10 - Un Amarío
Title: Un Amarío
Characters: Fernando Torres, Olalla Torres, Steven Gerrard, Rafa Benitez, Xabi Alonso, Pepe Reina, Alvaro Arbeloa, Israel Torres, Mari Paz Torres
Disclaimer: The notes at the end will help you separate fact and fiction.
February 2011
Chelsea, London
Fernando stood on the porch, hands in trouser pockets, looking at the droplets of rain falling down from the skies. Only the occasional muted roar of a car passing through the lanes disturbed the peace. The cry of a baby from behind him woke him from his reverie, and he returned inside the house, smiling sheepishly at a waking Olalla as he took his son Leo from his crib and gently rocked him to sleep. After quite a while, he put a sleeping Leo back in the safety of his four wooden walls and headed back to the porch to witness the drizzle clear up and then start again.
He had never felt so old and yet so young.
***
Fernando Torres believed in love.
As a young boy, he had stealthily crept out of his bedroom during siesta, sneaking outside to have a kick about with his brother Israel. The sounds of desperate crying, loud arguments, and guitars playing in the background had reached out to him whenever they passed by their grandparents’ bedroom. Sometimes, if they were caught by their mother playing in the streets, he would sullenly walk back into the house and pretend to sleep in his grandparents’ room as his abuelos watched telenovelas. Martín Garatuza, Maricruz, Beatriz - these were household names reserved for the 3pm lull in every day. Fernando knew the plotlines exceedingly well for a six-year-old boy. However, he would rather get beat up than admit that he actually liked watching those culebrones1. Or that he even believed in them.
He was eight years old when he first travelled to Estorde, Galicia. Looking up at the new house that his parents had bought, he had thought, “Well, it’s nothing special.” But a few weeks later, he was sitting on the sidewalk with a brown-haired girl who had nice teeth and loved to laugh and he thought to himself that maybe he was wrong.
A year later, he watched his first Champions League game. Van Basten was phenomenal, shooting all goals for AC Milan’s 4-0 win. Mari Paz laughed at him because she caught him with his mouth hanging open in front of the television. That night, Fernando crept into his bedroom and opened his school notebook to the last page.
Goals for future: 1. Marry Olalla. 2. Be a footballer and make family proud. After some thought, he added another one: 3. Win Champions League. (score a goal)
This third goal was prompted by a clear memory. He had only been six years old when Abuelo had started talking seriously to him about football. At first it had made him feel proud and special, that Abuelo set aside time to talk to him like an adult (as Israel and Mari Paz glanced enviously from afar); but then it meant much more. After a few weeks, his heart started to beat faster every time he saw red and white, heard the words “Atleti, Atleti, Atlético Madrid”.
***
"So Israel, is there such a thing as 'love at first sight'? Is love found, or is it learned?"
Fernando’s legs were swinging off the wooden bridge. The sun was smoldering above them, frying the tips of his newly-bleached hair. Israel laughed.
“Tell Oscar to stop daring you."
Fernando thought about shutting up but blurted out, “It's my own question."
His older brother shrugged. “Both. None, maybe? I don't know. I've never been in love.” He elbowed Fernando and grinned slyly. “But you have. So why don't you tell me, quillo?”
He shoved Israel into the warm water below and ran away laughing.
***
Twelve years old meant walking towards his family, crying and smiling at the same time. He could never forget the way his grandfather looked at him: better than the feeling of all the pretty girls watching him play on the pitch, better than scoring a goal, better than a secret kiss.
“Por ti, Abuelo,” he whispered in a shaky voice, and repeated louder, “por ti.”
He reverently handed over the shining Niké cup to his grandfather. The first major Atleti cup he had ever won.
“More will come, Fernando,” his grandfather had said, tears in his eyes. “You deserve it."
***
And more did come. Football in Atletico Madrid was eternal, undying love. Scoring, losing, and winning - they all came second to the joy of simply playing. Heated fields, loose jerseys, and sweaty hair getting into his eyes: this was the world Fernando reveled in, the world he prolonged for as long as possible. What was once a hobby morphed into a vocation. Fernando’s weekends - and eventually, weekdays - were consumed with the obsession of running around kicking a ball.
During his reflective moments, Fernando sometimes laughed and thought that football seemed absurd. But once he was in the Vicente Calderón Stadium, he couldn’t wait to be set loose.
However, life always has a way of surprising us when we think our lives are as perfect as they can possibly be.
The armband started it all.
***
May 20, 2007
Vicente Calderón Stadium
Fernando was out of breath and tired. Real Sociedad were two points ahead and nothing they did seemed to be making any effect at all. It didn’t help that his teammates kept on looking at him for some sign of motivation. He walked on the pitch slowly, forcing himself to keep calm.
His armband came off as he jogged backwards. Annoyed, he let it hang there.
The final whistle blew. He took the armband off and walked towards the bleak tunnel.
So much for winning three more points. So much for a Champions League spot.
***
“Fernando?”
Fernando blinked in surprise. “Israel? What are you doing here?”
His older brother gave him a quick beso, then gave him a searching look. “Is it true that you are leaving for England? For Liverpool?”
Fernando’s brows came together. “What? What are you talking about?"
Israel replied, “Someone told me you were leaving Atleti. For Liverpool.”
He shrugged. “I don't know what you're talking about, hermano. I've heard from Chelsea and Newcastle United, but that was ages ago. Now, nothing. Although,” he smiled with more than a hint of bitterness, “maybe a move to Liverpool would be nice. After all, they have a bigger chance to get a spot in the Champions League.”
Israel shoved him. “Don’t joke around, Fer. You know how much this means to Abuelo.”
Fernando shoved him back. “I know. And the rumours aren't true, okay? I'm staying here, and that's that.”
In his mind, the Champions League cup glinted. A voice in the back of his head whispered, I’m staying here..for now.
***
***
July 2007
Anfield, Liverpool
The day was just a little bit too cold, but what was he expecting? This was England after all. Fernando rubbed his hands together impatiently. Silence reigned in the room he was in. He couldn’t stop moving his leg up and down.
The door creaked open. Fernando sprang to his feet instantly. In came a stocky, brown-haired man and a chubby, bespectacled man.
“Hola, Fernando,” greeted the latter, pulling him in a hug. Fernando awkwardly patted his back once.
“Hola, Rafa,” he said. He then glanced timidly at the imposing man who stood behind Rafa Benitez, silently watching them.
Rafa saw who he was looking at. “Es Steven Gerrard. La capitán del Liverpool,” Rafa explained. Then he told the other man, “Steven, this is Fernando Torres, our new player.”
“Hi Fernando,” Steven said, moving forward and extending his hand. “I’m Steven.”
“Hi Steven,” Fernando said back solemnly, shaking his hand firmly. He attempted a confident grin and ended up with a very shy smile on his face instead.
Steven laughed. “Pleased to meet ya, mate,” he grinned. His complete bafflement must’ve shown on his face because Steven laughed even harder. “Oh right, absolutely no knowledge of English. Erm, ‘mucho gusto’?”
Fernando perked up at the words. “¿Entiendes español? ¡Guay! ¡No lo sabía!”2 he said happily.
At this continuous flow of Spanish however, Steven’s forehead began to crease. “No hablo Espanyol,” he clarified. “It was a phrase I learned from Xabi, lad.” He gave Fernando another big grin. “Hope to work with you soon. I’m pretty excited, me. The others are, as well. Let’s tour you around, yeah?” He turned and left the room. Rafa did too. Fernando jogged after them, understanding nothing, feeling very much like he was 6 years old again.
***
August 11, 2007
Away team dressing room, Villa Park
Pepe walked over to Fernando (who was alone) and sat down. “Hola, el Nino. ¿Cómo está Liverpool?” he asked with a smile on his face.
“Hola Pepe, esta bien,” he replied politely. Pepe Reina was one of those players he looked up to in La Seleccion and now that they were in the same team…unbelievable.
“Es tu primer partido. ¿Te sientes la presión aún?”3
“No,” Fernando lied. “Bien, tal vez un poco. Pero no mucho.”4
“Esto significa que no han visto el DVD lo suficiente,” Pepe chastised as he put on his gloves. “Cuando llegaste, hizo Stevie y Carra darte el paquete completo? Inspiradora charla? La gira sala de trofeos y todo?”5
Before Fernando could answer, Xabi Alonso sauntered over. “Hola amigos,” he said. “Creo que hay una amistad en ciernes. Ahora podemos tener nuestra propia pequeña España en Melwood.” He extended his hand to Fernando and smiled. “Hola Torres. ¿Emocionado por el partido?”6
Pepe butted in, a wicked glint in his eye. “Él se muere por jugar delante de The Kop. ¿Verdad, ‘Nando’?”7
"'Nando'! ¡Lo me gusta!”8 Alvaro Arbeloa piped up.
The rest of the dressing room was already looking at the circle of Spanish players. ‘Nando’ tightened the laces on his cleats in an effort to hide his pink face. What a childish nickname!
“Only English in the dressing room, lads,” vice-captain Jamie Carragher reminded in a loud voice.
“Sorry Carra,” they mumbled and dispersed randomly. Carra gave Fernando a once-over and then turned his back to talk to Steven and Rafa. Fernando's face turned even pinker.
“Bienvenido a la jerarquía del vestuario del Liverpool!”9 Pepe kidded.
He had to dodge a balled sock thrown at his head as Carra yelled, “PEPE REINA! NO SPANISH, DO YOU HEAR ME!”
Fernando laughed confusedly. Oh well. A small Spain in Melwood! At least, it was better than not being understood at all.
***
Liverpool thrilled Fernando. In many ways, it became to him a new lover, a forbidden paramour. Often, during the early weeks of his stay there, he would walk around the city with Olalla, following tourist routes, taking in the sights. Long after Olalla had tired of the walking routine, Fernando continued roaming Liverpool’s streets, ending up in unexpected, nasty places and precious holes-in-the-wall. Skyscrapers, dingy pubs, abandoned construction sites - he loved them all. (Well, maybe excluding Evertonian pubs.) If Atlético Madrid was true love, Liverpool was full-blown passionate romance.
Fernando didn’t think it was possible to fall in love with a place that wasn’t his hometown, but he did. He fell fast, and he fell hard. Some nights found him in his bedroom, re-watching DVDs of Shankly, Paisley, and Dalglish, alternately laughing at the ridiculous shorts and marveling quietly at the magnificent pass-and-move tactic that had earned Liverpool so many goals and silverware. He trained hard. He hung out by the docks some mornings and practiced his English with the fishermen. He even pushed himself to buy an English Liverpool book that he struggled to read when he woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t go back to sleep. And every day, he thanked God for this startling miracle in his new life.
His obsession translated itself onto the pitch. He scored thirty-three goals in total during his first season in Liverpool, the highest for a foreign player in the Premier League; he got nominated for PFA Players’ Player of the Year, PFA Young Player of the Year, and FWA Footballer of the Year. He was second in line for the Premier League golden boot.
But awards were just the icing on the cake. Playing football still made his heart beat faster, but the thing that set Liverpool apart from Atleti was this - here, he felt like invincible. He, Fernando Torres, was perfect. Once his right foot stepped onto the pitch, nothing but the deafening rush of his irregular heartbeat and the roar of the Kop mattered.
***
July 1, 2009
Albert Docks, Liverpool
“You could’ve told me. Properly.” He glared at the Spaniard’s profile before him, bent yet defiant and graceful. “Not me finding out from…not me finding out like this.”
“You know how I feel, Fernando. You know what happened before, what is still happening now,” Xabi said, finally looking up.
“Still,” he deadpanned. They were silent for a moment.
“Lo siento,” Xabi finally said, shrugging. It didn't sound like he meant it.
“Do you really want to leave?” he asked. Xabi sighed. “Xabi, answer me; do you?” Fernando insisted, a sinking feeling in his heart. Xabi was a central part of the team. He had a feeling this would not bode well.
Xabi just stood up and said, “I’ll get you a drink.”
Twenty-nine days later, after many interviews and false rumours, he got his answer.
Hey mate, seen the news? X submitted t.request 2day. Did u know abt it b4? -Steven Gerrard
Hyypia, Alvaro, and now - now, Alonso as well.
***
Liverpool now felt like a romance gone wrong. Yes, Fernando still enjoyed going to work, enjoyed playing with his teammates. But no one could see where the passion he’d once had had gone. Even he himself did not know where it went. Phrases like ‘bad form’, ‘fatigue’, ‘spell of bad luck’, and ‘still recovering from injury’ were thrown about carefully, but in all honesty they were not completely to blame. What happened to the team? (Too many key players lost.) How about his dreams? Champions League spots? Premier League trophies? (He had one World Cup, but still.)
Chelsea, Barça, and Manchester City had both called his agent during the past weeks. Barça! That was new. But he had turned everything down, declaring, “I am really happy to be back, really happy to stay with all my teammates. My commitment and loyalty to the club and to the fans is the same as it was on my first day when I signed. I am looking forward to the challenge ahead.”
Fast-forward to January. 10 losses, 5 draws, and 9 wins. Compare that to 7 losses, 5 draws, and 11 wins at this point in time last season. Out of the FA Cup, out of the Football League Cup, and struggling for the UEFA Europa League. A Champions League spot? Ha ha. It seemed like passion and love weren’t enough anymore.
Fernando started thinking about the transfer window.
***
“When love dies, what happens?”
“If this is another trick question and you end up throwing me into a pond, I will break your knees. Don’t grin at me, you cheeky bastard. I am fucking serious.”
“...We’re in an office building, hermano.”
“So?”
“…Anyway, answer me: what happens?”
“Nothing happens.”
"Nothing?"
"Yes. Nothing. Happens.”
“What do you do?”
Israel sighed. “Ah, the questions you ask, hermanito! I’m not Gabriel Garcia Marquez, you know. Well, I guess you try again. If it doesn’t work, go away. Find a new love.”
“If you can’t? Or if you’re too scared to?”
Israel threw his hands up in the air. “Dios mio, hermanito! I thought footballers were supposed to play and not read romance novellas all day?"
This time he took Israel’s expensive fountain pen with ‘Torres’ engraved on it and gave him a noogie before leaving for good measure.
***
July 2008
The Kop, Anfield
“So…the final answer is…”
“I don’t know,” Steven admitted.
Fernando and his captain were sitting high up on the Kop side, looking out over the pitch at the youth team who were training with Steve Clarke. Steven jiggled his foot nervously.
Fernando wanted to say, Is the silverware more important than your loyalty to the club?, or Transfer window closes in a few days - you should make your mind up already, but he knew the answers to these so (what was the point?) he just kept his mouth shut. Besides, who was he to ask these kinds of questions? It's not as if...
Steven broke the long silence first. “Nando, how did you feel when you got the offer from Liverpool two years ago?”
Caught off-guard, he stammered, “Que? I mean - what?”
Steven smiled wistfully. “Yeah, exactly. Now I don’t like regrets. I’m trying to think forward and ask meself, ‘Stevie, if you move to Chelsea, will you regret this in the future?’”
“And the answer is?” Fernando prompted again.
“I really dunno,” he sighed. “I mean, look at this bloody season. If we win the Premiership, I - I’d kiss Rafa on the lips during a press conference or something.”
They burst out laughing. “More motif to win the Premiership then,” Fernando joked.
“Motivation, more like,” Steven corrected.
Fernando rolled his eyes. “Is what I said.” He continued in a more somber tone, “Well, don’t you think everything you already have here is worth staying for? The manager, the team, the history, the fans. Don’t you think we could all pull together and win it next season maybe?”
“Honestly, lad? Not everyone, no.”
He shifted in his seat, hesitating. “How about me then? Me and you, at least. We can work hard. We could maybe to pull the team through.”
Steven gave him a playful sock, a fond smile in his eyes. “Improve your bloody English, Torres.”
“Please, Stevie. Please don’t leave.”
There. He said it.
Steven sighed heavily and turned away. "Oh, Nando.”
The rest of the youth training session was watched in gloomy silence.
***
January 17, 2011
Formby, Merseyside
After Steven had gotten over the initial surprise of seeing him standing outside his house, he’d invited him inside and made him sit in the dining area. Right now, he was babbling away in the kitchen as Fernando anxiously twiddled his thumbs. A part of him wanted Steven to never get out of the kitchen; another part wanted it to be over as soon as possible.
Steven was in a good mood, which made Fernando feel worse. He came back and placed two glasses of pineapple juice on the counter.
“So Nando,” he grinned, lazily swirling a spoon inside his glass, “what brings you here?”
Now that it was his turn to speak, he was at a loss for words. He took the other glass. “I, uh, ah…”
“I knew Olalla would throw you out sooner or later, the way you leave your clothes around your house,” Steven joked. When this didn’t elicit the usual punch, he faced the troubled Spaniard, forehead creasing with decade-old lines upon seeing Fernando’s face. “Oy mate, what’s wrong with you? What’s the matter?”
Fernando just stared at him with a peculiarly detached look in his eyes.
“Hey mate,” he told him, “you can tell me wh - “
“I’m leaving.”
Steven blinked.
His voice firm but his hands shaking, Fernando repeated in a louder voice, “I’m leaving.”
“Y’wha?” Steven asked stupidly.
“Liverpool,” and as he said it, the word tasted strange and foreign on his tongue.
The clink of the glass on the marble counter sounded deafening. Steven was staring at him, uncomprehending. Time stretched forever. He gulped down his juice, at a loss about how to proceed.
“I’ve written a transfer request just in case,” he mumbled into the silence, his throat dry even if he just emptied his glass.
Steven opened and closed his mouth soundlessly a few times. Finally he whispered hoarsely, “Leaving…a transfer…oh god.” He stepped down from the stool and stared, bewildered, at Fernando. “Oh g - no. No. Oh shit. Just. Just - shit. No. Fuck. Fuck!”
Fernando remained seated, hands gripping the glass hard. He’d imagined the outcome so many times but still nothing could prepare him for this. How could a stream of half-thoughts and expletives make him feel so worthless, so - so traitorous?
Steven was pacing about, his jaw working furiously. Fernando's fingers were on the verge of shattering the glass. Finally Steven stopped.
“Have you thought this over, Torres?" he snarled. "A thousand times? Did you fucking - “ and Steven looked menacing now “ - did you even give a fucking thought to how - how absolutely - January transfer window - January! Bloody hell!”
Fernando was replaying Olalla’s words in his mind, trying to keep from exploding himself. “He will understand. He will.”
“Have you told FSG? Mr. Henry?” Steven demanded angrily. “Have you even told Kenny?”
Fernando shook his head. “Only you,” he mumbled, looking at his shoes. His chest barely contained gigantic, crashing waves of emotions.
Steven exhaled loudly and rubbed his forehead. Suddenly he looked as if he was 50 years old. “Shit Torres. Bullshit.”
“I’m sorry, Stevie,” Fernando said, and he was, but he was not. He stood up and turned to go. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Suddenly Steven made a sound. It sounded like a cross between a bark and a strangled sob. “'You and me, maybe we could pull the rest of the lads through',” he said. Fernando wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or genuine. “We can, can’t we, Nando?”
“This isn’t 2008, Stevie.” He took a deep breath to steady himself. If he lost control now, he wouldn't be able to stop. He really wouldn't.
“Bloody hell, Torres.” Silence. “Aren’t you satisfied? Aren’t you happy with this?”
He wanted to say No, how could anyone be?, say My passion died a year ago, say I wish I could be, but instead he found himself turning and embracing Steven. It felt exactly like the first time - awkward, yet now somehow familiar and secure, filled with all the memories they created in the five years they spent together. The recognizable smell of Steven’s clean aftershave almost made him cry. (This was definitely something he would miss.) He felt Steven's chest heaving, tired with all the effort of alternately yelling and trying to stop yelling for the past few minutes. Finally Steven pushed him away.
They looked at each other: Fernando warily trying to predict would happen next, Steven looking at him distrustfully.
“You git,” Steven started, and Fernando's shoulders fell. But then he continued, “You better think of how you’re going to tell Kenny. He’s got tons of plans about you, figured you’d stay here until you retired or something.” The way he looked at Fernando said, So did I. He said, “If you push through with this…well. I guess it’s your life.”
With some difficulty, he continued, “I’m behind you. Whatever decision you make. I’ll be a hundred percent behind you.”
Greatly surprised he stammered, “No n - you - thanks. Thanks Stevie.”
“We’re friends too, remember?” kidded Stevie. At this, Fernando felt the edges of his eyes start to moisten, so he cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling. He felt a hand push his back gently in the direction of the door. Steven said, “C’mon soft lad, let’s get you back home.”
The worst part of it was, that almost made him want to stay.
***
***
February 2011
Chelsea, London
The streets were deathly quiet. The digital clock blinked 3am. From the other room, he heard a yawn and a creak as the bed took in Olalla’s weight. His phone vibrated. In the stillness it sounded too loud. He immediately snatched it and frowned upon seeing who was calling at three in the morning.
“Hello?”
“Nando. How are you?”
Suspiciously: “Are you drunk, Stevie?”
“Hell no. Hey. I just wanted to ask how everything’s going.”
“I’m fine.”
“The kids? The missus?”
“Everything’s sound.”
Suddenly Stevie warned, “See, look here Nando, don’t listen to what the fans are saying. Don’t watch the telly, turn off the - ”
Fernando chuckled. “I’m not a boy anymore, Stevie. I won’t let it affect me.”
There was a muffled sound at the end of the line. Fernando wasn't sure what it was.
Steven was breathing heavily into the phone before blurting out, “Good luck with everything, mate.”
“Good luck as well. And. And thank you. Thank you so much. Muchas gracias.”
There was a smile in his voice. “No hablo Espanyol, Nando. You’re welcome though.”
The line went dead. Fernando was still smiling when he crept under the blankets beside Olalla and turned off the night lamp.
***
Romance is dead, says £50m Torres
By Sam Wallace, Football Correspondent
Saturday, 5 February 2011
Fernando Torres dismissed accusations of disloyalty over his controversial move from Liverpool to Chelsea yesterday by declaring that "romance is dead" in football when it comes to players sticking with their clubs and said he did not have the time to wait for Liverpool to rebuild.
"I see some players doing that [kissing the badge] when they join a club, but the romance in football has gone. It's a different thing now. People [players] are coming and leaving. When you are joining a club you want to do the best for yourself and that club, and that's all. Some people like to kiss the badge. They can do it. I only want to score goals and do my job, and achieve all the targets the team has.
"I took the decision to leave Liverpool because I heard about Chelsea's interest. They were pushing hard, which means they really wanted me. I really wanted to leave Liverpool, so I told them straight. Everything was clear. At the end of the day, it's about being fair and honest with everyone.
"When I'm 40 or 45, I'd like to look back and see pictures of me as a champion. I was lucky to be involved in the Spanish team winning the Euros and the World Cup, but I want to see that I've done that at a club."
***
Author's notes:
I wrote this a long time ago, probably in 2011 just after Torres transferred to Chelsea. At the time, I was very bitter and hurt about his abrupt departure, given that he was my second favourite player in the squad after Steven Gerrard and the number of times he alleged that he wanted to remain faithful to the club. I understand feelings and circumstances can change quickly, but Torres and his PR team did not handle his departure well, and this obviously made the fan anger worse. Now whenever I see him I just feel very sad. Mostly I just avoid watching him. Of course, I wish him well, especially now that he has attained his third goal with Chelsea this season. Writing this fic was my way to sort out what I was feeling and trying to understand where Fernando was coming from. I hope it wasn't too mangled and bad. D:
Spanish glossary:
I distinctly remember having someone translate the dialogue into Spanish, but it seems I've deleted the message and forgot who it was. :( Please message me or comment if you know who it is/it was you.
1. ‘Long snakes’. Telenovelas are called as such because of their winding plots.
2. You understand Spanish? That’s awesome! I thought you didn’t!
3. It's your first game. Feeling the pressure yet?
4. Okay fine, maybe a little. But not so much.
5. That means you haven’t watched the DVDs enough. When you came, did Stevie and Carra give you the full package? Inspiring pep talk? The trophy room tour and all?
6. I sense a budding friendship. Now we can have our own little Spain in Melwood. Hello Fernando. Excited for the match?
7. He’s dying to play in front of the Kop. Aren’t you, ‘Nando’?
8. 'Nando'! I like that!
9. Welcome to the Liverpool dressing room hierarchy!
Additional notes:
1. The story about the armband is true. It was given to him by his friends from Fuenlabrada and has “We’ll Never Walk Alone” written inside. (check out the 5.00 mark) This sparked rumours about a Liverpool offer which were false. However, soon after, he did receive an offer, and the rest is history.
2. Liverpool sign Fernando Torres.
3. Pepe Reina has been Torres’ La Seleccion teammate since the U-18’s. Torres looked up to him but they only got to know each other in Liverpool. Since then they have become very good friends.
4. According to Javier Mascherano, the Spanish-speaking LFC players talk in Spanish when they’re together but speak English in the dressing room.
5. Torres still holds the record for most goals scored in a foreigner’s debut season in the Premier League.
6. Xabi Alonso submitted a transfer request prior to his move to Real Madrid.
7. Torres admitted that the offloading of too many key players was a part of his decision to leave Liverpool.
8. Torres was regularly barraged with transfer offers but he opted to stay.
9. Steven Gerrard had been a Chelsea target for a hell lot of times. (Man I am so glad he turned all offers down.)
10. Stevie G does live in Formby.
11. Stevie was the first person Torres told about his plan to transfer during the winter season. Stevie supported his decision.
12. The main inspiration for this fic: Torres alleges romance in football is dead. (I’m sorry; I beg to differ.)
13. The title means "a love affair".