Fic: Club Versus Country
Title: Club Versus Country
Pairing: Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramos, Xabi Alonso/Steven Gerrard and a hint of Martin Škrtel/Daniel Agger
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Any fictitious relationships described within is true in the land of imagination only.
Summary: Set after the first matches of the international break, where Spain played Turkey, England played Slovakia and Denmark played Malta.
A/Ns: I only got to watch the Spain-Turkey match, all information regarding other matches were taken from match reports +/- highlight videos only.
Word Count: 1596
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated! Good/bad, either is fine. Thanks!
Club Versus Country
The crowd was an excited hubbub of noise. The majestic Bernabéu, packed to its rafters, full of patriotic Spanish citizens, eager to cheer their team on. Fernando picked at his shirt in the tunnel. He didn’t like the sleek stripe that ran down his right side. But the strip had been changed. Being highly superstitious, he hoped that the changed strip did not bring with it, changed fortunes. They needed a solid win tonight to continue their good run in for the World Cup qualifiers. But most of all, it grated on him that they were playing at the Bernabéu.
Sergio Ramos tucked his long brown strands of hair carefully under his elastic. Humming quietly to himself, he hopped from foot to foot, trying to get his blood pumping. It felt a little odd to be standing in the familiar tunnel seeing the other team dressed in white. He snuck a glance towards Fernando Torres. It wasn’t that long ago when they last met in that humiliating tie at Anfield, and it wasn’t that long ago when Nando had been here at the Bernabéu.
The rest of the members of the Spain squad looked around uneasily. Only Iker Casillas was his usual composed, ‘Captain’-self, his gloves on snugly, his shirt snipped at the hem. That determined look plastered over his handsome face as he prepared to lead his team out onto his favourite pitch, in front of his country. But the rest of the squad picked up on the unsettling vibes. Fernando Torres and Sergio Ramos used to fight with other people just to get to walk out one after the other in the team line up. Today, they were curiously quiet and strangely separated. Their club rivalry had never impacted on their relationship before and Xabi Alonso, in particular, was worried that their rift may affect their on pitch performance.
Turkey was not a team to be taken lightly, their adventures during the Euros 2008 showed their tenacity and belief. It was like playing a resilient Liverpool team, and the Spanish players who ply their trade in the Red of Liverpool could not help but feel it somewhat ironic that they were pinned down by a team who essentially played like how they played every week. Turkey were never going to outclass the splendour of their Spanish counterparts, but they were willing to try and stifle them, to hound them and it was Turkey who had the better first half, utilising the ever-increasingly popular counter attack method.
Spain looked rather unsettled and at odds with the Turkish side, but all self doubt were put aside when Fernando Torres won a free kick just outside the box fifteen minutes into the second half. The resulting free kick should have brought a goal from Spain’s first choice right back, but Sergio only managed to head across goal. Fortunately, Pique was there to drill the ball into the back of the net Volcan saw it coming but even though he got a hand on the ball, could not stop the inevitable.
Once Spain was up, the pressure dropped. The crowd sang and cheered merrily and the players began to enjoy themselves. The relief of scoring was immense. Having to play Turkey away in a few day’s time made it very important to get a result here at the Bernabéu, in front of their own fans. And they did it, they got their result, they kept their winning record and continued to collect maximum points in their qualifying group. Spain was well on their way to appearing in the World Cup 2010, where they hope to add to their trophy cabinets.
The game over, players celebrated a job well done. It may not have been their best match of late, but it had gotten them the three precious points and they will face a Turkey side out for revenge the next week. Lulled by the victory and the familiar sights and sounds of Madrid, Fernando could not resist reliving his boyish youth. Grabbing Sergio by the wrist, Fernando hauled his friend out into the busy streets.
A tad annoyed at being forcibly removed from the front of the mirror, Sergio tried to comb his unruly hair with his fingers. Tsking at Fernando, he continued to try to straighten the wet strands of hair whilst he baited Fernando with a tetchy remark, “We won this match from my assist.”
Fernando’s eyebrows darted upwards. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits and his competitive streak countered, “Ah, but I won that free kick that led to your assist, if you can even call it that. Really, Sergio, you should have scored!”
Sergio frowned indignantly. “An assist was obviously the unexpected thing. That’s why we scored, because I did the unconventional thing and headed it not into the net, but across the goal.”
“Uh huh, Sergio, keep telling yourself that.” Fernando stretched his arms in the warm sunshine. “God, I’ve missed this city.”
Sergio glanced at Fernando haughtily and said, “You should have thought of that before you upped and relocated to dreary Liverpool.”
Fernando swatted Sergio’s head jokingly. “I love Liverpool, it’s a great city, you should come too, Sergio.” And when Sergio just wrinkled his straight nose and tossed his perfect hair, Fernando couldn’t continue the charade. He didn’t like the way they had ignored each other when they met up earlier that week for international duty and even this small conversation wasn’t the same as how they used be together. They used to bounce off one another, their thoughts mirrored and synchronised, like their ideas were travelling on the same wavelength and in the same frequency. So he offered the white flag, “Our old place?” he asked hopefully.
Watching Sergio’s back as the young defender marched purposefully down familiar streets towards their special spot, Fernando smiled. Gitano had forgiven him.
* * * * *
While one Liverpool Spaniard was reconciling himself with an old mate, another was trying to get access of his current partner. Xabi Alonso cursed hurriedly under his breath as he tried to get the hotel’s laptop to work. Impatient, he checked his phone for the umpteenth time and was again disappointed when the screen did not show any new messages. Steven Gerrard’s team only had a friendly but a match was still a match, and still a risk for injury. The suspense was nearly killing him.
Finally the page loaded and Xabi scanned it urgently. The report was abysmal. It contained virtually no information whatsoever. So England beat Slovakia, 4-0. Martin would not be happy about that, but what of injuries. The headlines had screamed injuries yet, to whom? In his haste, Xabi had to read the article three times before he grasped the meaning behind the words. Collapsing onto the soft bed with relief, Xabi reached for his phone.
“I’m safe, don’t worry.” Xabi nearly hung up on Steven when he heard those cocky words uttered with that beautiful voice.
“What made you think that I was worried?” Xabi teased, a smile spreading across his face, “You’re not that special, Stevie.”
“What are you calling me for, then?” Steven replied matter-of-factly. When Xabi only spluttered down the phone, he continued, “See, you did worry. But I’m fine -” a pause, “- and you better be too, Xabi.”
“Sí, Stevie, I’m fine, too. Congratulations on winning.”
“Yes, you too, Xabi, I checked your scores too. Yours was more important, a tight win but a win nonetheless. Ours was just a friendly but the real stuff is happening next week.”
“Martin must be furious, no?”
“Martin? Oh, yeah, I don’t think I’ll invite myself round for drinks anytime soon,” Steven chuckled.
* * * * *
Martin Škrtel clenched his hands into fists of long fingers and tendons. His luscious, red lips twisted down into a frown. He had caved under the pressure. Daniel, deprived of a pitch to perform on at home in Anfield, turned his sights on displaying his skills on the international front. Agger had had a good match. He had played well, Martin grudgingly conceded. And then he, himself had fluffed his lines. He supposed Rafa’s inclination to go with Carragher and himself at the back gave him a slight advantage but fitness and form had been his trump card. Now he wasn’t so sure. Daniel looked good. More than good.
Running his hand over his scalp, Martin sighed at the ceiling. They had one more match to perform in for the manager before returning to club football. And he was determined to make the best out of it. Use it to wash away the humiliating defeat at the hands of his club’s captain.
He always saw the hurt in Daniel’s eyes whenever they roomed together for away matches, the disappointment of not making the cut, not being chosen to start. Martin felt a little uncomfortable at the small window of vulnerability Daniel displayed unknowingly, his glazed eyes betraying his otherwise stoic stance. Seeing Daniel like that only reinforced the drive to remain on top, to remain first choice. For he could not bear it if their roles were reversed and it was he, instead, who looked upon Daniel with such bitter envy. Whilst he understood the Dane’s position, he was not selfless enough to step aside. Besides, Daniel would not appreciate charity; he would want to earn his spot. But he was fooling himself.
Truth was, Martin was beginning to think Daniel had more than earned his spot. But if Rafa insisted on playing him instead, who was he to complain?
Pairing: Fernando Torres/Sergio Ramos, Xabi Alonso/Steven Gerrard and a hint of Martin Škrtel/Daniel Agger
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Any fictitious relationships described within is true in the land of imagination only.
Summary: Set after the first matches of the international break, where Spain played Turkey, England played Slovakia and Denmark played Malta.
A/Ns: I only got to watch the Spain-Turkey match, all information regarding other matches were taken from match reports +/- highlight videos only.
Word Count: 1596
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated! Good/bad, either is fine. Thanks!
Club Versus Country
The crowd was an excited hubbub of noise. The majestic Bernabéu, packed to its rafters, full of patriotic Spanish citizens, eager to cheer their team on. Fernando picked at his shirt in the tunnel. He didn’t like the sleek stripe that ran down his right side. But the strip had been changed. Being highly superstitious, he hoped that the changed strip did not bring with it, changed fortunes. They needed a solid win tonight to continue their good run in for the World Cup qualifiers. But most of all, it grated on him that they were playing at the Bernabéu.
Sergio Ramos tucked his long brown strands of hair carefully under his elastic. Humming quietly to himself, he hopped from foot to foot, trying to get his blood pumping. It felt a little odd to be standing in the familiar tunnel seeing the other team dressed in white. He snuck a glance towards Fernando Torres. It wasn’t that long ago when they last met in that humiliating tie at Anfield, and it wasn’t that long ago when Nando had been here at the Bernabéu.
The rest of the members of the Spain squad looked around uneasily. Only Iker Casillas was his usual composed, ‘Captain’-self, his gloves on snugly, his shirt snipped at the hem. That determined look plastered over his handsome face as he prepared to lead his team out onto his favourite pitch, in front of his country. But the rest of the squad picked up on the unsettling vibes. Fernando Torres and Sergio Ramos used to fight with other people just to get to walk out one after the other in the team line up. Today, they were curiously quiet and strangely separated. Their club rivalry had never impacted on their relationship before and Xabi Alonso, in particular, was worried that their rift may affect their on pitch performance.
Turkey was not a team to be taken lightly, their adventures during the Euros 2008 showed their tenacity and belief. It was like playing a resilient Liverpool team, and the Spanish players who ply their trade in the Red of Liverpool could not help but feel it somewhat ironic that they were pinned down by a team who essentially played like how they played every week. Turkey were never going to outclass the splendour of their Spanish counterparts, but they were willing to try and stifle them, to hound them and it was Turkey who had the better first half, utilising the ever-increasingly popular counter attack method.
Spain looked rather unsettled and at odds with the Turkish side, but all self doubt were put aside when Fernando Torres won a free kick just outside the box fifteen minutes into the second half. The resulting free kick should have brought a goal from Spain’s first choice right back, but Sergio only managed to head across goal. Fortunately, Pique was there to drill the ball into the back of the net Volcan saw it coming but even though he got a hand on the ball, could not stop the inevitable.
Once Spain was up, the pressure dropped. The crowd sang and cheered merrily and the players began to enjoy themselves. The relief of scoring was immense. Having to play Turkey away in a few day’s time made it very important to get a result here at the Bernabéu, in front of their own fans. And they did it, they got their result, they kept their winning record and continued to collect maximum points in their qualifying group. Spain was well on their way to appearing in the World Cup 2010, where they hope to add to their trophy cabinets.
The game over, players celebrated a job well done. It may not have been their best match of late, but it had gotten them the three precious points and they will face a Turkey side out for revenge the next week. Lulled by the victory and the familiar sights and sounds of Madrid, Fernando could not resist reliving his boyish youth. Grabbing Sergio by the wrist, Fernando hauled his friend out into the busy streets.
A tad annoyed at being forcibly removed from the front of the mirror, Sergio tried to comb his unruly hair with his fingers. Tsking at Fernando, he continued to try to straighten the wet strands of hair whilst he baited Fernando with a tetchy remark, “We won this match from my assist.”
Fernando’s eyebrows darted upwards. His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits and his competitive streak countered, “Ah, but I won that free kick that led to your assist, if you can even call it that. Really, Sergio, you should have scored!”
Sergio frowned indignantly. “An assist was obviously the unexpected thing. That’s why we scored, because I did the unconventional thing and headed it not into the net, but across the goal.”
“Uh huh, Sergio, keep telling yourself that.” Fernando stretched his arms in the warm sunshine. “God, I’ve missed this city.”
Sergio glanced at Fernando haughtily and said, “You should have thought of that before you upped and relocated to dreary Liverpool.”
Fernando swatted Sergio’s head jokingly. “I love Liverpool, it’s a great city, you should come too, Sergio.” And when Sergio just wrinkled his straight nose and tossed his perfect hair, Fernando couldn’t continue the charade. He didn’t like the way they had ignored each other when they met up earlier that week for international duty and even this small conversation wasn’t the same as how they used be together. They used to bounce off one another, their thoughts mirrored and synchronised, like their ideas were travelling on the same wavelength and in the same frequency. So he offered the white flag, “Our old place?” he asked hopefully.
Watching Sergio’s back as the young defender marched purposefully down familiar streets towards their special spot, Fernando smiled. Gitano had forgiven him.
* * * * *
While one Liverpool Spaniard was reconciling himself with an old mate, another was trying to get access of his current partner. Xabi Alonso cursed hurriedly under his breath as he tried to get the hotel’s laptop to work. Impatient, he checked his phone for the umpteenth time and was again disappointed when the screen did not show any new messages. Steven Gerrard’s team only had a friendly but a match was still a match, and still a risk for injury. The suspense was nearly killing him.
Finally the page loaded and Xabi scanned it urgently. The report was abysmal. It contained virtually no information whatsoever. So England beat Slovakia, 4-0. Martin would not be happy about that, but what of injuries. The headlines had screamed injuries yet, to whom? In his haste, Xabi had to read the article three times before he grasped the meaning behind the words. Collapsing onto the soft bed with relief, Xabi reached for his phone.
“I’m safe, don’t worry.” Xabi nearly hung up on Steven when he heard those cocky words uttered with that beautiful voice.
“What made you think that I was worried?” Xabi teased, a smile spreading across his face, “You’re not that special, Stevie.”
“What are you calling me for, then?” Steven replied matter-of-factly. When Xabi only spluttered down the phone, he continued, “See, you did worry. But I’m fine -” a pause, “- and you better be too, Xabi.”
“Sí, Stevie, I’m fine, too. Congratulations on winning.”
“Yes, you too, Xabi, I checked your scores too. Yours was more important, a tight win but a win nonetheless. Ours was just a friendly but the real stuff is happening next week.”
“Martin must be furious, no?”
“Martin? Oh, yeah, I don’t think I’ll invite myself round for drinks anytime soon,” Steven chuckled.
* * * * *
Martin Škrtel clenched his hands into fists of long fingers and tendons. His luscious, red lips twisted down into a frown. He had caved under the pressure. Daniel, deprived of a pitch to perform on at home in Anfield, turned his sights on displaying his skills on the international front. Agger had had a good match. He had played well, Martin grudgingly conceded. And then he, himself had fluffed his lines. He supposed Rafa’s inclination to go with Carragher and himself at the back gave him a slight advantage but fitness and form had been his trump card. Now he wasn’t so sure. Daniel looked good. More than good.
Running his hand over his scalp, Martin sighed at the ceiling. They had one more match to perform in for the manager before returning to club football. And he was determined to make the best out of it. Use it to wash away the humiliating defeat at the hands of his club’s captain.
He always saw the hurt in Daniel’s eyes whenever they roomed together for away matches, the disappointment of not making the cut, not being chosen to start. Martin felt a little uncomfortable at the small window of vulnerability Daniel displayed unknowingly, his glazed eyes betraying his otherwise stoic stance. Seeing Daniel like that only reinforced the drive to remain on top, to remain first choice. For he could not bear it if their roles were reversed and it was he, instead, who looked upon Daniel with such bitter envy. Whilst he understood the Dane’s position, he was not selfless enough to step aside. Besides, Daniel would not appreciate charity; he would want to earn his spot. But he was fooling himself.
Truth was, Martin was beginning to think Daniel had more than earned his spot. But if Rafa insisted on playing him instead, who was he to complain?