them, a heavy arm landing around his shoulder.
"Alonso was a few classes above Silva even back then. Don't give us that blushing virgin act!"
"'cept for the hair," Riise pipes in all the way from the opposite end of the table.
"Yeh. Shocking hair situation on those tapes, mate!"
"Fuck off, Carra! Way to ruin my Captain pep talk here. The lad's self-confidence will never recover now." Stevie can barely contain his mock exasperation.
Xabi's laughter vibrates through the red leather of the booth and Stevie feels strangely accomplished.
"I have Anfield on my back now," Xabi tells him earnestly once Sami is off to call whichever ridiculous bet he's got going with Didi Hamann this week.
"You don't miss Spain?"
"Sometimes. I miss the food! I miss my family, some friends... But I was a University student living with his parents."
He makes an evocative face that lifts the corners of Stevie's mouth. He imagines the wildest thing Xabi's ever done was to sneak back into the
house, past his parents' bedroom, at midnight on a school night. He's wrong, but he doesn't know it.
"So I don't miss it that much. And Liverpool is... well... is special..."
He watches Stevie take another sip of his pint, eyes bright, and he doesn't need a conclusion to that statement. He realizes about two seconds too late that he's staring at Stevie's mouth and wishes he could dunk his whole face in his own, considerably smaller pint.
December 2017
“You OK?”
Xabi nods weakly, his head tilted against the wall, his breath coming out as barely controlled panting.
“We can… take a break,” Stevie offers, eyes fixed on the drop of sweat rolling down Xabi’s copper-stubbled jaw. His own blood is streaming through his veins in torrents, lungs burning.
Although he winces visibly as he pushes himself back on his feet and away from the transparent wall, Xabi chuckles defiantly and lunges behind Stevie to retrieve the abandoned yellow ball from his service box.
“You’re going down in the second half, Gerrard. Three out of five?”
Xabi’s squash raquet booms above his shoulder and Stevie’s legs catch up of their own accord in one quick burst towards the half court line.
“Where were we?”
“Attacking midfield.”
Xabi’s trainers slide across the floor with strident squeaks.
“Coutinho”
“Overhyped, overpaid as fuck and wouldn’t link up with Morgo at all. What is it with you and Brazilians?”
They make their way through all of Europe’s reasonably priced attack-minded players while battering the wall for another twenty minutes and mentally
raid a fair deal of South American strike options by the time they have to trudge back to the locker rooms.
“Whickam,” Xabi shouts from under the shower. “Home grown, English as the Queen, none of that Brazilian nonsense.”
He gets no reaction, but it doesn’t stop him from rattling off about the latest transfer season insanity that’s landed in his inbox in the last three hours alone. He finds Stevie staring at his half open locker, the lines in his forehead drawn tensely together, reflected in the tiny mirror glued to the back of the door.
The dull orange of the prescription pill bottle glares at him accusingly, the way Stevie’s eyes don’t dare to.
Xabi's boyhood midfield hero really was Mauro Silva. The rest is pretty much crack.
October 2004
"To Xabi Alonso!" Carra's voice thunders over the Match of the Day commentary which has half the team huddled
together in a few booths surrounding the pub's noisiest corner. "The... er... inspiration behind Liverpool's thrilling comeback an'... what was it, Didi?"
"A much more suitable midfield option in this type of tight match than Liverpool's adventurous injured captain," Hamann declares, his Teutonic accented Scouse coming together for a surreally spot on impression of Adrian Chiles.
Stevie's beer is the first to go up in the air.
"Fuck yes, I'll drink to that! Since I'm the only one around here who can have more than one beer... You keep your Champions League football,
thank you very much," he smiles ruefully and then Xabi thinks Carra says something about taking the piss.
He's not yet completely mastered the art of snatching fragments of coherence from Carra's jaws, but Xabi's already intensley fond of the larger than life lad, plus there's always Sami, his brother from a Scandinavian mother, to act as interpreter when needed.
"That was a crackling goal," Stevie says with unaffected admiration. Their wrists are aligned on the oak table, not quite touching. "Wish we could celebrate it properly, get you well and pissed."
"Is better to celebrate after we win with Deportivo, no?"
"You excited to lock horns with Spaniards again?" Stevie asks before he has a chance to consider that maybe Spanish deer don't necessarily pop up in every day conversation.
"We could use you against Mauro Silva," Xabi responds after a brief moment of wrestling with the mental image.
"Sami's mentioned you rate him almost as much as Guardiola."
"He's a rock! His positioning... he is boss of the midfield. Rafa has already showed everyone the... records... er... recordings of when I could barely keep up with him in La Liga two seasons ago."
"Liverpool got you not him though, didn't we?"
Xabi doesn't have time to mull that though because Sami crashes next to them, a heavy arm landing around his shoulder.
"Alonso was a few classes above Silva even back then. Don't give us that blushing virgin act!"
"'cept for the hair," Riise pipes in all the way from the opposite end of the table.
"Yeh. Shocking hair situation on those tapes, mate!"
"Fuck off, Carra! Way to ruin my Captain pep talk here. The lad's self-confidence will never recover now." Stevie can barely contain his mock exasperation.
Xabi's laughter vibrates through the red leather of the booth and Stevie feels strangely accomplished.
"I have Anfield on my back now," Xabi tells him earnestly once Sami is off to call whichever ridiculous bet he's got going with Didi Hamann this week.
"You don't miss Spain?"
"Sometimes. I miss the food! I miss my family, some friends... But I was a University student living with his parents."
He makes an evocative face that lifts the corners of Stevie's mouth. He imagines the wildest thing Xabi's ever done was to sneak back into the
house, past his parents' bedroom, at midnight on a school night. He's wrong, but he doesn't know it.
"So I don't miss it that much. And Liverpool is... well... is special..."
He watches Stevie take another sip of his pint, eyes bright, and he doesn't need a conclusion to that statement. He realizes about two seconds too late that he's staring at Stevie's mouth and wishes he could dunk his whole face in his own, considerably smaller pint.
December 2017
“You OK?”
Xabi nods weakly, his head tilted against the wall, his breath coming out as barely controlled panting.
“We can… take a break,” Stevie offers, eyes fixed on the drop of sweat rolling down Xabi’s copper-stubbled jaw. His own blood is streaming through his veins in torrents, lungs burning.
Although he winces visibly as he pushes himself back on his feet and away from the transparent wall, Xabi chuckles defiantly and lunges behind Stevie to retrieve the abandoned yellow ball from his service box.
“You’re going down in the second half, Gerrard. Three out of five?”
Xabi’s squash raquet booms above his shoulder and Stevie’s legs catch up of their own accord in one quick burst towards the half court line.
“Where were we?”
“Attacking midfield.”
Xabi’s trainers slide across the floor with strident squeaks.
“Coutinho”
“Overhyped, overpaid as fuck and wouldn’t link up with Morgo at all. What is it with you and Brazilians?”
They make their way through all of Europe’s reasonably priced attack-minded players while battering the wall for another twenty minutes and mentally
raid a fair deal of South American strike options by the time they have to trudge back to the locker rooms.
“Whickam,” Xabi shouts from under the shower. “Home grown, English as the Queen, none of that Brazilian nonsense.”
He gets no reaction, but it doesn’t stop him from rattling off about the latest transfer season insanity that’s landed in his inbox in the last three hours alone. He finds Stevie staring at his half open locker, the lines in his forehead drawn tensely together, reflected in the tiny mirror glued to the back of the door.
The dull orange of the prescription pill bottle glares at him accusingly, the way Stevie’s eyes don’t dare to.