Please Say No
Character: Fernando Torres (second person perspective)
Disclaimer: This is not real life, but I hope I'm close to it. I'm trying to understand him, so this fic is how I cope. YNWA Nando, whatever happens.
You’ll get through this, you tell yourself. You’ll live, you’ll move on - but it’ll hurt. Ollala told you as much this morning before you left for training, and for a moment there you believed her. But you looked out the window and saw that the sky was dull and gray, and you think of how much better it would be to crawl into bed and possibly never come out. You wish it was that easy, and you realize you’re being childish, so you shake your head to yourself a little too harshly and decide to get a cold shower.
You’ll get through this, you tell yourself. You’ve just stopped at an intersection and looked over to the car next to yours. A boy - no more than 10 years old, you think - is seating in the back and appears to recognize you. He gives you the finger. For a moment you are stunned, the smile you were about to give dies. Then you remember. So you do nothing but look away and pray for the traffic light to turn green.
You’ll get through this, you tell yourself. You’ve reached Melwood and you’re waiting for the parking lot guard to let you through. You know he’s a friendly bloke; he always greets you with a smile and a tip of his hat. But today he’s not smiling nor looking at you, and he barely mumbles a greeting. Then you remember. So you do nothing but mumble back and grip the steering wheel as you head for your parking spot.
Everyone’s gone home. You had arrived late from Spain, so everyone else had already finished training and now it’s just you and the trainer. Thankfully, he seems friendly enough to you, even today. He smiles at you and asks about the family, but he doesn’t ask about you. You don’t know whether to be grateful or hurt.
He leaves after you’ve finished the laps and done the drills. You decide to stay a little bit longer. You’re alone now on the pitch, and you look down at the ball at your feet but you can’t bring yourself to kick. So you just nudge it, and you follow its movement then you nudge it again. You know you are being pathetic, but you think perhaps it’s only fair. Years of hero worship, and now you’re public enemy number one. You know you deserve this; you know what you’ve done and what it means and what it brings. You’ve made a decision, but you also wish things have turned out differently. No, not after Friday, but before Friday. Before -
- when you’ve just arrived here full of hope and excitement despite just leaving behind your home, your friends, your club since childhood. You were sad too, of course, and it had been a very difficult decision. You were going to have to move to a different country, speak a different language, drive on the wrong side of the road, play a different kind of football. You were sad and nervous, yes. But you were excited more than anything, and you were eagerly awaiting the day you can finally play in front of the Kop. Hear You’ll Never Walk Alone ringing from hundreds… no, thousands of voices. Win with them. Prove you’re worthy of the shirt. And then months later you hear them not just chanting your name but singing a song they made for you, bouncing in the stands. And you could feel the bounce from the ground on the pitch, and you feel that they love you. And you’re happy, because you realize you love them too.
But now you think, couldn’t they have loved somebody else? Couldn’t you have just been a football player who just plays and scores goals like you’re supposed to and not care about watching the tapes or reading on the club’s history or seeking out the songs during matches or even learning the local language or buying a permanent home? It would've made things easier.
So really, it shouldn’t be that much different now. You loved Atletico, you left Atletico. But it doesn’t mean you don’t love Atletico anymore. Then this morning you heard from the radio that people like to point out that you said you love Liverpool, that you said so in your bloody book, that you said so just a few weeks back, yet now you’re betraying the club and the fans, therefore you don’t give a fuck about the club, and you can fuck off to Chelsea.
But you have loved this club, and you still do. Love doesn’t just stop and go away. But you know you’ve hurt them, and knowing it hurts you. But you’ve made a decision, and you know it’s shitty timing - but you had to make that decision now…now…now… or else the opportunity would pass, and you thought of all the opportunities you let pass, and you realized that the feeling* had been there for months - the same feeling you had those last few months with Atletico - this feeling just brewing under the surface. So you made a decision.
You should be feeling excited too, right? Eagerly awaiting Monday?
You stop nudging the ball around, and you look up to the empty pitch, at the surrounding houses whose residents you’ve seen watching open practice sessions, at the building behind you, where you know that later you’d have to face people who - like the guard outside - wouldn’t look at you and only mumble greetings to you. And you realize you’d probably get the same treatment (and possibly a cuss word or two, or a punch to the face) from the grocer, the tailor, the plumber, Nora and Leo’s nanny, the neighbors, the old fisherman at the docks who always calls out ‘Ev’rything alright, Nando lad?’ when he sees you then insists you take home the biggest fish in his bucket for free. And you think of your teammates, your friends. You didn’t catch them at training today. Could’ve today been the last time they speak to you (and maybe even not)? But you need to talk to them. To tell them something. To understand you.
So you realize: no, you’re not excited, not one bit. No, you’re not eagerly awaiting Monday and - shite… Monday is tomorrow! And you try to think if Abramovich would really offer 40 mil and Anelka, as the papers are speculating. And you try to think if it’s really possible that the club made known your transfer request to subtly encourage Abramovich to improve his offer, as some are speculating as well. And you think, will Kenny and Stevie not bother anymore with what was said when you talked things over yesterday?
And you realize you’re hoping. Not for any of those thoughts above to be true, no. You’re hoping that the club will realize that Monday is tomorrow and there’s no time, there’s no one, to replace you; that you are just being daft and you have to wait longer if you still want to leave; that Suarez was signed to partner with you; that Abramovich is scum and should be ignored… You’re hoping they would realize what you haven’t-
No, wait.
You remember holding the transfer request letter in your hands, seeing the neatly typed words, your signature at the bottom. You did realize then that you were being daft. That there’d be no time to replace you. That the club pursued Suarez to partner with you. That what you’re about to do will affect the team greatly and hurt everyone who care about the club and put their trust in you. That Abramovich’s team is Chelsea, and what were you thinking wanting to sign with Chelsea?!
But you were holding the letter, you’ve signed it, you’ve discussed it with Ollala, with your agent, you’ve already told Stevie, you haven’t had enough sleep and you haven’t eaten much just thinking about it. And you remember the knots at the pit of your stomach, the tightness in your chest, the slight shaking of your hand holding the letter. You remembered the feeling you’ve had for months, just brewing under the surface; it’s the same feeling that led you to leave Atletico, so perhaps that means it’s time to leave Liverpool now, right?
So you took the letter in your hand and faxed it out, already readying yourself for everything that you know will happen, the consequences that will follow. You’ll get through this, you told yourself.
But now, standing at the empty pitch, alone training in this soddy weather, hearing the thick Scouse accent of the groundskeeper as he says something to you, you remember thinking as you watched the blinking of the fax machine:
Please say no.
__________________________________
*To get an idea of what I'm trying to say ("the feeling"), please see the previous entry.
Image is from Twitter via the liverpoolreds lj community.
Disclaimer: This is not real life, but I hope I'm close to it. I'm trying to understand him, so this fic is how I cope. YNWA Nando, whatever happens.
You’ll get through this, you tell yourself. You’ll live, you’ll move on - but it’ll hurt. Ollala told you as much this morning before you left for training, and for a moment there you believed her. But you looked out the window and saw that the sky was dull and gray, and you think of how much better it would be to crawl into bed and possibly never come out. You wish it was that easy, and you realize you’re being childish, so you shake your head to yourself a little too harshly and decide to get a cold shower.
You’ll get through this, you tell yourself. You’ve just stopped at an intersection and looked over to the car next to yours. A boy - no more than 10 years old, you think - is seating in the back and appears to recognize you. He gives you the finger. For a moment you are stunned, the smile you were about to give dies. Then you remember. So you do nothing but look away and pray for the traffic light to turn green.
You’ll get through this, you tell yourself. You’ve reached Melwood and you’re waiting for the parking lot guard to let you through. You know he’s a friendly bloke; he always greets you with a smile and a tip of his hat. But today he’s not smiling nor looking at you, and he barely mumbles a greeting. Then you remember. So you do nothing but mumble back and grip the steering wheel as you head for your parking spot.
Everyone’s gone home. You had arrived late from Spain, so everyone else had already finished training and now it’s just you and the trainer. Thankfully, he seems friendly enough to you, even today. He smiles at you and asks about the family, but he doesn’t ask about you. You don’t know whether to be grateful or hurt.
He leaves after you’ve finished the laps and done the drills. You decide to stay a little bit longer. You’re alone now on the pitch, and you look down at the ball at your feet but you can’t bring yourself to kick. So you just nudge it, and you follow its movement then you nudge it again. You know you are being pathetic, but you think perhaps it’s only fair. Years of hero worship, and now you’re public enemy number one. You know you deserve this; you know what you’ve done and what it means and what it brings. You’ve made a decision, but you also wish things have turned out differently. No, not after Friday, but before Friday. Before -
- when you’ve just arrived here full of hope and excitement despite just leaving behind your home, your friends, your club since childhood. You were sad too, of course, and it had been a very difficult decision. You were going to have to move to a different country, speak a different language, drive on the wrong side of the road, play a different kind of football. You were sad and nervous, yes. But you were excited more than anything, and you were eagerly awaiting the day you can finally play in front of the Kop. Hear You’ll Never Walk Alone ringing from hundreds… no, thousands of voices. Win with them. Prove you’re worthy of the shirt. And then months later you hear them not just chanting your name but singing a song they made for you, bouncing in the stands. And you could feel the bounce from the ground on the pitch, and you feel that they love you. And you’re happy, because you realize you love them too.
But now you think, couldn’t they have loved somebody else? Couldn’t you have just been a football player who just plays and scores goals like you’re supposed to and not care about watching the tapes or reading on the club’s history or seeking out the songs during matches or even learning the local language or buying a permanent home? It would've made things easier.
So really, it shouldn’t be that much different now. You loved Atletico, you left Atletico. But it doesn’t mean you don’t love Atletico anymore. Then this morning you heard from the radio that people like to point out that you said you love Liverpool, that you said so in your bloody book, that you said so just a few weeks back, yet now you’re betraying the club and the fans, therefore you don’t give a fuck about the club, and you can fuck off to Chelsea.
But you have loved this club, and you still do. Love doesn’t just stop and go away. But you know you’ve hurt them, and knowing it hurts you. But you’ve made a decision, and you know it’s shitty timing - but you had to make that decision now…now…now… or else the opportunity would pass, and you thought of all the opportunities you let pass, and you realized that the feeling* had been there for months - the same feeling you had those last few months with Atletico - this feeling just brewing under the surface. So you made a decision.
You should be feeling excited too, right? Eagerly awaiting Monday?
You stop nudging the ball around, and you look up to the empty pitch, at the surrounding houses whose residents you’ve seen watching open practice sessions, at the building behind you, where you know that later you’d have to face people who - like the guard outside - wouldn’t look at you and only mumble greetings to you. And you realize you’d probably get the same treatment (and possibly a cuss word or two, or a punch to the face) from the grocer, the tailor, the plumber, Nora and Leo’s nanny, the neighbors, the old fisherman at the docks who always calls out ‘Ev’rything alright, Nando lad?’ when he sees you then insists you take home the biggest fish in his bucket for free. And you think of your teammates, your friends. You didn’t catch them at training today. Could’ve today been the last time they speak to you (and maybe even not)? But you need to talk to them. To tell them something. To understand you.
So you realize: no, you’re not excited, not one bit. No, you’re not eagerly awaiting Monday and - shite… Monday is tomorrow! And you try to think if Abramovich would really offer 40 mil and Anelka, as the papers are speculating. And you try to think if it’s really possible that the club made known your transfer request to subtly encourage Abramovich to improve his offer, as some are speculating as well. And you think, will Kenny and Stevie not bother anymore with what was said when you talked things over yesterday?
And you realize you’re hoping. Not for any of those thoughts above to be true, no. You’re hoping that the club will realize that Monday is tomorrow and there’s no time, there’s no one, to replace you; that you are just being daft and you have to wait longer if you still want to leave; that Suarez was signed to partner with you; that Abramovich is scum and should be ignored… You’re hoping they would realize what you haven’t-
No, wait.
You remember holding the transfer request letter in your hands, seeing the neatly typed words, your signature at the bottom. You did realize then that you were being daft. That there’d be no time to replace you. That the club pursued Suarez to partner with you. That what you’re about to do will affect the team greatly and hurt everyone who care about the club and put their trust in you. That Abramovich’s team is Chelsea, and what were you thinking wanting to sign with Chelsea?!
But you were holding the letter, you’ve signed it, you’ve discussed it with Ollala, with your agent, you’ve already told Stevie, you haven’t had enough sleep and you haven’t eaten much just thinking about it. And you remember the knots at the pit of your stomach, the tightness in your chest, the slight shaking of your hand holding the letter. You remembered the feeling you’ve had for months, just brewing under the surface; it’s the same feeling that led you to leave Atletico, so perhaps that means it’s time to leave Liverpool now, right?
So you took the letter in your hand and faxed it out, already readying yourself for everything that you know will happen, the consequences that will follow. You’ll get through this, you told yourself.
But now, standing at the empty pitch, alone training in this soddy weather, hearing the thick Scouse accent of the groundskeeper as he says something to you, you remember thinking as you watched the blinking of the fax machine:
Please say no.
__________________________________
*To get an idea of what I'm trying to say ("the feeling"), please see the previous entry.
Image is from Twitter via the liverpoolreds lj community.