Football AU: Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think 6/?
None of this happened or ever will. It's ALL crack. (I have no idea how transfers actually work and just HOW outlandish this is... just roll with it...)
January 2018
"Why is there a drunk Manc on my couch?"
Stevie takes a deep breath because, as it turns out, rehearsing his speech all throughout the otherwise uneventful drive from Manchester had done fuck all to actually prepare him for this moment.
"He's not a Manc anymore," he says hastily, moving to untie the shoes attached to the inert lump he'd deposited on Xabi's couch. "The kid can drink though, I'll give you that..."
"When you say he's not a Manc anymore..."
Stevie drops the lump's shoes by the couch and arranges his own face into what he hopes is not an overtly terrified rictus.
"Mr. Alonso, say hello to Jake Guinto, our brand new striker. Who we're about to sign for free. So before you say anything else, just have a think about it, OK?... We poached a 19 year old kid who could score at Stamford Bridge from his living room while watching the game on TV. Manchester United's been playing hardball with AC Milan and Arsenal for the last three months over him, until it was too late... And Man United get nothing."
Xabi keeps quiet. Stevie would love to know if he's just stunned or stunned and ready to kill him, but his face remains blank. He turns casually towards the kitchen and Stevie hears some clattering resonating around the apartment until Xabi returns holding the biggest salad bowl ever manufactured. He places it carefully on the floor, as near to the sleeping form's head as he can.
"Tell me, Steven, what is my job at Liverpool Football Club?"
Stevie knows the Steven is only broken out in special occasions. Not exactly encouraging. The living room is completely quiet, save for the smooth jazz tones drifting in from Xabi's study and the soft snoring rising from beneath his couch pillows.
"Look, I know..."
"What did I say when I accepted the job?"
Xabi's voice is so unnervingly even, it makes Stevie long for a good old fashioned freakout, some yelling, possibly a dramatic eye-roll, anything really.
"You said we were going to run a tight ship, like the big club we are. No more just 'aving a laugh, no more merry band of whacky misfits, everything under control, no more PR fuckups..."
"Right. No more fuckups. What would you call this... this thing you dropped on my couch then?"
"You also said we'll try to get the best out of the squad by January and then sign someone who can fucking find the net more than twice a season!"
He winces at the sight of Xabi's tight-set jaw twitching, but he's had it with the apologies, goddammit.
"I know this is... sudden. He called me in the middle of the night while you were on a plane and by the time I got to Manchester I found him in this state. Kid's been living there for two years and all that's in his apartment are empty pizza cartons and a mountain of beer cans. He's dead set on leaving the Mancs, they're being cunts and insist on selling him in Italy where he has no intention of going."
"I know."
Stevie can sense Xabi's rancour flaring up from deep beneath his endless supply of composure for the first time. Of course he'd know, the transfer season's biggest drama was rather hard to avoid for someone doing his job the way Xabi does.
"He called me babbling about how much he'd love to play for Liverpool and how nobody else in the whole world can know this, sounded paranoid as hell, but it's Manchester, y'know..."
"What does his agent have to say about this?"
"He fired his agent over the whole mess with the Mancs, doesn't trust him... I know he seems like a bloody handfull, but he's not a bad lad at all."
Stevie's voice softens and Xabi is not quite sure if he has the self-control to not smile. He plays it safe and stares at his shoes, shoving his hands deep in his jeans pockets.
"You want to negotiate and sign a contract with a 19 year old who has no agent and is drunk dialling you to date the bad boy his strict father disapproves of? In 48 hours? Is that what you're saying?"
Stevie ploughs ahead regardless because this is the one hole in his well-rehearsed closing statement he felt quite confident he had managed to plug on his way home. Telling Carra that first team spots for his Academy alumni were about to get even more limited was the one he still considered a work in progress.
"We'll get him a bloody agent, I'll call Struan, he'll know what to do. We need someone we can trust, he could use it too by the looks of it. His Mum remarried and moved back to Oklahoma or some shit place a year after he moved from America, his Dad's apparently a prick he hasn't seen in years and he's 19 and getting fucked over by Manchester United. Just seems like he has nobody in the world right now and well..."
"He's a diva, but can score from his living room, I know. The problem is he's in my living room at the moment. Why isn't he in yours?"
Stevie can see the wheels turning behind Xabi's tired, half-lided eyes, can smell an extra time victory a mile away. Time to be clinical, Gerrard.
"I'm not bringing a 19 year old tattooed Yank kid to room with my teenaged daughter! Not one that looks like he belongs in one of those bands that sing about drugs and offing yourself, the ones you and Lilly Ella are mad about."
A strangled guffaw emerges from under the pillow.
"Chill, Gerrarhd, you're way more my type than your daughter."
There's coughing and sputtering and Stevie uses his foot to nudge the salad bowl closer to the couch, just in case.
"Gotta sssay tho'... you got that sweeeet-faced school boy thin' going on, but Alonssso... tha's more my type of cougar. No offense."
TBC...
I'm super apprehensive about this because... (I can't believe I'm about to make the comparison given how much I despise that show and its writing)... I feel I've just Nikki and Paulo-ed my story and there is just now way an "original character" would work well in this... But whatever, I'm going on hiatus for a while anyway and I'll see how I feel about it when I'm back and/or I find enough wi-fi to re-read it...
January 2018
"Why is there a drunk Manc on my couch?"
Stevie takes a deep breath because, as it turns out, rehearsing his speech all throughout the otherwise uneventful drive from Manchester had done fuck all to actually prepare him for this moment.
"He's not a Manc anymore," he says hastily, moving to untie the shoes attached to the inert lump he'd deposited on Xabi's couch. "The kid can drink though, I'll give you that..."
"When you say he's not a Manc anymore..."
Stevie drops the lump's shoes by the couch and arranges his own face into what he hopes is not an overtly terrified rictus.
"Mr. Alonso, say hello to Jake Guinto, our brand new striker. Who we're about to sign for free. So before you say anything else, just have a think about it, OK?... We poached a 19 year old kid who could score at Stamford Bridge from his living room while watching the game on TV. Manchester United's been playing hardball with AC Milan and Arsenal for the last three months over him, until it was too late... And Man United get nothing."
Xabi keeps quiet. Stevie would love to know if he's just stunned or stunned and ready to kill him, but his face remains blank. He turns casually towards the kitchen and Stevie hears some clattering resonating around the apartment until Xabi returns holding the biggest salad bowl ever manufactured. He places it carefully on the floor, as near to the sleeping form's head as he can.
"Tell me, Steven, what is my job at Liverpool Football Club?"
Stevie knows the Steven is only broken out in special occasions. Not exactly encouraging. The living room is completely quiet, save for the smooth jazz tones drifting in from Xabi's study and the soft snoring rising from beneath his couch pillows.
"Look, I know..."
"What did I say when I accepted the job?"
Xabi's voice is so unnervingly even, it makes Stevie long for a good old fashioned freakout, some yelling, possibly a dramatic eye-roll, anything really.
"You said we were going to run a tight ship, like the big club we are. No more just 'aving a laugh, no more merry band of whacky misfits, everything under control, no more PR fuckups..."
"Right. No more fuckups. What would you call this... this thing you dropped on my couch then?"
"You also said we'll try to get the best out of the squad by January and then sign someone who can fucking find the net more than twice a season!"
He winces at the sight of Xabi's tight-set jaw twitching, but he's had it with the apologies, goddammit.
"I know this is... sudden. He called me in the middle of the night while you were on a plane and by the time I got to Manchester I found him in this state. Kid's been living there for two years and all that's in his apartment are empty pizza cartons and a mountain of beer cans. He's dead set on leaving the Mancs, they're being cunts and insist on selling him in Italy where he has no intention of going."
"I know."
Stevie can sense Xabi's rancour flaring up from deep beneath his endless supply of composure for the first time. Of course he'd know, the transfer season's biggest drama was rather hard to avoid for someone doing his job the way Xabi does.
"He called me babbling about how much he'd love to play for Liverpool and how nobody else in the whole world can know this, sounded paranoid as hell, but it's Manchester, y'know..."
"What does his agent have to say about this?"
"He fired his agent over the whole mess with the Mancs, doesn't trust him... I know he seems like a bloody handfull, but he's not a bad lad at all."
Stevie's voice softens and Xabi is not quite sure if he has the self-control to not smile. He plays it safe and stares at his shoes, shoving his hands deep in his jeans pockets.
"You want to negotiate and sign a contract with a 19 year old who has no agent and is drunk dialling you to date the bad boy his strict father disapproves of? In 48 hours? Is that what you're saying?"
Stevie ploughs ahead regardless because this is the one hole in his well-rehearsed closing statement he felt quite confident he had managed to plug on his way home. Telling Carra that first team spots for his Academy alumni were about to get even more limited was the one he still considered a work in progress.
"We'll get him a bloody agent, I'll call Struan, he'll know what to do. We need someone we can trust, he could use it too by the looks of it. His Mum remarried and moved back to Oklahoma or some shit place a year after he moved from America, his Dad's apparently a prick he hasn't seen in years and he's 19 and getting fucked over by Manchester United. Just seems like he has nobody in the world right now and well..."
"He's a diva, but can score from his living room, I know. The problem is he's in my living room at the moment. Why isn't he in yours?"
Stevie can see the wheels turning behind Xabi's tired, half-lided eyes, can smell an extra time victory a mile away. Time to be clinical, Gerrard.
"I'm not bringing a 19 year old tattooed Yank kid to room with my teenaged daughter! Not one that looks like he belongs in one of those bands that sing about drugs and offing yourself, the ones you and Lilly Ella are mad about."
A strangled guffaw emerges from under the pillow.
"Chill, Gerrarhd, you're way more my type than your daughter."
There's coughing and sputtering and Stevie uses his foot to nudge the salad bowl closer to the couch, just in case.
"Gotta sssay tho'... you got that sweeeet-faced school boy thin' going on, but Alonssso... tha's more my type of cougar. No offense."
TBC...
I'm super apprehensive about this because... (I can't believe I'm about to make the comparison given how much I despise that show and its writing)... I feel I've just Nikki and Paulo-ed my story and there is just now way an "original character" would work well in this... But whatever, I'm going on hiatus for a while anyway and I'll see how I feel about it when I'm back and/or I find enough wi-fi to re-read it...