help_japan fic #1: minus the shooting 1/? (trek rps, football rps[? ????])
title: Minus the Shooting (1/?)
author: Rave (dorkorific)
rating: PG
characters: Chris Pine, Xabi Alonso, Zachary Quinto, Steven Gerrard, etc.
disclaimer: Absolutely 100% untrue
words: ~3200.
summary: fragment of a larger AU. Chris Pine, the highest-paid American player in the EPL, makes an ill-thought-out transfer; Xabi Alonso, PR guru, has to handle the fallout. (Googledocs name: CFineIsFernandoTorresKindOf.)
notes: HAHAHAH WELL.
When I am old, and my grandchildren ask me what I have accomplished in my life, I will wheeze out, "One time...I wrote an internet fan fiction...where the guy from Star Trek...played professional soccer in England....and I took it....very seriously." And they will exchange nervous looks, but my face will be wreathed in a last contented smile.
Written for anna_unfolding's incredibly generous help_japan donation and hilarious/wonderful prompt. (srsly I kind of wish I could just post the email, it's goddamned amazing.) gurl. you are a great boss. thx for letting me do this in bits and i seriously hope you like it as that is my sole purpose rn.
Nearly all the sports practised nowadays are competitive. You play to win, and the game has little meaning unless you do your utmost to win. On the village green, where you pick up sides and no feeling of local patriotism is involved. it is possible to play simply for the fun and exercise: but as soon as the question of prestige arises, as soon as you feel that you and some larger unit will be disgraced if you lose, the most savage combative instincts are aroused. Anyone who has played even in a school football match knows this. At the international level sport is frankly mimic warfare. But the significant thing is not the behaviour of the players but the attitude of the spectators.
--George Orwell, "The Sporting Spirit."
*
There's no furniture in the Liverpool apartment. It's him and an air mattress and the laptop. Why bother? He's pretty sure there's no way he's going to last here. Like, at this point he'd do better to just fucking give up and go home. It couldn't be that bad. He could play in the MLS again. Possibly work part-time at Foot Locker for the extra cash and the employee discount. At least then nobody would be keying WANKER!!! on his car; at least they'd key normal American insults. God, what he'd give just to be called an "asshole" with no 'r' in it.
Except, no. They wouldn't call him an asshole. They wouldn't call him anything, because nobody in America would give a shit, because it's soccer. In America he could just play the fucking sport he's good at, Jesus Christ, and be left alone.
Zach keeps sending him blase emails that don't totally hide how worried he is. haven't seen you out in one of your signature Vuitton-bomb ensembles lately. Everything okay, or is HELLO! just bored with you? Chris ignores them for a while, until he gets the one that just says ummmm don't be a dick. talk to me.
i don't think this is fun anymore, Chris writes back. Then he turns off his phone and goes back to sleep, which is pretty much all he's been doing since he handed in the transfer request.
*
They drag him out of the apartment just once, so he can wear a suit and sign the contract and smile for the roomful of photogs until his face hurts. At one point, the Liverpool press guy -- he's Spanish and Chris is still a little doubtful on his name because everybody pronounces it differently -- leans in and murmurs, "This face you are making. Make an effort please not to look like we are pulling your face with hooks."
"What's your name again?" Chris mutters back. "Shabby?"
The guy only gives him a patient little smile that makes Chris feel petty and mean. "Spanish, it's a subtle language," he says. "Shabby is okay."
Chris speaks perfectly good Spanish. He looks away from the guy and shows his teeth to the flashbulbs.
*
It's impossible to avoid that interview. He'll just be flipping channels, drinking whiskey and eating the same delivery he gets every night and trying to find something that's not goddamned Doctor Who, and there will be his own giant stupid face on Sky Sports looking all puffy and gross from sleeplessness and jetlag. Every time, he has to watch it. It's like some weird penance thing.
Of course I'm really excited to make that jump to a new club, um, with new possibilities. And I've always been a big admirer of Liverpool. I mean -- like, it'll be really cool to have that, kind of, dedicated fanbase. And then they freeze on his face with one eye slightly more closed than the other. Perfect.
"I was so tired, man," Chris complains to the TV. "Obviously I didn't mean it like that."
The guys in the studio are chuckling now. 'A dedicated fanbase,' one of them says. Not appreciated, needless to say, by fans of Manchester United, where the once-beloved 'Yank Manc' has in recent days--
Well, and not much appreciated by fans of his new club, Liverpool, I expect, points out another. Can't be particularly happy to see stalwart front-line touchstone Dirk Kuyt sold for a player this pricey--
Who can blame them? Pine hasn't been in form since -- interjects a third guy. Chris's picture pops back up in the corner, back when he had flashy studs in his ears and oh, Jesus, that stringy blond fauxhawk. BOTTOM-LINE PINE, says the caption. The guy's still talking: ...Would maybe rather crash cars and womanize than --
"Fuck ooooooooff," Chris yells at the television, over the rest of whatever that sentence is going to be.
--have to wait and see whether his historic price tag, more than twice the previous record for any American player in the EPL, will be--
"Bro," Chris tells him, weary now. "Tone down the accent. You sound like Gwyneth Paltrow." He gropes around for his whiskey glass and can't find it so he just goes for the bottle right off the nightstand.
They're scrolling viewer opinions at the bottom of the screen now, fantastic, off twitter or whatever internet shithole these people crawl out of. 'yank manc' ha what a joke more like 'scouse louse', says "Rob0594," who has obviously just hit some kind of creative peak.
"All downhill from here, kiddo," Chris says, and lifts the bottle to the television in ironic salute.
*
Around 4 a.m. he sends Zach a text: i'm the fuckin flagellant monk of futball.
Zach, predictably, just writes back That's hot. Ps -- you mean "futbol."
*
His first practice with the team is at nine, but he wakes up at six-thirty too wired to sleep and decides it's not really worth it to keep trying. He's at Melwood by seven-fifteen. The place is empty and unfamiliar and he's a little hungover, but the air -- surprisingly bearable for January in the north of England -- is helping him sharpen up, and he feels okay. Actually, he feels weirdly satisfied with himself. Nobody's going to be able to say he's not trying, goddammit.
There's someone else in the lot after all, he realizes. Some yards away somebody's climbing out of a sleek, practical little car, a Renault or something. Not a footballer's ride. Chris slings his gym bag over his shoulder, squinting into the early sun. The figure gives him a wave.
Who the hell is it? Nobody here knows him. Chris waves back, a little hesitantly. Then he turns away and jogs down the tunnel.
The smell of sweat and damp and stale Febreze is identical to Trafford, identical to Chris's high school locker room and the Depot Center complex and every other gym in the history of time, and comforting in its familiar grossness. They gave him the tour earlier, for the photographs and everything; he knows where his locker is. The metal clunk of the door is too loud in the emptiness.
It's kind of sweet how they've fixed up the locker, like the cubbies that kids get on their first day of school. His clothes folded neatly inside, the extra boots and shinguards, gloves, warmup jacket, a couple bottles of Lucozade and some gels. The only thing missing is his name in cute little bubble letters. There's a pre-printed card resting on top of the pile, welcoming him, with a quick note from John Henry scribbled on it. Chris--look fwd to working with you -- J.Henry. They gave him an information packet earlier, too, with the typical blowhard Wear The Liverbird With Pride And Dignity bullshit, but also restaurants in the area and cleaning services and stuff like that. It was thoughtful.
He pushes the card aside and tugs his new training kit out of the locker.It's silky and clean, the Adidas tags still attached, the familiar 11 stitched small over the chest.
Chris isn't superstitious. He knows guys who have to tie their shoes a special way, sleep in their jersey, do a little dance, all that shit, that's not him. But he touches the raised crest on the shorts anyway, traces the embroidered bird with two fingers.
*
He can't get any alone time on the field, either. When he comes up the stairs into the chilly sunshine, the press guy -- whose name, Chris might as well admit that he knows, is Xabi Alonso -- is sitting in the stands. He's looking fashionably understated in a dark sweater and fitted jeans, scanning a newspaper, and when he sees Chris he raises his sunglasses and smiles. "You know you are a couple of hours early?"
Chris dumps his stuff by the touchline and wanders warily over, ball tucked under his arm. "So are you." Must've been this guy's car, up at the lot.
"A lucky coincidence. I like to be here, in the mornings," Alonso says, folding his newspaper. His eyes are sharp. "So, the rumor says you will be a challenge for me. I have been warned you have a tendency for -- antics." There are almost audible air-quotes around the last word.
"So you wanted a preview?" Chris says. He dribbles the ball a couple of times like an NBA player, then catches it balanced on the bridge of his foot. "Wanna see the prima donna in action? Sorry, man. You're gonna have to get me access to a convertible and a couple of pricey blondes. My antics require props." He juggles the ball from knee to knee, testing the unused stiffness of his muscles. He's been running the treadmill and lifting, but that's about it. Other than that, most of his exercise consists of walking from the mattress to the liquor cabinet.
"I did want to see what I'm working with," Alonso says. "Before the media gets here."
"So far, so hostile and uncooperative," Chris says. He balances the ball on his forehead. "Am I right?"
"So far," Alonso agrees, lowering his shades again. "Don't let me distract you."
"I won't," Chris says. Even to his own ears he sounds snotty and petulant. He nods the ball down from his head and swings a goalward kick at it, more for effect than with any forethought. It glances awkwardly off his laces and goes exasperatingly wide of the far post.
"Noted," Alonso says, and goes back to his paper.
*
The players start to trickle in around eight forty-five; they glance at him, a couple of people nod a grudging hello, but it's clear they're pissed about Kuyt. Chris, frankly, can't blame them.
Gerrard's the first one to come over and talk to him. They've met a couple of times before, shaken hands after games. Once, after the Confederations Cup loss, he'd made a beeline for that #4 England jersey but Deuce beat him to it and Chris had had to pretend he'd been walking toward Michael Carrick instead.
"Good to see you," Gerrard says. "Welcome." He glances skyward, a little awkwardly. "Left you a message on your phone and that, thought you might like to get a pint before the first practice?" That mumbling, diffident accent, on a big good-looking guy like Steven Gerrard: it's fucking ridiculous.
"Oh," Chris says. "Sorry, man, I've been so busy with everything. I'm way behind on messages. Excited to get started though," and he gives his new captain his most megawatt smile. Zach used to call it the Hollywood Fangs.
"Right," Gerrard says. He scratches at his hairline, wrinkling his forehead.
"We'll talk though," Chris says, and returns his attention to scrubbing off his boots until he's sure Gerrard is gone.
*
They circle up and get a quick pep talk -- the manager is nice, and Chris gets the scattered, obligatory applause -- but Dalglish hasn't made a secret of the fact that he wanted Kuyt to stay, that Chris is an unwanted gift courtesy of the owners, and it's awkward. Chris is alone for the warm-up jog, surrounded by the team in pairs. Everyone's catching up about the summer; it's like seventh grade.
He thinks maybe no one will notice if he just stretches by the side, alone. But no, there's the rattle of cameras. Oh, good, this'll make a nice little box item for the Mirror. EVERYBODY HATES CHRIS.
Only then Pepe Reina's jogging up to him. Jesus Christ, he's even bigger up close. Chris has only scored on him twice and he's pretty sure both times Reina was playing against the sun, rather than him.
"Pine," he says, without preamble. "You are need a partner? This is sad, your little loneliness corner here."
"Oh," Chris says. "Uh. Thanks. Sure." He glances back in the direction Pepe came, moved by an instinct he can't quite identify. Sure enough, Xabi Alonso is standing behind the touchline like the Secret Service, sunglasses on, arms folded.
"Ah," Pepe says, following his gaze. "Yes. Xabi sends me over."
"So it's not because you're a nice guy, then," Chris says, trying to sound like he's joking. He steadies himself against Pepe's shoulder and draws up his knee, gripping the top of his foot. "It's just that the Press Führer says you have to play with the new kid until the cameras are gone."
"This is a nice thing I'm doing?" Pepe says, in mock horror. "God, my reputation, she's finished."
The guy reminds him of his friends back home. There's something about him that's easy and appealing: a sharp, leisurely American tempo.
"You know, I habla pretty decent Español," Chris says, kind of at random.
Pepe makes a face. "American Spanish," he says, dripping disdain.
"Oh right, I'm sorry,'" Chris says. "I meant 'decent Ethpañol.'"
Pepe grins at him. "You have a need for some practice," he says. They don't talk for the rest of the warm-up, but still, Chris feels a little less heavy.
*
As he's pulling out of Melwood through the gauntlet of fans, some teenage kid shoulders his way through the crowd. He's clutching something -- the red AON jersey with Chris's 11 on it -- and before Chris can hit the brakes he throws the jersey under the wheels of his car. Chris stares at him. He's short and kind of sweet-faced, but he's so angry you wouldn't know it. It looks like he's maybe been crying.
"You guys are fucking insane," Chris says to the closed window. He gives the kid two thumbs up and drives on.
*
One fun game is sending his favorite internet comments to Zach.
From: cpine@liverpoolfc.tv
To: laqueento@gmail.com
Subject: names for our punk fusion band
--OVERRATED
--cris pine is a g@y
--Stop Talking Dribble
--Scouse trater!!!!
--Manc wanker!!!!
--ungrateful fag
--FAG FAGGOT FAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
--he got fat...
--Yank Judas TWAT
From: laqueento@gmail.com
To: cpine@liverpoolfc.tv
Subject: I'm naming my firstborn "Yank Judas Twat"
ohmygod a ma zing
Yank Judas Twat. Yank Judas TWAT. YANK!! JUDAS!!! TWAT!!!!!!!!
From: laqueento@gmail.com
To: cpine@liverpoolfc.tv
Subject: did you really get fat because i can imagine that'd be sort of sexy on you
fuck the limey haters okay, you're my fave yank judas TWAT, oh god i can't stop laughing
It's weird, their whole non-relationship thing, admittedly fucking weird. Chris left California two and a half years ago and they've seen each other maybe five or six times since, and it wasn't like they were super-close before. They met when Paramount and Chivas were doing some kind of cross-promotion: clearly not very successful, as it had never happened again, but the single chance Chris had had in the States to experience pro-athlete perks. He'd gone to a real life movie premiere, shared a conversation and a drink with the skinny, sardonic hipster on the fire escape who later turned out to be the second lead, and then they'd slept together a couple of times.
Then he'd gotten the call from Manchester, and now they're pen pals or whatever.
Sometimes he thinks he might like Zach more than he likes anybody else he knows who isn't in his family. On the other hand, it's easy to like someone you never actually have to interact with.
From: cpine@liverpoolfc.tv
To: laqueento@gmail.com
Subject: guess what
ur a g@y.
*
Xabi Alonso is at practice again the next day, and the rest of the week, too, even though practice Thursday and Friday are closed to the press. Always in those Ray-Bans, always impeccably dressed, always scribbling notes.
"What is he, like, a spy or something?" Chris asks Pepe in an undertone. They speak in Spanish mostly, so Chris can practice, just in case he decides to take off for Spain in August. Apparently Villareal will be looking for a striker.
"Controlar el monstruo, is all," Pepe says, rolling his eyes expressively, and at Chris's blank look says, "A, uh, control freak. And you make him nervous, because -- to be honest -- everything you say since you transfer, it's stupid."
"Hey," Chris protests, but it's true. Alonso actually accosted him after practice once, fell effortlessly into step next to him and said, "You will not to talk to the press anymore, okay."
"My PR guy says we can repair --" Chris had started, rebellious, but Alonso cut him off with a small rather dangerous smile.
"Effectively I am now your, ah, PR guy," he said. "And I said, you don't talk to the press. Preferably you do not talk to anyone."
"That part's easy, anyway," Chris had said, bitterly, and fucked off.
Now Pepe says, "He used to play here actually, did you know? Maybe five, six years ago. It's when we get to know each other."
Chris glances back. Now that he knows, it makes sense. He's noticed the way Alonso watches the flow of play rather than the individual players, the way he grins a little when a play comes together, as if it's personally satisfying. It's not the stuff your press guy generally focuses on. "What happened?"
Pepe shrugs. "A bad tackle," he says.
Chris had his knee stomped once. He was out for three weeks, which sucked, but the worst part was right after it happened. Those terrifying interminable minutes on the pitch when he was curled on the grass, running through every possible resource he had, trying to calm down long enough to figure out how he was going to make an entirely new life.
"That sucks," Chris says. On the touchline, Alonso checks his phone and slides it back into his pocket.
"It happens," Pepe says.
*
Natasha calls him with what she thinks is good news about the jersey sales: apparently he's gone to number one with a bullet over the last week. Not just in Liverpool, but everywhere.
"That's not because people like me," Chris objects. "It's because they hate Manchester."
"Lucky for you there's no 'motivation for sale' column in the account books, dumbass, what's your problem?" Natasha says. She's a great agent, but she's not exactly Miss Sympathy.
*
He knew the January transfer window would be a bitch, but it doesn't hit him just how much of a bitch it'll be the first game rolls up. He gets less than two weeks, barely any time to link up with his new squad -- barely enough time to even hold a conversation with anyone who isn't Alonso or Pepe -- and then they're playing Birmingham City at St. Andrew's. Chris is on the bench.
"I don't even know if I'll recognize you guys in the away kits," he murmurs to Suarez in the tunnel, and adds too jovially, "I hope I remember who to pass to," but either his Spanish is rustier than he thought or the joke is a little too soon, because Suarez just gives him a small, polite smile.
Outside, Chris sits two seats from everyone else, putting a row of empty space between himself and conversation.
*
They sub him in at the half, a comfortable two goals up, and Chris steels himself against the noise, the indistinguishable booing and roaring. It's just another field, he tells himself, but the normal rituals don't take effect. He can't hypnotize himself the way he needs to. He's slow and jittery and stupid all half, makes a couple of dumbass tackles that only by God's mercy don't get him carded. The frustration is becoming a physical thing, a hot leaden knot in his chest.
After probably forty minutes of nothing he finally gets the ball, thirty yards out. Carroll's already running up the left -- not as fast as Chicha would be going, but his legs are longer, and Chris tries to calculate where he'll be and for some reason can't get a fucking handle on it, with his old strike partners it'd be instinctive but suddenly it's goddamned advanced trigonometry or some fucking -- and now he's waited too long, shit, so he just draws back his foot and goes for it himself. An embarrassing, doomed shot, a gentle underhand pitch straight into the keeper's outstretched hands. Carroll's yelling at him. The fans are yelling. Everybody's fucking yelling.
Chris gives them all a stupid shrug. Thanks for the $15 mil. Someone throws a water bottle onto the touchline, fifteen feet away, and it bursts like a firework.
*
Alonso catches him between the tunnel and the bus. The guy's a pain in the ass, but Chris can't help being grateful: it's easier to tune out the furious chorus accompanying him those twenty feet when it's superseded by whatever lecture this is going to be.
But when Alonso speaks, it's surprising. "You were trying to pass to Hernandez, no? When you got stuck on the field there."
Chris looks sidelong at him. "I didn't realize you were on the coaching staff." A couple of clever dicks in the crowd are chanting He's a Yank, he's a Manc, he's having a fookin wank!
"When you play badly, it's the club who looks bad," Alonso says, rather stiffly. "This, it's part of my job. I will make sure with Kenny you have some extra time, just you with the front line."
"Dunno if I can fit it in to my very busy schedule," Chris says. "I have to be really drunk right after practice every day, so."
Alonso ignores him. He glances over at the chanters. "I am disappointed a little in these songs they make for you so far," he says.
"The scansion is lacking," Chris agrees. Alonso lifts his eyebrows -- "Scansion?" he echoes, sounding mildly impressed -- but then they're at the bus, and Alonso vanishes somewhere. Chris climbs up the stairs and pointedly doesn't look to see where he's gone.
*
They're rattling down the highway -- Chris has almost let the motion of the bus lull him out of the dull, infuriating loops of replay and regret, the ball hitting his feet, his look to Carroll -- when he realizes someone's looming over his seat. It's Gerrard: looking sort of pleased but contained, as befits the captain of a team who's won by a smaller margin than they ought to have done. Chris slides his headphones off and stares blankly up at him.
"Have a drink with me tomorrow, when we're back in town," Gerrard says, not a question. "I like to know my teammates, me."
Chris is too pissed with himself, too distracted, even to think of an excuse. He says idiotically, "I might have to -- check the, uh -- okay."
Gerrard nods brusquely at him, then heads back to his seat. Chris shoves his headphones back on and stares blindly out the window, at the shooting lights of the M6.
author: Rave (dorkorific)
rating: PG
characters: Chris Pine, Xabi Alonso, Zachary Quinto, Steven Gerrard, etc.
disclaimer: Absolutely 100% untrue
words: ~3200.
summary: fragment of a larger AU. Chris Pine, the highest-paid American player in the EPL, makes an ill-thought-out transfer; Xabi Alonso, PR guru, has to handle the fallout. (Googledocs name: CFineIsFernandoTorresKindOf.)
notes: HAHAHAH WELL.
When I am old, and my grandchildren ask me what I have accomplished in my life, I will wheeze out, "One time...I wrote an internet fan fiction...where the guy from Star Trek...played professional soccer in England....and I took it....very seriously." And they will exchange nervous looks, but my face will be wreathed in a last contented smile.
Written for anna_unfolding's incredibly generous help_japan donation and hilarious/wonderful prompt. (srsly I kind of wish I could just post the email, it's goddamned amazing.) gurl. you are a great boss. thx for letting me do this in bits and i seriously hope you like it as that is my sole purpose rn.
Nearly all the sports practised nowadays are competitive. You play to win, and the game has little meaning unless you do your utmost to win. On the village green, where you pick up sides and no feeling of local patriotism is involved. it is possible to play simply for the fun and exercise: but as soon as the question of prestige arises, as soon as you feel that you and some larger unit will be disgraced if you lose, the most savage combative instincts are aroused. Anyone who has played even in a school football match knows this. At the international level sport is frankly mimic warfare. But the significant thing is not the behaviour of the players but the attitude of the spectators.
--George Orwell, "The Sporting Spirit."
*
There's no furniture in the Liverpool apartment. It's him and an air mattress and the laptop. Why bother? He's pretty sure there's no way he's going to last here. Like, at this point he'd do better to just fucking give up and go home. It couldn't be that bad. He could play in the MLS again. Possibly work part-time at Foot Locker for the extra cash and the employee discount. At least then nobody would be keying WANKER!!! on his car; at least they'd key normal American insults. God, what he'd give just to be called an "asshole" with no 'r' in it.
Except, no. They wouldn't call him an asshole. They wouldn't call him anything, because nobody in America would give a shit, because it's soccer. In America he could just play the fucking sport he's good at, Jesus Christ, and be left alone.
Zach keeps sending him blase emails that don't totally hide how worried he is. haven't seen you out in one of your signature Vuitton-bomb ensembles lately. Everything okay, or is HELLO! just bored with you? Chris ignores them for a while, until he gets the one that just says ummmm don't be a dick. talk to me.
i don't think this is fun anymore, Chris writes back. Then he turns off his phone and goes back to sleep, which is pretty much all he's been doing since he handed in the transfer request.
*
They drag him out of the apartment just once, so he can wear a suit and sign the contract and smile for the roomful of photogs until his face hurts. At one point, the Liverpool press guy -- he's Spanish and Chris is still a little doubtful on his name because everybody pronounces it differently -- leans in and murmurs, "This face you are making. Make an effort please not to look like we are pulling your face with hooks."
"What's your name again?" Chris mutters back. "Shabby?"
The guy only gives him a patient little smile that makes Chris feel petty and mean. "Spanish, it's a subtle language," he says. "Shabby is okay."
Chris speaks perfectly good Spanish. He looks away from the guy and shows his teeth to the flashbulbs.
*
It's impossible to avoid that interview. He'll just be flipping channels, drinking whiskey and eating the same delivery he gets every night and trying to find something that's not goddamned Doctor Who, and there will be his own giant stupid face on Sky Sports looking all puffy and gross from sleeplessness and jetlag. Every time, he has to watch it. It's like some weird penance thing.
Of course I'm really excited to make that jump to a new club, um, with new possibilities. And I've always been a big admirer of Liverpool. I mean -- like, it'll be really cool to have that, kind of, dedicated fanbase. And then they freeze on his face with one eye slightly more closed than the other. Perfect.
"I was so tired, man," Chris complains to the TV. "Obviously I didn't mean it like that."
The guys in the studio are chuckling now. 'A dedicated fanbase,' one of them says. Not appreciated, needless to say, by fans of Manchester United, where the once-beloved 'Yank Manc' has in recent days--
Well, and not much appreciated by fans of his new club, Liverpool, I expect, points out another. Can't be particularly happy to see stalwart front-line touchstone Dirk Kuyt sold for a player this pricey--
Who can blame them? Pine hasn't been in form since -- interjects a third guy. Chris's picture pops back up in the corner, back when he had flashy studs in his ears and oh, Jesus, that stringy blond fauxhawk. BOTTOM-LINE PINE, says the caption. The guy's still talking: ...Would maybe rather crash cars and womanize than --
"Fuck ooooooooff," Chris yells at the television, over the rest of whatever that sentence is going to be.
--have to wait and see whether his historic price tag, more than twice the previous record for any American player in the EPL, will be--
"Bro," Chris tells him, weary now. "Tone down the accent. You sound like Gwyneth Paltrow." He gropes around for his whiskey glass and can't find it so he just goes for the bottle right off the nightstand.
They're scrolling viewer opinions at the bottom of the screen now, fantastic, off twitter or whatever internet shithole these people crawl out of. 'yank manc' ha what a joke more like 'scouse louse', says "Rob0594," who has obviously just hit some kind of creative peak.
"All downhill from here, kiddo," Chris says, and lifts the bottle to the television in ironic salute.
*
Around 4 a.m. he sends Zach a text: i'm the fuckin flagellant monk of futball.
Zach, predictably, just writes back That's hot. Ps -- you mean "futbol."
*
His first practice with the team is at nine, but he wakes up at six-thirty too wired to sleep and decides it's not really worth it to keep trying. He's at Melwood by seven-fifteen. The place is empty and unfamiliar and he's a little hungover, but the air -- surprisingly bearable for January in the north of England -- is helping him sharpen up, and he feels okay. Actually, he feels weirdly satisfied with himself. Nobody's going to be able to say he's not trying, goddammit.
There's someone else in the lot after all, he realizes. Some yards away somebody's climbing out of a sleek, practical little car, a Renault or something. Not a footballer's ride. Chris slings his gym bag over his shoulder, squinting into the early sun. The figure gives him a wave.
Who the hell is it? Nobody here knows him. Chris waves back, a little hesitantly. Then he turns away and jogs down the tunnel.
The smell of sweat and damp and stale Febreze is identical to Trafford, identical to Chris's high school locker room and the Depot Center complex and every other gym in the history of time, and comforting in its familiar grossness. They gave him the tour earlier, for the photographs and everything; he knows where his locker is. The metal clunk of the door is too loud in the emptiness.
It's kind of sweet how they've fixed up the locker, like the cubbies that kids get on their first day of school. His clothes folded neatly inside, the extra boots and shinguards, gloves, warmup jacket, a couple bottles of Lucozade and some gels. The only thing missing is his name in cute little bubble letters. There's a pre-printed card resting on top of the pile, welcoming him, with a quick note from John Henry scribbled on it. Chris--look fwd to working with you -- J.Henry. They gave him an information packet earlier, too, with the typical blowhard Wear The Liverbird With Pride And Dignity bullshit, but also restaurants in the area and cleaning services and stuff like that. It was thoughtful.
He pushes the card aside and tugs his new training kit out of the locker.It's silky and clean, the Adidas tags still attached, the familiar 11 stitched small over the chest.
Chris isn't superstitious. He knows guys who have to tie their shoes a special way, sleep in their jersey, do a little dance, all that shit, that's not him. But he touches the raised crest on the shorts anyway, traces the embroidered bird with two fingers.
*
He can't get any alone time on the field, either. When he comes up the stairs into the chilly sunshine, the press guy -- whose name, Chris might as well admit that he knows, is Xabi Alonso -- is sitting in the stands. He's looking fashionably understated in a dark sweater and fitted jeans, scanning a newspaper, and when he sees Chris he raises his sunglasses and smiles. "You know you are a couple of hours early?"
Chris dumps his stuff by the touchline and wanders warily over, ball tucked under his arm. "So are you." Must've been this guy's car, up at the lot.
"A lucky coincidence. I like to be here, in the mornings," Alonso says, folding his newspaper. His eyes are sharp. "So, the rumor says you will be a challenge for me. I have been warned you have a tendency for -- antics." There are almost audible air-quotes around the last word.
"So you wanted a preview?" Chris says. He dribbles the ball a couple of times like an NBA player, then catches it balanced on the bridge of his foot. "Wanna see the prima donna in action? Sorry, man. You're gonna have to get me access to a convertible and a couple of pricey blondes. My antics require props." He juggles the ball from knee to knee, testing the unused stiffness of his muscles. He's been running the treadmill and lifting, but that's about it. Other than that, most of his exercise consists of walking from the mattress to the liquor cabinet.
"I did want to see what I'm working with," Alonso says. "Before the media gets here."
"So far, so hostile and uncooperative," Chris says. He balances the ball on his forehead. "Am I right?"
"So far," Alonso agrees, lowering his shades again. "Don't let me distract you."
"I won't," Chris says. Even to his own ears he sounds snotty and petulant. He nods the ball down from his head and swings a goalward kick at it, more for effect than with any forethought. It glances awkwardly off his laces and goes exasperatingly wide of the far post.
"Noted," Alonso says, and goes back to his paper.
*
The players start to trickle in around eight forty-five; they glance at him, a couple of people nod a grudging hello, but it's clear they're pissed about Kuyt. Chris, frankly, can't blame them.
Gerrard's the first one to come over and talk to him. They've met a couple of times before, shaken hands after games. Once, after the Confederations Cup loss, he'd made a beeline for that #4 England jersey but Deuce beat him to it and Chris had had to pretend he'd been walking toward Michael Carrick instead.
"Good to see you," Gerrard says. "Welcome." He glances skyward, a little awkwardly. "Left you a message on your phone and that, thought you might like to get a pint before the first practice?" That mumbling, diffident accent, on a big good-looking guy like Steven Gerrard: it's fucking ridiculous.
"Oh," Chris says. "Sorry, man, I've been so busy with everything. I'm way behind on messages. Excited to get started though," and he gives his new captain his most megawatt smile. Zach used to call it the Hollywood Fangs.
"Right," Gerrard says. He scratches at his hairline, wrinkling his forehead.
"We'll talk though," Chris says, and returns his attention to scrubbing off his boots until he's sure Gerrard is gone.
*
They circle up and get a quick pep talk -- the manager is nice, and Chris gets the scattered, obligatory applause -- but Dalglish hasn't made a secret of the fact that he wanted Kuyt to stay, that Chris is an unwanted gift courtesy of the owners, and it's awkward. Chris is alone for the warm-up jog, surrounded by the team in pairs. Everyone's catching up about the summer; it's like seventh grade.
He thinks maybe no one will notice if he just stretches by the side, alone. But no, there's the rattle of cameras. Oh, good, this'll make a nice little box item for the Mirror. EVERYBODY HATES CHRIS.
Only then Pepe Reina's jogging up to him. Jesus Christ, he's even bigger up close. Chris has only scored on him twice and he's pretty sure both times Reina was playing against the sun, rather than him.
"Pine," he says, without preamble. "You are need a partner? This is sad, your little loneliness corner here."
"Oh," Chris says. "Uh. Thanks. Sure." He glances back in the direction Pepe came, moved by an instinct he can't quite identify. Sure enough, Xabi Alonso is standing behind the touchline like the Secret Service, sunglasses on, arms folded.
"Ah," Pepe says, following his gaze. "Yes. Xabi sends me over."
"So it's not because you're a nice guy, then," Chris says, trying to sound like he's joking. He steadies himself against Pepe's shoulder and draws up his knee, gripping the top of his foot. "It's just that the Press Führer says you have to play with the new kid until the cameras are gone."
"This is a nice thing I'm doing?" Pepe says, in mock horror. "God, my reputation, she's finished."
The guy reminds him of his friends back home. There's something about him that's easy and appealing: a sharp, leisurely American tempo.
"You know, I habla pretty decent Español," Chris says, kind of at random.
Pepe makes a face. "American Spanish," he says, dripping disdain.
"Oh right, I'm sorry,'" Chris says. "I meant 'decent Ethpañol.'"
Pepe grins at him. "You have a need for some practice," he says. They don't talk for the rest of the warm-up, but still, Chris feels a little less heavy.
*
As he's pulling out of Melwood through the gauntlet of fans, some teenage kid shoulders his way through the crowd. He's clutching something -- the red AON jersey with Chris's 11 on it -- and before Chris can hit the brakes he throws the jersey under the wheels of his car. Chris stares at him. He's short and kind of sweet-faced, but he's so angry you wouldn't know it. It looks like he's maybe been crying.
"You guys are fucking insane," Chris says to the closed window. He gives the kid two thumbs up and drives on.
*
One fun game is sending his favorite internet comments to Zach.
From: cpine@liverpoolfc.tv
To: laqueento@gmail.com
Subject: names for our punk fusion band
--OVERRATED
--cris pine is a g@y
--Stop Talking Dribble
--Scouse trater!!!!
--Manc wanker!!!!
--ungrateful fag
--FAG FAGGOT FAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
--he got fat...
--Yank Judas TWAT
From: laqueento@gmail.com
To: cpine@liverpoolfc.tv
Subject: I'm naming my firstborn "Yank Judas Twat"
ohmygod a ma zing
Yank Judas Twat. Yank Judas TWAT. YANK!! JUDAS!!! TWAT!!!!!!!!
From: laqueento@gmail.com
To: cpine@liverpoolfc.tv
Subject: did you really get fat because i can imagine that'd be sort of sexy on you
fuck the limey haters okay, you're my fave yank judas TWAT, oh god i can't stop laughing
It's weird, their whole non-relationship thing, admittedly fucking weird. Chris left California two and a half years ago and they've seen each other maybe five or six times since, and it wasn't like they were super-close before. They met when Paramount and Chivas were doing some kind of cross-promotion: clearly not very successful, as it had never happened again, but the single chance Chris had had in the States to experience pro-athlete perks. He'd gone to a real life movie premiere, shared a conversation and a drink with the skinny, sardonic hipster on the fire escape who later turned out to be the second lead, and then they'd slept together a couple of times.
Then he'd gotten the call from Manchester, and now they're pen pals or whatever.
Sometimes he thinks he might like Zach more than he likes anybody else he knows who isn't in his family. On the other hand, it's easy to like someone you never actually have to interact with.
From: cpine@liverpoolfc.tv
To: laqueento@gmail.com
Subject: guess what
ur a g@y.
*
Xabi Alonso is at practice again the next day, and the rest of the week, too, even though practice Thursday and Friday are closed to the press. Always in those Ray-Bans, always impeccably dressed, always scribbling notes.
"What is he, like, a spy or something?" Chris asks Pepe in an undertone. They speak in Spanish mostly, so Chris can practice, just in case he decides to take off for Spain in August. Apparently Villareal will be looking for a striker.
"Controlar el monstruo, is all," Pepe says, rolling his eyes expressively, and at Chris's blank look says, "A, uh, control freak. And you make him nervous, because -- to be honest -- everything you say since you transfer, it's stupid."
"Hey," Chris protests, but it's true. Alonso actually accosted him after practice once, fell effortlessly into step next to him and said, "You will not to talk to the press anymore, okay."
"My PR guy says we can repair --" Chris had started, rebellious, but Alonso cut him off with a small rather dangerous smile.
"Effectively I am now your, ah, PR guy," he said. "And I said, you don't talk to the press. Preferably you do not talk to anyone."
"That part's easy, anyway," Chris had said, bitterly, and fucked off.
Now Pepe says, "He used to play here actually, did you know? Maybe five, six years ago. It's when we get to know each other."
Chris glances back. Now that he knows, it makes sense. He's noticed the way Alonso watches the flow of play rather than the individual players, the way he grins a little when a play comes together, as if it's personally satisfying. It's not the stuff your press guy generally focuses on. "What happened?"
Pepe shrugs. "A bad tackle," he says.
Chris had his knee stomped once. He was out for three weeks, which sucked, but the worst part was right after it happened. Those terrifying interminable minutes on the pitch when he was curled on the grass, running through every possible resource he had, trying to calm down long enough to figure out how he was going to make an entirely new life.
"That sucks," Chris says. On the touchline, Alonso checks his phone and slides it back into his pocket.
"It happens," Pepe says.
*
Natasha calls him with what she thinks is good news about the jersey sales: apparently he's gone to number one with a bullet over the last week. Not just in Liverpool, but everywhere.
"That's not because people like me," Chris objects. "It's because they hate Manchester."
"Lucky for you there's no 'motivation for sale' column in the account books, dumbass, what's your problem?" Natasha says. She's a great agent, but she's not exactly Miss Sympathy.
*
He knew the January transfer window would be a bitch, but it doesn't hit him just how much of a bitch it'll be the first game rolls up. He gets less than two weeks, barely any time to link up with his new squad -- barely enough time to even hold a conversation with anyone who isn't Alonso or Pepe -- and then they're playing Birmingham City at St. Andrew's. Chris is on the bench.
"I don't even know if I'll recognize you guys in the away kits," he murmurs to Suarez in the tunnel, and adds too jovially, "I hope I remember who to pass to," but either his Spanish is rustier than he thought or the joke is a little too soon, because Suarez just gives him a small, polite smile.
Outside, Chris sits two seats from everyone else, putting a row of empty space between himself and conversation.
*
They sub him in at the half, a comfortable two goals up, and Chris steels himself against the noise, the indistinguishable booing and roaring. It's just another field, he tells himself, but the normal rituals don't take effect. He can't hypnotize himself the way he needs to. He's slow and jittery and stupid all half, makes a couple of dumbass tackles that only by God's mercy don't get him carded. The frustration is becoming a physical thing, a hot leaden knot in his chest.
After probably forty minutes of nothing he finally gets the ball, thirty yards out. Carroll's already running up the left -- not as fast as Chicha would be going, but his legs are longer, and Chris tries to calculate where he'll be and for some reason can't get a fucking handle on it, with his old strike partners it'd be instinctive but suddenly it's goddamned advanced trigonometry or some fucking -- and now he's waited too long, shit, so he just draws back his foot and goes for it himself. An embarrassing, doomed shot, a gentle underhand pitch straight into the keeper's outstretched hands. Carroll's yelling at him. The fans are yelling. Everybody's fucking yelling.
Chris gives them all a stupid shrug. Thanks for the $15 mil. Someone throws a water bottle onto the touchline, fifteen feet away, and it bursts like a firework.
*
Alonso catches him between the tunnel and the bus. The guy's a pain in the ass, but Chris can't help being grateful: it's easier to tune out the furious chorus accompanying him those twenty feet when it's superseded by whatever lecture this is going to be.
But when Alonso speaks, it's surprising. "You were trying to pass to Hernandez, no? When you got stuck on the field there."
Chris looks sidelong at him. "I didn't realize you were on the coaching staff." A couple of clever dicks in the crowd are chanting He's a Yank, he's a Manc, he's having a fookin wank!
"When you play badly, it's the club who looks bad," Alonso says, rather stiffly. "This, it's part of my job. I will make sure with Kenny you have some extra time, just you with the front line."
"Dunno if I can fit it in to my very busy schedule," Chris says. "I have to be really drunk right after practice every day, so."
Alonso ignores him. He glances over at the chanters. "I am disappointed a little in these songs they make for you so far," he says.
"The scansion is lacking," Chris agrees. Alonso lifts his eyebrows -- "Scansion?" he echoes, sounding mildly impressed -- but then they're at the bus, and Alonso vanishes somewhere. Chris climbs up the stairs and pointedly doesn't look to see where he's gone.
*
They're rattling down the highway -- Chris has almost let the motion of the bus lull him out of the dull, infuriating loops of replay and regret, the ball hitting his feet, his look to Carroll -- when he realizes someone's looming over his seat. It's Gerrard: looking sort of pleased but contained, as befits the captain of a team who's won by a smaller margin than they ought to have done. Chris slides his headphones off and stares blankly up at him.
"Have a drink with me tomorrow, when we're back in town," Gerrard says, not a question. "I like to know my teammates, me."
Chris is too pissed with himself, too distracted, even to think of an excuse. He says idiotically, "I might have to -- check the, uh -- okay."
Gerrard nods brusquely at him, then heads back to his seat. Chris shoves his headphones back on and stares blindly out the window, at the shooting lights of the M6.