a falling mirror
title a falling mirror
rating pg-13
word count 11,033
pairing sergio ramos/gonzalo higuain
summary "You know Iker." And how strange it is that Mesut does know Iker. That three generations of footballers know Iker, have played with Iker, have called Iker their own. "He gets what he wants. And what he wants is a press conference on Sunday."
The season ends when Iker lifts the league trophy in the air and the sky explodes with color: flares from the Ultras and confetti from everyone else. Cibeles is draped in their flag and Sergio's cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.
The season ends in triumph and Real Madrid disperses to a summer of no major international tournaments. Iker stays in Mostoles with Sara; Sergio thinks they may have gone to Italy for a few weeks, but he knows Iker's a homebody, so he's sure they stayed in Madrid for most of their time off. Gonzalo heads back to Argentina like he always does, hugging Sergio and promising to call. Sergio himself goes to Sevilla for a few days before heading to the beach with René and his family. Danelia's old now, old enough to realize that her Tio Sergio is in fact kind of famous, and is thus more shy around him than she's ever been. Mirian and her boyfriend come and join them for a few days and she and Sergio are photographed together as they are every year. At least three different tabloids mistake her for his 'new girlfriend'.
When Sergio gets back to Madrid in late July, the first thing he does is find Iker.
---
They go to a small café in Mostoles and they sit inside to avoid the heat and the photographers. Sergio's gotten used to having his life documented to share with people he'll never meet (as much as he can, anyway) but he's never been comfortable with having his meals interrupted.
Even so, a girl comes up to their table and asks for Iker to sign her Madridista card. Iker puts his fork down and smiles as pleasantly as he ever does for the camera, and then the girl turns and offers the card to Sergio, who grins at her and signs it and hands the Sharpie back. She thanks them and leaves.
"What I'd like to say to that," Iker says, "is 'sure, I'll sign your shit, but once I'm done eating, so see you in a bit,' you know? But if I say that, I'm a jerk."
Sergio offers a tight-lipped smile and shrugs. "That's life, I guess."
"So how've you been, Gitano?"
"Uh uh, hombre, you don't get to ask that. How've you been, that's the question." Sergio resumes eating.
"You mean, am I gonna keep playing?" Sergio grunts in assent. "I don't know, Gitano. I don't know. I'm old, you know?"
Sergio reaches down and rubs his fingers over the knee that's been troubling him for the past three seasons. "Yeah," he sighs. "I know."
---
Cristiano gets back to Madrid early, too.
"No more quality time with Cristiano Jr.?" Sergio asks when Cristiano calls him.
"Nah," Cristiano laughs. "Cris is with my mother. I figured I might as well get back here and try to get into shape for the preseason, you know."
Sergio nods into the receiver. "Mmhmm."
"Also, I heard a rumor about Iker."
"Yeah?" Sergio holds the phone between his shoulder and his cheek and starts pacing. "What about him?"
"That he's gonna retire." Sergio doesn't say anything. "Is it true?"
"I dunno, hombre," Sergio says slowly. "Probably. Says he's tired."
"Okay. Well, keep me posted," Cristiano says. "Hey, wanna come to mine sometime? Play pool or something, we don't have to go out."
"Sure," Sergio says absently. "Wait, you know that you could just ask Iker yourself, right?"
"Yeah," Cristiano replies, and Sergio can practically see him waving his hands around dismissively. "But the two of you are tight, you know? You've known him forever."
There's enough truth to the statement that Sergio lets it slide and doesn't reply.
---
Sergio finds Iker in the film room.
He closes the door and lingers in the back of the room, listening to the careful click click click of the projector. It's an old match, 1953, maybe, because di Stefano streaks up the sideline time and time again, still looking new, excited to play in the white shirt. Sergio crosses his arms and leans against the wall and watches his childhood heroes demolish Barcelona, 5-0. The uniforms of these players are hanging in another room of the Bernabéu, carefully hung up and framed to display their legends.
The Bernabéu looks mostly the same in the film as it does now, huge stands and wide open grass. Even in black and white, Sergio feels like he's there, like he's running on brilliant green. He imagines himself, inserted amongst the legends on the screen, and it's like he's a kid again, dreaming of being on the pitch with players like Iker and Fernando Hierro.
The projector clicks to a stop and Iker gets up to put in a DVD. Sergio blinks for the sudden vivid technicolor, for the green of the field and the white of the shirts and the blue of the sky. It's a Copa del Rey match from 2008; Sergio can see himself jumping up and down on the pitch. When he sees Raúl score his first goal of the match and run full speed towards the corner flag, kissing his ring as he always has (even at Schalke, Sergio reminds himself, even though he doesn't like to think of his captain playing anywhere but Madrid), Sergio remembers that their captain had scored a hat trick in that match.
Sergio pushes himself off of the wall with his shoulders and crosses the room to sit down next to Iker. He elbows the keeper gently, not wanting to startle him. The chair squeaks as he eases himself into it. Iker tilts his body towards Sergio without moving his eyes from the screen.
"How long've you been here?" Iker asks.
Sergio shrugs and settles back into his seat, also facing forward. His fingers drum out a beat against the armrest of his chair, trying to match the way he's running on screen. "Long enough. Saw the di Stefano match."
They watch in silence for a while longer, pausing only when Iker fast forwards through a bit at the beginning of the second half. When the DVD comes to an end, Iker reaches over to turn it off, but Sergio puts a hand on his arm to still him. "Hang on," Sergio says.
The Sevilla match from 2009 is in the rack of game tape, so Sergio takes it out of its sleeve and puts it in the DVD player. He doesn't like to relive defeat, but defeat isn't what anyone remembers from this game. What they remember, everyone except for Iker, is world's greatest save, world's best keeper.
Sergio bites his lip, residually tense as they watch Sevilla put up one goal. They don't stop, pushing for more, hungry. Sergio can feel Iker tensing beside him as well, his knuckles white against the armrest of his chair as they watch their own defense leave gaps and Sergio releases his breath in a huge sigh as a perfect header from a perfect cross bounces off of Iker's thigh and out of bounds. A few minutes later, he grips the arms of his chair as Iker dives across the goal at full stretch to deny another golden opportunity from the Sevilla attackers.
After so many years of playing in the Madrid shirt, it's still strange for Sergio to play against Sevilla. He is a Madridista through and through, second captain now, always proud to wear the white shirt, but part of him has always belonged to the club that propelled him forward.
"It was a mistake," Iker says. Sergio turns to face him for the first time that afternoon.
The keeper looks tired. The front of his hair is on end, probably from running his hands through it so many times, and the lines on his forehead which used to only show up when he frowned are visible even now, with his face relaxed. Sergio drums his fingers against his thigh.
"What was?" He asks.
Iker takes a minute to answer, and in that minute, Sergio's mind stretches open to endless possibilities. That season was a mistake. Letting Pellegrini go was a mistake. Letting del Bosque go, a few years before that match, was a mistake. Never winning the Copa del Rey was a mistake. Coming here today was a mistake. Madrid was a mistake.
"That save," Iker says simply. "I moved too late, the ball was already crossed-" he pauses in his critique to rewind the tape and press play again. "See, there- I see it crossed and I dive."
"Doesn't seem like a mistake to me," Sergio says. "Seems pretty rational, actually."
Iker snorts. "Diving in blind hope is rational only in your mind, Serg."
"It was a beautiful save," Sergio replies, even though he knows Iker won't listen. Iker never listens to praise, not really. He'll pay attention long enough to say 'thank you' and then he goes back to relentlessly beating himself up. It's the reason he's so good, Sergio knows, but it's also the reason he's so tired all the time.
Sure enough, Iker just shrugs. "Thanks."
Sergio reaches over Iker to turn off the projector. "Hmm?" Iker asks.
"We don't need to watch the rest," Sergio says.
"Why, 'cause we lost?"
"Nope," Sergio replies. "'Cause it's Sevilla."
The machine stops whirring and they sit in silence for a few minutes. "You never had another club," Sergio says. "But it's weird. To play against them, you know? Or to watch them play and not be there." He shrugs. "I'm glad I'm here, right, I love it here, but I understand why Silva went to England."
Iker stands up and slips his jacket on. Sergio follows suit. "Silva went to England for the money," Iker says. "Valencia needed the money."
Sergio shakes his head. "Valencia had to sell him, yeah," he waves his hand dismissively. "But he went to England so he wouldn't have to play against them."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Sergio answers. "Think about it, hombre. If you'd left Madrid when you were twenty-two or something, you wouldn't have gone to another La Liga club, would you? You'd go to England or Italy, maybe, but not another Spanish club."
"I s'pose that's true enough," Iker concedes. "I never really thought about it, I guess."
"That's because you aren't expendable, not for any amount of money," Sergio tells him.
They walk out into the Ciudad Real Madrid together. Sergio pulls his keys out of his pocket and tosses them up and down to himself a few times. The castilla team is at training, so they make their way over to one of the many practice fields that make up Valdebebas and lean against the fence.
It's strange to think of the boys on the field as ten, fifteen years younger than him, but Sergio knows it's true. He watches them run around the pitch, some of them with shoulders that aren't quite filled out. They don't play the way he did when he was in the youth system at Sevilla; these boys are too focused, too detail oriented. There's not as much goofing around as Sergio remembers. Everyone's too intent on impressing the coaches, moving up faster, becoming the youngest to be called up to the senior team.
One of the boys notices him and Iker and nudges his friend, trying to point subtly. Sergio laughs and gives them a small wave.
They stick around until there's a break in the practice. One of the goalkeepers comes over to them.
"Hi," he says, mostly out of breath. Sergio grins at him and turns his attention away, looking through the ranks of other boys for anyone he might know, Zizou's kid, or Raúl's. "Could you sign them, please?" The kid says. Sergio turns back to watch Iker fumble with the marker the kid's provided. He signs his name on the strap of the Adidas gloves and hands them back.
"Good luck," Iker tells him.
"Thanks!" The kid beams. "I can't wait to see you in La Liga this year."
The whistle blows for practice to resume before Iker can say anything and the kid sprints back to the pitch. Sergio and Iker turn away and head for the parking lot. Sergio's elbow catches Iker in the ribs.
"You really gonna be able to walk away from that?"
Iker looks over his shoulder for a second. "From Castilla? I left Castilla a long time ago, in case you hadn't noticed."
Sergio shakes his head. "No, puta. From El Madrid. Kids asking for your autograph. This."
Iker shrugs. "Looks like I'm gonna have to, doesn't it?"
Sergio fumbles with his keys as they approach his car. He leans against the door of his Audi and studies Iker for a moment. "You don't. You've got another few years in you, old man."
"I don't," Iker replies, shaking his head. "I'm flattered, but I don't. I'm tired, Serg. I need to live a quiet life for a little bit now."
"Without winning the Copa del Rey?" Sergio opens the door. "Give us one more season, we'll win it for you."
"Thanks, but you'll have to win that one for yourself," Iker says, grinning a little. Sergio pouts. "You'll be fine, Serg. You will be."
"I'll see you later, Iker," Sergio says. He climbs into the Audi, shuts the door, and watches Iker walk across the parking lot to get to his own car.
A one-club man. At least, Sergio thinks as he puts the car into gear and drives away from Valdebebas, Iker gets what Raúl and Guti and Hierro and Salgado and so many other legends never did, what he himself will never have. At least Iker gets to be Real Madrid for his entire life, always white.
---
"So it's true?"
Madrid in the summer is hot, but Sergio, Cristiano, and Mesut are eating outside anyway. The café is crowded, downtown Madrid swamped with tourists. Sergio is sweating, glad he decided to wear a shirt that wouldn't show it too much.
"Hmm?"
"Iker," Mesut clarifies. "He's leaving?"
Sergio remembers when Mesut still called Iker 'Casillas' and stuttered around the keeper. He remembers when Mesut was a little star-struck by Cristiano, too, but here they are, sitting side by side, almost as close as Cristiano and Kaká are. (In the name of full disclosure, Sergio had been a little star-struck by Cristiano too, back when the Portuguese had first joined Los Blancos. It's hard not to be star-struck by Cristiano, even now, sometimes.) Sergio sighs.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I guess it is."
Cristiano lets out a low whistle. "Can't picture it without him, you know?"
"Says he's tired," Sergio shrugs. "I'd be tired too, I guess."
"He's got another year left in him, at least," Mesut says. He picks up his water glass and takes a long drink. Sergio watches the way the condensation slips over the German's fingers.
"You know Iker." And how strange it is that Mesut does know Iker. That three generations of footballers know Iker, have played with Iker, have called Iker their own. "He gets what he wants. And what he wants is a press conference on Sunday."
"Damn."
They don't talk about it after that. Instead, they pay for lunch and go to Cristiano's, where Sergio has a beer, Mesut only drinks water, and Cristiano schools them both at billiards.
"Just because you've got this damn table and nothing to do with your time but practice," Sergio grumbles good-naturedly. Cristiano just grins as he sinks the eight ball.
"So we've got what, two weeks until practice?" Mesut asks. "One," Cristiano replies. "It's Wednesday, right? Just one."
"Damn," Sergio groans. "I don't know if I'm ready for this, boys."
Mesut raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
Cristiano ruffles Mesut's hair. "You'll understand when you're an old man, too," he tells the German.
"It's funny, though," Sergio says. "You know, when we're kids and all we think about is playing football, watching football, football football football. And we push like crazy in the youth systems and shit so we can make the first team as fast as possible and then we've got what, ten years? Fifteen, if we're lucky? Fifteen years of a good career and then what?"
The other two both look at him, frowning. Sergio pauses for breath. "Are you okay?" Mesut asks.
Sergio shakes his head. He's tired all of a sudden, ready to go to sleep even though it's barely evening. "Yeah, I'm good," he says. "I'm good. It's just Iker, you know? It's got me thinking, I guess. I don't know."
"Go home and get some sleep," Cristiano says. Sergio rarely pictures him as a parent, but it strikes him then that Cristiano is probably a good father.
"Yeah," Sergio agrees. "I'll see you two on Sunday."
---
When Sunday rolls around, Iker does give a press conference. The first team files into their seats at the Bernabéu and it feels to Sergio as if he's watching himself watch Iker instead of actually being there. The stadium is full, full of people wanting to pay their respects to Iker, to thank him for a lifetime of service. To say goodbye. It's strange for Sergio that he's here, with Cristiano on one side and Jorge Valdano on the other, formally saying goodbye to one of his best friends. It's strange because he knows he'll see Iker, probably not tomorrow, but definitely during the week. This isn't goodbye, not for real.
They put Iker's shirt in a frame and his gloves in a box and Iker waves to the crowd, thanking them as they thank him, and that's that. The first team files out, shakes hands with him. Sergio pulls him into a bear hug at the last minute.
"Bye, old man," he says.
"Good luck, captain," Iker replies.
---
Somehow, in all the fanfare, Sergio forgets about Gonzalo.
This is unusual. Sergio does not forget about things. He remembers the name of the woman who sells his mother produce (Maria) and the number of steps he had to climb to get onto the airplane to go to the World Cup in 2010 (fourteen). He remembers Mirian's boyfriend's birthday (July eighteenth) and that Cesc hates mushrooms, although to be fair, most people remember that Cesc hates mushrooms.
And yet in the space of one summer, he forgets about Gonzalo.
It's something they both tend to do every summer: put each other in the backs of their minds while they play with their respective national teams, but there are always a few calls and some texts here and there. Pictures of Gonzalo and Garay make their way into Sergio's email box and he laughs at their South American antics before sending pictures of himself and Alvaro, or himself and Iker, right back. He always misses Gonzalo, because he and Gonzalo are close, have been since Gonzalo's first season at Real Madrid, and he assumes Gonzalo misses him, too, but-
There is none of that this year, just two missed calls on his phone that he never returned, forgotten in the buzz surrounding Iker's departure. Sergio doesn't like to make excuses, so instead he pretends nothing happened.
---
The next time Sergio goes to Valdebebas, it's for the first training session of the preseason.
Sergio has done this for years, sometimes showing up a few days late because of international duty and sometimes showing up with the rest of the squad, on time and ready for Mourinho to beat up on them until they're in the best shape of their lives. The first training session is always two things: a measure of just how out of shape he's gotten during the week or two he spends at the beach with his family, and a chance to goof around with his teammates.
Usually, Sergio would enter the locker room ready to dump his water bottle over Marcelo's head, or jump on top of Alvaro in order to be the tallest one there. There's always a high five from Gonzalo and they usually spend the first few days of training working out what their goal celebrations for the season will be.
This time, Sergio walks into the locker room and sits down to put his shin guards and boots on. Everyone else is horsing around as usual; Sergio resists the temptation to join in and instead tries to remember how Iker behaved on days like these. Nothing comes to mind.
He's a little more comfortable when they spill out onto the pitch for stretching and a warm up lap. He runs next to Cristiano and it takes a little effort to keep up with the striker. He's panting for breath by the time they start stretching.
Stretching is the same with every team.
Goofing around beforehand aside, stretching is always twenty minutes spent mentally checking every inch of his body, and Sergio closes his eyes and he leans over, trying to press his nose to his kneecap, feeling just how tight his hamstrings are. The sun is hot on his neck. He wonders if summer-brown skin can burn.
"Hey," Cristiano says, sidling up next to him. "Partner?"
"Sure," Sergio agrees. He sits down and lets Cristiano push against the tops of his feet, feeling the muscles that run along his shin bones being pulled.
"Doing okay?"
Sergio snorts. "Yeah, I'm good."
They stretch in silence for a few more minutes, until Mourinho comes out onto the field and starts yelling for the team to bring it in. Sergio gets to his feet and holds out a hand to help Cristiano up. The Portuguese takes it and they jog towards the side of the pitch together.
"You're allowed to miss him, you know," Cristiano says as they near the rest of the team. Sergio slows down and turns to face him.
"He's not dead or anything," he half-jokes.
"Yeah, but I'm just saying. We all miss him."
Sergio considers for a moment. "Thanks," he finally says.
They don't get a chance to finish their conversation, because Mourinho starts them on an elaborate set of sprints that leaves the entire team struggling for breath. When they finish, Sergio squirts Marcelo with his water bottle and the whole team seems more at ease.
---
They go to L.A. for two preseason friendlies.
The irony of this is not lost on Sergio, who remembers all too clearly the first season Mourinho came to coach El Madrid, another season that was wanting for legends, captains.
Sergio doesn’t like long flights (he never has, he’s always preferred to drive, mostly because he likes being the same size as the things he watches out the window, it makes him feel more centered) and time differences still throw him off-kilter and make him cranky, but after so many years of first division football, he’s starting to get used it.
They climb up twelve stairs to get onto this plane. Sergio tugs at the new team-issued polos. He wishes that this year had been a suit year; as warm as suits are in the summer, he finds them infinitely more comfortable than the waffled fabric of the shirt he's wearing now, and the dress pants sit a little too high on his waist to be completely comfortable during a transatlantic flight. But if nothing else, the plane itself is comfortable enough, and Sergio settles in to his seat without issue.
“Can I sit?”
Sergio presses ‘pause’ on his iPod and looks up to see Gonzalo standing in the aisle. He pulls the earbuds out of his ears, leaving them to fall onto his shoulders, and offers up a small grin. “Of course, hombre, go for it,” he says standing up to let Gonzalo take the window seat. Sergio himself hates window seats, he’d much rather have the aisle and stretch out his legs.
"Thanks," Gonzalo says, and Sergio remembers that Gonzalo likes window seats best. It isn't odd; Sergio knows the airplane seating preference of most of his teammates (Iker always liked window seats the best because he could put his head against the window and fall asleep, while Gago takes aisle seats so that as soon as the fasten seatbelt sign turns off, he can get up and sprawl across whatever row is empty, and Cristiano likes middle seats, if they're available, because then he has two human pillows at his disposal) because they fly together on an almost weekly basis.
It's awkward. Gonzalo fiddles with the window shade for a few minutes as the rest of the team files onto the plane. Sergio's fingers drum erratic rhythms against his thigh.
"How was your summer?" he tries.
Gonzalo takes a minute to reply. "It was okay, I guess. Tough." He coughs. "Buenos Aires, you know."
"Well, no," Sergio says. "You never could convince me to come with you," he jokes. It's half-hearted at best. Gonzalo raises an eyebrow.
"I think that was less of my persuasive skills and more of you being stubborn," Gonzalo says, and it's not quite a joke, not quite friendly. Sergio doesn't know what to say.
"Sorry I didn't call you back," is what he eventually comes up with. Gonzalo grunts.
"I get it. You were busy with Iker and everything. It's okay."
"No, that's not-" Sergio struggles for words and when nothing presents itself to him, he makes a frustrated noise and slaps his open palm against his thigh. "Never mind."
Gonzalo just shrugs, so Sergio presses 'play' on his iPod, confused and tired. He closes his eyes and ignores the flight safety instructions, and after a while, when they're flying somewhere high above the clouds, he falls asleep.
He isn’t usually the type to sprawl on top of people- Sergio likes his own space, for the most part, so he does his best to respect that of others. But when they arrive in Los Angeles, Sergio grunts and finds that his cheek is pillowed on Gonzalo’s shoulder. His whole body is curled towards the Argentine striker, left shoulder tucked just behind Gonzalo’s right, and as he blinks himself awake, he realizes that he is nuzzling Gonzalo’s neck -kind of awkward, given their respective positions, but nice anyway. Then he remembers how stilted their conversation was earlier, how he pressed 'dismiss' when the missed calls showed up on his phone. He feels his cheeks heating up.
“Shit, sorry,” he says, jerking upright. He offers Gonzalo an apologetic half-smile.
"You're okay, it's fine," Gonzalo says. His voice is stiff despite his words. "Let's go." He shrugs and then pushes Sergio gently into the aisle so then can get off the plane.
---
What Sergio thinks of when they get to the hotel is the last time he was in L.A.
What he remembers is still being slightly unused to Mourinho's rules and training schedules and idiosyncrasies. He remembers at least three players not being able to speak Spanish with any sort of fluency, and how strange it had been to slow his speech for them. "I'm not even bad," he remembers teasing Mesut. "Iker, hombre, he's the one you gotta watch out for."
"Iker is what?" How strange Spanish had sounded with a thick German accent, even though he had heard Metzelder speaking similarly for a few years already.
"He speaks like- like his mouth is full?" Sergio had never learned another language, not even another dialect, in any formal sense. "Like he's chewing." All he could think to do was speak slowly, in short sentences. He felt like he was speaking to a child, the staccato syntax so at odds with how his words usually flowed. "Like there's no space in his mouth for the words."
"Oh," Mesut had said.
Sergio feels now like he assumes Mesut had back then. He takes a nap when they arrive at the hotel. He and Xabi are sharing a room, but when Sergio wakes up from his siesta, the Basque is still sleeping. Sergio gets up anyway and splashes cold water on his face before he puts on a shirt that isn't the team polo, grabs his keys, and leaves.
L.A. is a sprawling city and Sergio doesn't really know where he wants to go, so he retraces his steps. What he remembers is the four musketeers, taking pictures at every turn, speaking loudly in Spanish, signing more autographs than anyone had anticipated, because they were still famous from the World Cup. Spanish names were still fresh on American lips, pronounced with an English accent. Sergio remembers the 'g' in his name being too harsh.
Now it's his turn to pronounce things awkwardly. Two years of on and off English lessons aren't enough to help him that much here, where the language is choppier than he'd remembered, where people roll three words into one and call it intelligible.
"Beverly Hills hotel," he tells the cab driver when he's ready to head back. He trips over the two 'h's and bites his lip, but the driver just nods and turns on the meter.
Playing against Sevilla sucks sometimes, it really does. Sergio hates seeing the team that gave him a chance, hates seeing them lined up against them. He hates seeing players with whom he'd worked his way through the youth system high fiving each other and joking around during warm ups, because he isn't there with them. He feels like he missed out on some strangely important part of adolescence when he moved to Madrid and surrounded himself with Los Galacticos and found himself battling for the starting position with Michel Salgado, one of his childhood heroes. He's glad he did move to Madrid, though.
---
Four days into the preseason and Sergio feels like hell.
"Defend," Mourinho barks, and it takes all of Sergio's will power to not roll his eyes. Of course he tries to defend. He stands at the top of the box and bends his knees, drops his left leg a little and rises up on his toes. He's ready, but Gonzalo still beats him with a flick of his left foot and a pretty side-step. (Gonzalo beats Adan, too. Sergio kicks the ground where the 18-yard-box is painted onto the grass and frowns.)
"Again," Mourinho calls. Sergio jogs back into position and ignores the sympathetic looks Pepe and Marcelo are giving him.
Gonzalo starts dribbling towards him and Sergio bounces in place a little. He waits, this time, waits for Gonzalo to come to him. He thinks, what if Iker was in goal. What if Iker was in goal and Gonzalo was going to score, right now? The image of Iker's face when he lets in a goal has been long since burned into Sergio's mind, and it's been over five years since his main objective in football has been to stop Iker from ever making that face.
He goes down in a hard tackle, catching the ball but also Gonzalo's shin. They go down in a heap on the edge of the box and the ball goes spiraling off towards the sideline. Sergio stays down for a second, Gonzalo pressed on top of him, and he grunts. The grass is too short to be soft against his face or his stomach, where his practice jersey is riding up. Gonzalo picks himself up slowly and offers his hand to help Sergio get up. Sergio takes it gingerly, not sure if it's a peace offering or just a gesture of politeness.
"Better," Mourinho says. "Now do it without fouling."
Sergio runs through the drill three more times before he can cleanly take the ball from Gonzalo. Gonzalo scores twice more. Adan saves only one shot, but it is a fine save, the keeper's body stretched to his full extension. He palms the ball over the top of the cage and everyone watching, even Sergio, who is nearly doubled over with his hands on his knees, trying to figure out where he went wrong this time, starts cheering like crazy, whooping and clapping.
It's easy to forget sometimes that Adan went through the Real Madrid youth system. Sergio forgets sometimes (they all have, really) that Adan has had a few offers from clubs where he might actually earn caps. Even in Iker's last season, he was the only keeper to have logged minutes, Adan having moved to Mourinho's second-choice keeper after Dudek's retirement. (The Liverpool boys are the only ones who really miss Dudek, Sergio thinks privately. He was good -of course he was good, anyone who'd watched the Champions League back in 05 knew that- but he wasn't Iker.)
Mourinho finds Sergio after practice.
"How are you doing?"
It's not a question of sympathy, Sergio knows. He looks down at the tattered, team-issued sweatpants from the 2006 season that are hanging off of his hips, at odds with the new, still-stiff tracksuit jacket that he's wearing half-unzipped.
"Okay," he says carefully. He isn't sure what Mourinho wants to hear.
"You're allowed to struggle," Mourinho tells him, "but you are required to succeed."
How, Sergio wants to ask. He's never been a captain before. He's worn the armband for Spain a handful of times, during matches when Del Bosque had decided to rest Iker, but it's always been temporary.
"Okay," he says. "I will."
The look on Mourinho's face makes it clear that Sergio sounds just as convinced as feels (not at all), but the Portuguese doesn't say anything more, so Sergio leaves to rejoin the team. He falls asleep on the bus back to the hotel and when he gets back to his room, the only thing he does before he falls back asleep is call David Beckham.
---
"So how'd you get away? I heard Mourinho's training schedule was a bitch."
Sergio's glad David has kept up on with his Spanish. His accent is as funny as it was so many years ago, when Sergio first joined Real Madrid.
"Day off," Sergio explains. They're at some restaurant near David's house in L.A. where they're attracting their fair share of recognition, but nobody's actually approached them yet, which Sergio appreciates.
They order and chat as if they'd done a better job of keeping in contact since David left. There was always the occasional phone call, email, Christmas card, but of all the Real Madrid team that David left behind, Iker was the one who really kept up with David.
"So you all have had a good run lately," David says, turning the conversation to football. Sergio shrugs.
The truth is that yes, they've been having a good run lately. They've been having a good run since Mourinho came to the Bernabéu, but the truth is also that Sergio is afraid that he'll be the one to fuck it up.
The tabloids will blame Mourinho, of course. He's not worried about his reputation or anything like that, the tabloids always blame the coach- Sergio remembers Del Bosque, and knows that the club would do the same to Mourinho after one losing season.
"Yeah, I suppose," is what Sergio finally says. "I hope we can keep it up, yeah?"
David laughs. "You'll be fine."
Sergio scrunches up his nose and raises his eyebrow. "You think?"
David scrutinizes him for a moment. Sergio feels a little uncomfortable for the way that the Englishman's bright blue eyes are reading everything in his face, but he forces himself to stay still, let David look. Sergio's always been an easy person to read. "What are you worried about, gypsy boy?"
It's been a long time since he's heard David call him 'gypsy boy'. Sergio feels eighteen again, young and unused to the roar of the Bernabéu.
"Why did you retire?" Sergio asks. "From the captaincy," he clarifies.
The waitress returns to the table with their food before David can answer. Sergio thanks her and picks up his fork, poking at his plate. David takes a long drink of water and they are quiet for a moment.
"It was the right time," he replies, finally. "England needed something new, you know?"
Sergio blinks at him. He doesn't know.
What Sergio remembers from the World Cup in 2006 is the feeling of bitter, crushing disappointment. He remembers how the feeling of all that momentum came to a crashing halt. He remembers wishing he could break down like Cesc had, but he couldn't, because he wasn't the baby of the team anymore. He remembers crying a little bit, for posterity, but he also remembers crying for real, later, on his own. He hadn't paid attention to anything that had happened after he climbed sixteen steps onto the plane and left Germany.
"Well," David tries again. "I did everything I could, yeah? And it wasn't enough at the time." He pauses, drinks some water. Sergio doesn't say anything. "It was time to let someone else take over, that's all. I'd rather leave the captaincy when I had at least been able to do something rather than keeping it and running us into the ground, you know? I was trying not to be selfish."
Selfish.
"Oh," Sergio says.
David kicks at his shin under the table. "Iker wouldn't have left if he didn't think you were ready," he says quietly. "That man, I mean. You probably know him better than I do these days, but he never does anything without a reason, Iker."
"Hmm?" Sergio asks.
"He's a keeper," David shrugs. "It's how they are."
---
They get back to Madrid a week before the season starts and win the last of their preseason friendlies.
The thing about preseason is that it doesn't feel real. In his head, Sergio equates it to when he was a kid and his parents would send him to football camps over the summer, before he started training in earnest with Sevilla's youth system. Those weeks, when he did nothing but eat and go to training three times a day and play matches on Thursdays, not Saturdays, always felt like they were suspended in time. Preseason matches feel like that- no pressure (there's always pressure for Real Madrid, but lower pressure, at any rate), just football. Sergio's worn the armband during preseason before, when Dudek stepped in to give Iker a rest.
What he isn't prepared for is the beginning of the season.
---
"What's up with you and Pipa?"
Cristiano's house is huge. Half of it is filled with football memorabilia -jerseys, both Cristiano's own and one's he's traded for (Sergio can pick out two of Figo's, one from Portugal and one from Real Madrid), awards, pictures with all of the big names- but the other half is set up more like a house a normal person might own, despite its size. There are school books on the dining room table and the living room is messy. There's a grocery list taped to the stainless steel refrigerator. Sergio likes going to Cristiano's house in part because of its dual personality, but mostly because it feels more homey than his own apartment, which feels almost too sterile and empty.
"What do you mean, hombre?"
There's a pool table in the basement, and Sergio likes to practice his shots after dinner. He's got a beer balanced on the edge of the table and the chalk has smudged against his fingers. Cristiano lounges against the wall, drinking and watching Sergio line up scenario after scenario.
"I dunno, you haven't been that close lately, it seems."
Sergio always forgets how perceptive Cristiano is. It's easy, he finds, to forget things about Cristiano and become overwhelmed by his persona instead. Sergio's getting better at it- years of friendship tend to help, he thinks- but he and Cristiano aren't at the point that Kaká and Cristiano are, or even Cristiano and Mesut.
"I hadn't noticed," Sergio lies. He takes his shot and misses.
"Bullshit," Cristiano says. Sergio frowns.
"Okay, fine. I don't know what's up."
Cristiano raises his eyebrow. Sergio puts the pool cue on the table.
"We just didn't talk over the summer," he says. "And then things got crazy with Iker and everything, I don't know. Seriously, Cris, I don't know."
He doesn't wait for Cristiano to reply, just re-racks the balls and lines himself up for another shot.
"He thinks you love Iker more than you love him, puta," Cristiano says. Sergio can practically feel the winger staring at him. He takes his shot. He gets one ball in the pocket.
"Huh?" Sergio asks blankly.
"Iker," Cristiano explains patiently. Sergio pictures himself as Cristiano's son, being taught his maths homework. (Then again, Cristiano's always the one who can't figure out how much to give as a tip when they go out to eat, so perhaps being taught the offsides rule.) "Look, I don't know what you had going on with him, and to be honest, I really don't care, okay? But he's jealous of Iker and it's fucking up his game, so you need to fix it."
"He's jealous of Iker?"
Cristiano looks at him as if Sergio is trying to speak Chinese. "You stopped talking to him over the summer because of Iker," he says slowly, but the patience is gone. "You didn't mean to ignore him, whatever, but that's what it felt like, you know?"
"Oh," Sergio says.
"So you need to fix it, because I need a good strike partner."
The one thing that Sergio never forgets about Cristiano is that even when he's being a douche, he's a good person to keep around.
---
Their first La Liga game of the season is at the Bernabéu.
Sergio has walked into the Bernabéu wearing the white shirt more times than he can count. He still gets nervous every time, not because of the infamous Madrid faithful and what they might say or do, but because-
It's hard for him to articulate, really. Because he knows his family is watching, gathered around the nice TV he bought his father for Christmas a few years ago. Because he knows Del Bosque is watching, making sure he's still up for national duty. Because the legends that line the walls of the Bernabéu, whose shirts and trophies are on display, are watching; Guti, Raúl, Iker, watching to make sure he lives up to their legacy. Because the man whose position he took, all those years ago, the man he still respects as one of the best right backs in the world, Michel Salgado, is watching. Because he loves the white shirt.
Perhaps it is because Sergio came to love Madrid because Madrid came to love him, and he feels the weight of that debt every time he walks out of the tunnel to the cheering of the Bernabéu.
He shakes hands with the referee (it's Iturralde Gonzalez; Sergio makes a mental note to watch his tackles) and goes to wait for the starting whistle.
It's like watching a sinking ship.
Correction: it's being the captain of a sinking ship.
They don't lose; they are El Madrid, they don't lose to teams just coming out of the relegation zone (Sergio has to remind himself of this at multiple intervals throughout the match). They struggle their way to a nil-nil draw instead, but it feels like losing anyway.
It feels like watching the ball hit the crossbar fives times in the second half. It feels like sprinting back from half-field more times than he can count to stop a breakaway, a stupid turnover.
Adan is quiet in the cage, so different from Iker and the way he barked at Sergio. (Sergio can still hear the echoes of "va, Sergio! Aguanta! Aguanta, nene!" in his ears when he feels like he's running out of breath, energy, desire. He pictures Iker barking at him from the couch, sitting next to Sara with a beer open, wearing one of his jerseys, but somehow it's not the same.) Sergio wonders if Adan is this quiet by nature or if it's just because of first-game nerves.
Sergio remembers being pretty quiet in his own La Liga debut. He isn't mad at Adan.
Part of him is mad at Iker, but Sergio knows it isn't the keeper's fault, either.
Heading back into the tunnel after the match, Sergio catches Gonzalo's arm.
"Okay?" He asks. They all saw the frustration on the striker's face as he hit the post time and time again.
Gonzalo stares at him blankly for a second. Sergio forces himself to stare right back. Jealous of Iker, Cristiano had said. Gonzalo was jealous of Iker. Sergio tightens his grip on the striker's arm in desperation. He vividly pictures this scene last year, the two of them jumping up and down, whooping and cheering like idiots. He remembers what happened afterwards, when Gonzalo came to his apartment with a six-pack and they celebrated a little bit more privately, too.
"Yeah," Gonzalo says, but he sounds defeated, not okay. The careful order falls away from his face and he just looks lost now. "I'm good."
"Okay," Sergio replies slowly. He hadn't really gotten past this point in his head. "Come by later?"
Gonzalo shakes his head. "I don't think so. Plans with Eze," he says.
"Oh." Sergio is still holding Gonzalo's arm. He lets go and his hands swing awkwardly at his sides. "See you at training, then."
They go into the locker room side by side but not speaking. It's a more comfortable silence than usual, though, so Sergio takes it as a step in the right direction. Cristiano raises his eyebrows at the pair as they walk in. Sergio shrugs a little bit and strips his shirt off, ready for a hot shower.
"Progress is progress," Cristiano tells him.
Sure, Sergio thinks. Of course it is. But the statement doesn't seem to require a reply, so he doesn't say anything.
---
Iker calls Sergio on a Tuesday.
His phone starts buzzing, playing flamenco fast and loud out of tinny speakers. Sergio, napping on the couch, throws an arm out to the coffee table and searches around for it without opening his eyes. He is tired, bone tired, from the match at the weekend and from two brutal training sessions afterwards- major change in team dynamics or no, tying matches that should have been won doesn't sit will with Mourinho.
"Mfgh," Sergio grunts into the phone without looking at the caller ID.
"Hello to you too," Iker replies. Sergio blink a few times, trying to become fully awake.
"Iker?" He asks.
"Of course," the keeper replies. "How've you been?"
Sergio pulls the phone away from his ear for a second and stares at it in disbelief. A large part of him wants to start berating Iker for leaving. He wants to yell. All of the frustration from the past few weeks bubbles up in his chest and Sergio wants nothing more than to just let it all out.
Instead, he clenches his jaw and breathes out slowly. "Okay," he says then. "Not good. But it'll be okay."
He remembers what Beckham told him, that Iker doesn't do anything without thinking about it. He knows it's true. "Have you been watching?"
Iker laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle that comes from his belly. "Of course I've been watching, gypsy boy. I was white for how many years? It'd be like cutting my hands off, me not watching."
"You still are white," Sergio says.
There's a pause over the line. Sergio leans back against the couch cushions and waits.
"I am," Iker says finally. "But you are too."
"Hmm?"
"You need to stop pretending I'm coming back, Serg," Iker tells him. Sergio coughs.
"Sorry, what?"
"You know in the match how many times you looked over your shoulder at Adan?"
"I wasn't counting, no," Sergio replies.
"Too many. You need to go forward, Gitano. Not backwards."
---
Lunch with Adan is awkward.
They go to a small restaurant near Sergio's apartment. Sergio arrives first and sits down. He taps out a quick text to Gonzalo, can i come over later, figuring he might as well make amends there, too, and shreds bits of his paper napkin as he waits. He'd called Adan because-
He isn't really sure why he called Adan. It's something he needs to do, he knows, but he isn't exactly sure how to go about doing it.
When the keeper shows up, they order and make slightly stiff small talk over their water glasses. Sergio remembers too many years of ignoring the third-string goalkeeper to not feel awkward now, sitting across a table for him.
"You feeling okay?" He asks finally. "About the team and everything." He waves his hand around a little, as if it would help clarify. Adan blinks at him.
"Yeah," he says. "Of course." "Yeah?" Sergio is surprised by the certainty in Adan's voice.
"Listen, I know I'm not Iker," Adan says, "But I've been waiting for this and training for this since I was a kid, you know? I'm ready. I'm having a good time."
'A good time' isn't how Sergio would describe the start to their season, but then he thinks about how it would be for him to have his La Liga debut now. He remembers Mesut's first season, how they tied so many matches before they hit their stride. He remembers how much of a roller coaster Cristiano's first season had been. He remembers how giddy he himself had felt during his first season in the white shirt.
"Good," he tells Adan. "Good. I'm glad."
He smiles and some of the tension dissipates. The air feels less formal now, less captain and player and more teammates.
---
Sergio and Adan part ways outside of the restaurant. Adan gets into a taxi and Sergio walks around the block to find his Audi. He gets into the car and sits for a minute, then pulls out his phone to check his messages. There's one, from Gonzalo.
yeah i guess, it says. Sergio frowns, but types back his reply and turns the key in the ignition. on my way, he says.
He puts the phone on silent so that if Gonzalo changes his mind and texts him back negatively, he can claim ignorance, and pulls out into the Madrid traffic.
It's midday in September, so Sergio rolls the windows down all the way and puts one of his favorite flamenco CDs in the car stereo. He still hasn't quite adjusted back to the crazy Madrid drivers and their disregard for traffic regulations after a summer spent on the beach, but he makes it to Gonzalo's apartment without too much trouble and his car still in one piece.
Sergio can't count how many times he's climbed the stairs to the Argentine's apartment. He used to come over after every match, it seems, and now, after the entire preseason and one La Liga match, is the first time he's making an appearance. He feels awkward to be showing up with nothing but himself, almost as if he should have brought a peace offering (though peace for what, he still isn't quite sure). He knocks on the door and stands awkwardly, hoping the old woman from next door, who he'd once encountered when he was fairly drunk and making a right fool of himself, doesn't show up while he waits.
"Hey," Gonzalo says, opening the door. Sergio moves to step into the apartment, but the Argentine lounges in the doorway, leaning his hip against the door jamb, effectively blocking Sergio's way in.
"You gonna let me come in?" Sergio asks, trying out a half-smile. He shrugs apologetically and Gonzalo relents, taking a step backwards into the room.
Gonzalo's apartment is fairly boring. He's got a map of Argentina hanging on the wall of his living room and one of Raúl's shirts is framed and on display, but for the most part, it's pretty bare and beige. Sergio remembers that he'd lived in the same hotel as Gago had when he first moved to Madrid. He remembers when Gonzalo first moved into this apartment- the whole team had piled into the living room to play a Fifa'08 tournament. Sergio had crashed out in the second round and curled up on the sofa, content to watch Iker yell at the screen.
"So," Gonzalo drawls. "What's up?"
Sergio wanders further into the apartment and takes a seat at one of the barstools Gonzalo has instead of kitchen chairs. "I just."
He doesn't finish his sentence right away. Instead, he takes a second to drum his fingers against the countertop and bite his lower lip.
"I'm sorry?" He finally tries. "For whatever I did, man, I don't even know."
Gonzalo looks at him for a few minutes without saying anything.
"Thanks," he says after a beat.
"I guess I don't really get it, though?" Sergio says. He frowns. "I want us to be okay, yeah? But like. I don't get it."
Gonzalo sits down across the kitchen island from him. "It's stupid," he says. "It's just that, you know, you ignored me for three months." He stops. "Like, you know how we would always kind of lose touch but there was enough, right? E-mails and shit, whatever. It was enough. But then it just- you just stopped. And I get it, you were busy with Iker, it's cool."
"It's not, though," Sergio replies. "It's not cool." Gonzalo raises an eyebrow at him. "Look, man, the thing with Iker is like- he's my best friend. He's basically taken care of me since I got to El Madrid, you know? It was a big deal."
"It was a big deal for all of us," Gonzalo says. "You didn't have to shut down."
"I didn't," Sergio protests. "I didn't shut down."
"Not to Cristiano," Gonzalo says. "Not to Mesut, even. But to me? You did."
"Oh," Sergio says, quiet now. "Oh."
"Why are you here?" Gonzalo asks. There's no accusation in his voice, so Sergio knows he isn't talking about Iker anymore. "Just because of the team?"
"What, you mean because I'm captain?" Sergio isn't exactly sure how to respond.
"Yeah," Gonzalo says. "Are you here because you're the captain now and I fucked up on Saturday and you feel obliged to like, make it better or something?"
Sergio makes an aborted reach for Gonzalo, wanting to touch him, his arm, his hand, to center himself a little bit. He catches himself when about half of the distance is closed and lets his hand fall awkwardly onto the counter. "No no no, not at all," he tells the Argentine. "I'm here because I was worried and I felt bad. Man, it's weird, you know? Not talking to you all the time."
"It is," Gonzalo agrees.
"Are we okay?"
Gonzalo takes a minute to reply, as he has to almost everything this afternoon, but this time Sergio can hear his heart beating violently against his ribcage, thump thump, thump thump.
"Yeah," Gonzalo says finally, and Sergio feels his heartbeat calm down. He exhales loudly.
"Good," he says. "Good."
---
They go to the park.
It's full of neighborhood kids and their parents, out after school, Sergio assumes. They bring a football with them and start kicking around on the field that is more dirt than grass because of how many boys play on the weekends. Sergio steps into the goal and taunts Gonzalo like they're kids, like he used to do to René.
"Let's go, Pipita," he taunts. The goal is shorter than he is, but he jumps up and down a few times anyway, spreading out his arms to see how far his reach goes. "Put one past me."
Gonzalo snorts. "You take up most of the goal, Gitano," he complains, but he puts the ball on the penalty mark anyway and takes a few strides back.
The first shot bounces off of Sergio's abdomen. He doubles over in faux pain, scrambling to get to the ball. "Cheap shot," he calls. "No taking out the keeper."
Gonzalo rolls his eyes. "You know I'm not actually trying to hit you when I do that, right?"
Sergio shrugs. "So don't."
"It's not that simple."
They aren't talking about a game of one-on-one in the neighborhood park anymore. The words have a different meaning now but Sergio shrugs them off anyway. He lets the ball drop to the dusty ground and then picks it up with his foot, balancing it on his toe. He waves his foot around back and forth for a minute, and then tosses the ball up to himself and starts juggling. When he starts to lose the rhythm, he sends the ball to Gonzalo on a half volley.
"Sure it is," he says.
Gonzalo sends the ball back to him, a high lob, and Sergio lines himself up for a bicycle kick. He throws himself into the air and makes contact with the ball on the laces of his street shoes. The ball sails high over the bar of the tiny, rickety goal, but the neighborhood kids who have gathered, ready for their after-school pick-up match, cheer anyway. Sergio picks himself up from the ground and takes a bow.
"See?"
"You didn't score, puta," Gonzalo says, raising an eyebrow. Sergio reaches out and pinches his cheek.
"Language, Pipa, there are children present," he chides, sounding appropriately scandalized. "Why don't you show me how it's done?"
One of the boys throws a ball at them and Gonzalo catches it on his knee and brings it down. He shakes his head at Sergio, but he's laughing a little. "Do you all have a good keeper?" He asks the kids. "I need a world class keeper to shoot on, you know. Not like this clown." He elbows Sergio in the ribs before he takes off towards the opposite goal, the ball as tight on his street shoes as it ever is on his boots.
---
They play their first away match against Valencia.
Sergio fusses with the armband and throws his water bottle at Cristiano in the locker room. He's nervous.
"You'll be fine," Cristiano tells him, smacking him gently on the cheek. Sergio wonders if that's what he tells his kid before Cristiano Jr. goes to school in the mornings.
"Better than fine," Sergio replies, flashing a grin. Cristiano laughs, gives him a double thumbs up.
"That's more like it, Gitano."
Mesut fist bumps him before they go to line up in the tunnel. Marcelo slings an arm around his neck and clings for a while, making dirty jokes that Sergio half-understands at Cristiano in Portuguese.
They get to the tunnel, and Sergio pulls Gonzalo next to him in the line-up.
"You gonna show me how it's done, Pipita?"
Gonzalo flashes him a toothy grin. It's not how they used to be, with plenty of casual, lingering touches. It's more cynical now, a little more jaded. Sergio doesn't really like it, but he can work with it. "You know it, puta," the Argentine replies.
At halftime, they're tied 1-1 with goals from Mesut and Juan Mata.
Mourinho yells at them in the locker room for sloppy play, for depending on the refs. Sergio doesn't say anything.
"Let's fix it," El Mister says, and they all nod.
They are El Madrid.
They spill onto the field for the second half and they fix it. Cristiano first, and then Mesut again. It's 3-1 when Sergio finds himself streaking up the right touchline with the ball at his feet, feeling like he hasn't since he was nineteen. He takes a quick look up and finds an extra burst of speed that seems residual, if anything, a throwback to his early days in the white shirt. Gonzalo's waiting for him in the box, hovering just on the right side of the last defender. Sergio launches the ball forward in a perfect arc and watches as it sails high above three defenders.
His whole body thrums in excitement as he watches Gonzalo throw his arm up to aim himself before launching himself into the air and extending his right leg. Sergio takes off running towards the Argentine before he even sees the ball rocket past the keeper and into the back of the net, because he knows. He knows it's a goal. He knows it's 4-1 and they are unstoppable. They are El Madrid.
As always, just as they used to do, Sergio gets to Gonzalo first. They link arms and dance for a few seconds before the rest of the team arrives, pushing them together in an unbearable crush of bodies. They cling, the whole team, with Sergio and Gonzalo at the center, falling in on themselves before exploding outwards again, ready to score again and again, ready to conquer the world.
notes.
1. sergio and his sister mirian are often mistaken for a couple. i think it's funny; i'm sure they do, too.
2. in october 2009, real madrid played and lost to sevilla, in a match that is remembered now for iker casillas making two fantastic saves, the latter of which has been dubbed "the greatest save in history".
3. valdebebas is a little ridiculous.
4. cesc fabregas hates mushrooms.
5. as most of you probably know, sergio ramos loves twitter (and we love that he loves twitter). in LA for preseason after the 2010 world cup, he posted a series of pictures of himself, alvaro arbeloa, xabi alonso, and raul albiol, and called them the cuatro mosqueteros.
6. in the summer of 2010, rumors were flying about adan leaving real madrid before even making his la liga debut. adan is a product of the real madrid youth system, like casillas.
7. champions league 2005, commonly referred to as just 'istanbul' by liverpool fans, cemented dudek as a legend after he saved shevchenko's penalty to win the match.
8. del bosque was sacked in 2003, to the shock of most madridistas. hierro also was released at that time. i don't personally remember any slandering tabloid articles about him, but it's basically a general truth that the real madrid of late isn't nice to their coaches- they get kicked out if they win and if they lose. (enough of my personal bias. sorry.)
9. david beckham gave up the england captaincy in 2006 after a disappointing world cup run.
10. gonzalez is a la liga referee who gives out a lot of cards.
11. much much love to the wonderful reality0junkie for doing the lovely art/fanmix! and for her eternal patience with me, lord knows i didn't deserve it. you're an angel, sweetie.
12. eternal gratitude to influira for being my second set of eyes here and saving you all from who knows how many grammatical errors and my inability to spell.
13. a million thanks to my entire f-list for listening to me bitch about this for what, four months? and for encouraging and prodding and making me write this (special shout-out to lunar_art who wanted sergio/gonzalo and made sure that this thing actually came into existence. it's not as overtly slashy as it originally was, i'm sorry dear!). i couldn't have done it without you all, and the moral of this story is that i'm really not meant to write things that are over 5,000 words.
14. this was originally written for rpf_big_bang. this is not posted as a big bang because one of the stipulations is that that piece must be at least 15,000 words. i was going to, i really was, but then some serious personal issues came up that prevented me from posting this as a big bang. even so, big thank you to the mods over there who organized this and did a wonderful job of keeping everything in line.
rating pg-13
word count 11,033
pairing sergio ramos/gonzalo higuain
summary "You know Iker." And how strange it is that Mesut does know Iker. That three generations of footballers know Iker, have played with Iker, have called Iker their own. "He gets what he wants. And what he wants is a press conference on Sunday."
The season ends when Iker lifts the league trophy in the air and the sky explodes with color: flares from the Ultras and confetti from everyone else. Cibeles is draped in their flag and Sergio's cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.
The season ends in triumph and Real Madrid disperses to a summer of no major international tournaments. Iker stays in Mostoles with Sara; Sergio thinks they may have gone to Italy for a few weeks, but he knows Iker's a homebody, so he's sure they stayed in Madrid for most of their time off. Gonzalo heads back to Argentina like he always does, hugging Sergio and promising to call. Sergio himself goes to Sevilla for a few days before heading to the beach with René and his family. Danelia's old now, old enough to realize that her Tio Sergio is in fact kind of famous, and is thus more shy around him than she's ever been. Mirian and her boyfriend come and join them for a few days and she and Sergio are photographed together as they are every year. At least three different tabloids mistake her for his 'new girlfriend'.
When Sergio gets back to Madrid in late July, the first thing he does is find Iker.
---
They go to a small café in Mostoles and they sit inside to avoid the heat and the photographers. Sergio's gotten used to having his life documented to share with people he'll never meet (as much as he can, anyway) but he's never been comfortable with having his meals interrupted.
Even so, a girl comes up to their table and asks for Iker to sign her Madridista card. Iker puts his fork down and smiles as pleasantly as he ever does for the camera, and then the girl turns and offers the card to Sergio, who grins at her and signs it and hands the Sharpie back. She thanks them and leaves.
"What I'd like to say to that," Iker says, "is 'sure, I'll sign your shit, but once I'm done eating, so see you in a bit,' you know? But if I say that, I'm a jerk."
Sergio offers a tight-lipped smile and shrugs. "That's life, I guess."
"So how've you been, Gitano?"
"Uh uh, hombre, you don't get to ask that. How've you been, that's the question." Sergio resumes eating.
"You mean, am I gonna keep playing?" Sergio grunts in assent. "I don't know, Gitano. I don't know. I'm old, you know?"
Sergio reaches down and rubs his fingers over the knee that's been troubling him for the past three seasons. "Yeah," he sighs. "I know."
---
Cristiano gets back to Madrid early, too.
"No more quality time with Cristiano Jr.?" Sergio asks when Cristiano calls him.
"Nah," Cristiano laughs. "Cris is with my mother. I figured I might as well get back here and try to get into shape for the preseason, you know."
Sergio nods into the receiver. "Mmhmm."
"Also, I heard a rumor about Iker."
"Yeah?" Sergio holds the phone between his shoulder and his cheek and starts pacing. "What about him?"
"That he's gonna retire." Sergio doesn't say anything. "Is it true?"
"I dunno, hombre," Sergio says slowly. "Probably. Says he's tired."
"Okay. Well, keep me posted," Cristiano says. "Hey, wanna come to mine sometime? Play pool or something, we don't have to go out."
"Sure," Sergio says absently. "Wait, you know that you could just ask Iker yourself, right?"
"Yeah," Cristiano replies, and Sergio can practically see him waving his hands around dismissively. "But the two of you are tight, you know? You've known him forever."
There's enough truth to the statement that Sergio lets it slide and doesn't reply.
---
Sergio finds Iker in the film room.
He closes the door and lingers in the back of the room, listening to the careful click click click of the projector. It's an old match, 1953, maybe, because di Stefano streaks up the sideline time and time again, still looking new, excited to play in the white shirt. Sergio crosses his arms and leans against the wall and watches his childhood heroes demolish Barcelona, 5-0. The uniforms of these players are hanging in another room of the Bernabéu, carefully hung up and framed to display their legends.
The Bernabéu looks mostly the same in the film as it does now, huge stands and wide open grass. Even in black and white, Sergio feels like he's there, like he's running on brilliant green. He imagines himself, inserted amongst the legends on the screen, and it's like he's a kid again, dreaming of being on the pitch with players like Iker and Fernando Hierro.
The projector clicks to a stop and Iker gets up to put in a DVD. Sergio blinks for the sudden vivid technicolor, for the green of the field and the white of the shirts and the blue of the sky. It's a Copa del Rey match from 2008; Sergio can see himself jumping up and down on the pitch. When he sees Raúl score his first goal of the match and run full speed towards the corner flag, kissing his ring as he always has (even at Schalke, Sergio reminds himself, even though he doesn't like to think of his captain playing anywhere but Madrid), Sergio remembers that their captain had scored a hat trick in that match.
Sergio pushes himself off of the wall with his shoulders and crosses the room to sit down next to Iker. He elbows the keeper gently, not wanting to startle him. The chair squeaks as he eases himself into it. Iker tilts his body towards Sergio without moving his eyes from the screen.
"How long've you been here?" Iker asks.
Sergio shrugs and settles back into his seat, also facing forward. His fingers drum out a beat against the armrest of his chair, trying to match the way he's running on screen. "Long enough. Saw the di Stefano match."
They watch in silence for a while longer, pausing only when Iker fast forwards through a bit at the beginning of the second half. When the DVD comes to an end, Iker reaches over to turn it off, but Sergio puts a hand on his arm to still him. "Hang on," Sergio says.
The Sevilla match from 2009 is in the rack of game tape, so Sergio takes it out of its sleeve and puts it in the DVD player. He doesn't like to relive defeat, but defeat isn't what anyone remembers from this game. What they remember, everyone except for Iker, is world's greatest save, world's best keeper.
Sergio bites his lip, residually tense as they watch Sevilla put up one goal. They don't stop, pushing for more, hungry. Sergio can feel Iker tensing beside him as well, his knuckles white against the armrest of his chair as they watch their own defense leave gaps and Sergio releases his breath in a huge sigh as a perfect header from a perfect cross bounces off of Iker's thigh and out of bounds. A few minutes later, he grips the arms of his chair as Iker dives across the goal at full stretch to deny another golden opportunity from the Sevilla attackers.
After so many years of playing in the Madrid shirt, it's still strange for Sergio to play against Sevilla. He is a Madridista through and through, second captain now, always proud to wear the white shirt, but part of him has always belonged to the club that propelled him forward.
"It was a mistake," Iker says. Sergio turns to face him for the first time that afternoon.
The keeper looks tired. The front of his hair is on end, probably from running his hands through it so many times, and the lines on his forehead which used to only show up when he frowned are visible even now, with his face relaxed. Sergio drums his fingers against his thigh.
"What was?" He asks.
Iker takes a minute to answer, and in that minute, Sergio's mind stretches open to endless possibilities. That season was a mistake. Letting Pellegrini go was a mistake. Letting del Bosque go, a few years before that match, was a mistake. Never winning the Copa del Rey was a mistake. Coming here today was a mistake. Madrid was a mistake.
"That save," Iker says simply. "I moved too late, the ball was already crossed-" he pauses in his critique to rewind the tape and press play again. "See, there- I see it crossed and I dive."
"Doesn't seem like a mistake to me," Sergio says. "Seems pretty rational, actually."
Iker snorts. "Diving in blind hope is rational only in your mind, Serg."
"It was a beautiful save," Sergio replies, even though he knows Iker won't listen. Iker never listens to praise, not really. He'll pay attention long enough to say 'thank you' and then he goes back to relentlessly beating himself up. It's the reason he's so good, Sergio knows, but it's also the reason he's so tired all the time.
Sure enough, Iker just shrugs. "Thanks."
Sergio reaches over Iker to turn off the projector. "Hmm?" Iker asks.
"We don't need to watch the rest," Sergio says.
"Why, 'cause we lost?"
"Nope," Sergio replies. "'Cause it's Sevilla."
The machine stops whirring and they sit in silence for a few minutes. "You never had another club," Sergio says. "But it's weird. To play against them, you know? Or to watch them play and not be there." He shrugs. "I'm glad I'm here, right, I love it here, but I understand why Silva went to England."
Iker stands up and slips his jacket on. Sergio follows suit. "Silva went to England for the money," Iker says. "Valencia needed the money."
Sergio shakes his head. "Valencia had to sell him, yeah," he waves his hand dismissively. "But he went to England so he wouldn't have to play against them."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Sergio answers. "Think about it, hombre. If you'd left Madrid when you were twenty-two or something, you wouldn't have gone to another La Liga club, would you? You'd go to England or Italy, maybe, but not another Spanish club."
"I s'pose that's true enough," Iker concedes. "I never really thought about it, I guess."
"That's because you aren't expendable, not for any amount of money," Sergio tells him.
They walk out into the Ciudad Real Madrid together. Sergio pulls his keys out of his pocket and tosses them up and down to himself a few times. The castilla team is at training, so they make their way over to one of the many practice fields that make up Valdebebas and lean against the fence.
It's strange to think of the boys on the field as ten, fifteen years younger than him, but Sergio knows it's true. He watches them run around the pitch, some of them with shoulders that aren't quite filled out. They don't play the way he did when he was in the youth system at Sevilla; these boys are too focused, too detail oriented. There's not as much goofing around as Sergio remembers. Everyone's too intent on impressing the coaches, moving up faster, becoming the youngest to be called up to the senior team.
One of the boys notices him and Iker and nudges his friend, trying to point subtly. Sergio laughs and gives them a small wave.
They stick around until there's a break in the practice. One of the goalkeepers comes over to them.
"Hi," he says, mostly out of breath. Sergio grins at him and turns his attention away, looking through the ranks of other boys for anyone he might know, Zizou's kid, or Raúl's. "Could you sign them, please?" The kid says. Sergio turns back to watch Iker fumble with the marker the kid's provided. He signs his name on the strap of the Adidas gloves and hands them back.
"Good luck," Iker tells him.
"Thanks!" The kid beams. "I can't wait to see you in La Liga this year."
The whistle blows for practice to resume before Iker can say anything and the kid sprints back to the pitch. Sergio and Iker turn away and head for the parking lot. Sergio's elbow catches Iker in the ribs.
"You really gonna be able to walk away from that?"
Iker looks over his shoulder for a second. "From Castilla? I left Castilla a long time ago, in case you hadn't noticed."
Sergio shakes his head. "No, puta. From El Madrid. Kids asking for your autograph. This."
Iker shrugs. "Looks like I'm gonna have to, doesn't it?"
Sergio fumbles with his keys as they approach his car. He leans against the door of his Audi and studies Iker for a moment. "You don't. You've got another few years in you, old man."
"I don't," Iker replies, shaking his head. "I'm flattered, but I don't. I'm tired, Serg. I need to live a quiet life for a little bit now."
"Without winning the Copa del Rey?" Sergio opens the door. "Give us one more season, we'll win it for you."
"Thanks, but you'll have to win that one for yourself," Iker says, grinning a little. Sergio pouts. "You'll be fine, Serg. You will be."
"I'll see you later, Iker," Sergio says. He climbs into the Audi, shuts the door, and watches Iker walk across the parking lot to get to his own car.
A one-club man. At least, Sergio thinks as he puts the car into gear and drives away from Valdebebas, Iker gets what Raúl and Guti and Hierro and Salgado and so many other legends never did, what he himself will never have. At least Iker gets to be Real Madrid for his entire life, always white.
---
"So it's true?"
Madrid in the summer is hot, but Sergio, Cristiano, and Mesut are eating outside anyway. The café is crowded, downtown Madrid swamped with tourists. Sergio is sweating, glad he decided to wear a shirt that wouldn't show it too much.
"Hmm?"
"Iker," Mesut clarifies. "He's leaving?"
Sergio remembers when Mesut still called Iker 'Casillas' and stuttered around the keeper. He remembers when Mesut was a little star-struck by Cristiano, too, but here they are, sitting side by side, almost as close as Cristiano and Kaká are. (In the name of full disclosure, Sergio had been a little star-struck by Cristiano too, back when the Portuguese had first joined Los Blancos. It's hard not to be star-struck by Cristiano, even now, sometimes.) Sergio sighs.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I guess it is."
Cristiano lets out a low whistle. "Can't picture it without him, you know?"
"Says he's tired," Sergio shrugs. "I'd be tired too, I guess."
"He's got another year left in him, at least," Mesut says. He picks up his water glass and takes a long drink. Sergio watches the way the condensation slips over the German's fingers.
"You know Iker." And how strange it is that Mesut does know Iker. That three generations of footballers know Iker, have played with Iker, have called Iker their own. "He gets what he wants. And what he wants is a press conference on Sunday."
"Damn."
They don't talk about it after that. Instead, they pay for lunch and go to Cristiano's, where Sergio has a beer, Mesut only drinks water, and Cristiano schools them both at billiards.
"Just because you've got this damn table and nothing to do with your time but practice," Sergio grumbles good-naturedly. Cristiano just grins as he sinks the eight ball.
"So we've got what, two weeks until practice?" Mesut asks. "One," Cristiano replies. "It's Wednesday, right? Just one."
"Damn," Sergio groans. "I don't know if I'm ready for this, boys."
Mesut raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
Cristiano ruffles Mesut's hair. "You'll understand when you're an old man, too," he tells the German.
"It's funny, though," Sergio says. "You know, when we're kids and all we think about is playing football, watching football, football football football. And we push like crazy in the youth systems and shit so we can make the first team as fast as possible and then we've got what, ten years? Fifteen, if we're lucky? Fifteen years of a good career and then what?"
The other two both look at him, frowning. Sergio pauses for breath. "Are you okay?" Mesut asks.
Sergio shakes his head. He's tired all of a sudden, ready to go to sleep even though it's barely evening. "Yeah, I'm good," he says. "I'm good. It's just Iker, you know? It's got me thinking, I guess. I don't know."
"Go home and get some sleep," Cristiano says. Sergio rarely pictures him as a parent, but it strikes him then that Cristiano is probably a good father.
"Yeah," Sergio agrees. "I'll see you two on Sunday."
---
When Sunday rolls around, Iker does give a press conference. The first team files into their seats at the Bernabéu and it feels to Sergio as if he's watching himself watch Iker instead of actually being there. The stadium is full, full of people wanting to pay their respects to Iker, to thank him for a lifetime of service. To say goodbye. It's strange for Sergio that he's here, with Cristiano on one side and Jorge Valdano on the other, formally saying goodbye to one of his best friends. It's strange because he knows he'll see Iker, probably not tomorrow, but definitely during the week. This isn't goodbye, not for real.
They put Iker's shirt in a frame and his gloves in a box and Iker waves to the crowd, thanking them as they thank him, and that's that. The first team files out, shakes hands with him. Sergio pulls him into a bear hug at the last minute.
"Bye, old man," he says.
"Good luck, captain," Iker replies.
---
Somehow, in all the fanfare, Sergio forgets about Gonzalo.
This is unusual. Sergio does not forget about things. He remembers the name of the woman who sells his mother produce (Maria) and the number of steps he had to climb to get onto the airplane to go to the World Cup in 2010 (fourteen). He remembers Mirian's boyfriend's birthday (July eighteenth) and that Cesc hates mushrooms, although to be fair, most people remember that Cesc hates mushrooms.
And yet in the space of one summer, he forgets about Gonzalo.
It's something they both tend to do every summer: put each other in the backs of their minds while they play with their respective national teams, but there are always a few calls and some texts here and there. Pictures of Gonzalo and Garay make their way into Sergio's email box and he laughs at their South American antics before sending pictures of himself and Alvaro, or himself and Iker, right back. He always misses Gonzalo, because he and Gonzalo are close, have been since Gonzalo's first season at Real Madrid, and he assumes Gonzalo misses him, too, but-
There is none of that this year, just two missed calls on his phone that he never returned, forgotten in the buzz surrounding Iker's departure. Sergio doesn't like to make excuses, so instead he pretends nothing happened.
---
The next time Sergio goes to Valdebebas, it's for the first training session of the preseason.
Sergio has done this for years, sometimes showing up a few days late because of international duty and sometimes showing up with the rest of the squad, on time and ready for Mourinho to beat up on them until they're in the best shape of their lives. The first training session is always two things: a measure of just how out of shape he's gotten during the week or two he spends at the beach with his family, and a chance to goof around with his teammates.
Usually, Sergio would enter the locker room ready to dump his water bottle over Marcelo's head, or jump on top of Alvaro in order to be the tallest one there. There's always a high five from Gonzalo and they usually spend the first few days of training working out what their goal celebrations for the season will be.
This time, Sergio walks into the locker room and sits down to put his shin guards and boots on. Everyone else is horsing around as usual; Sergio resists the temptation to join in and instead tries to remember how Iker behaved on days like these. Nothing comes to mind.
He's a little more comfortable when they spill out onto the pitch for stretching and a warm up lap. He runs next to Cristiano and it takes a little effort to keep up with the striker. He's panting for breath by the time they start stretching.
Stretching is the same with every team.
Goofing around beforehand aside, stretching is always twenty minutes spent mentally checking every inch of his body, and Sergio closes his eyes and he leans over, trying to press his nose to his kneecap, feeling just how tight his hamstrings are. The sun is hot on his neck. He wonders if summer-brown skin can burn.
"Hey," Cristiano says, sidling up next to him. "Partner?"
"Sure," Sergio agrees. He sits down and lets Cristiano push against the tops of his feet, feeling the muscles that run along his shin bones being pulled.
"Doing okay?"
Sergio snorts. "Yeah, I'm good."
They stretch in silence for a few more minutes, until Mourinho comes out onto the field and starts yelling for the team to bring it in. Sergio gets to his feet and holds out a hand to help Cristiano up. The Portuguese takes it and they jog towards the side of the pitch together.
"You're allowed to miss him, you know," Cristiano says as they near the rest of the team. Sergio slows down and turns to face him.
"He's not dead or anything," he half-jokes.
"Yeah, but I'm just saying. We all miss him."
Sergio considers for a moment. "Thanks," he finally says.
They don't get a chance to finish their conversation, because Mourinho starts them on an elaborate set of sprints that leaves the entire team struggling for breath. When they finish, Sergio squirts Marcelo with his water bottle and the whole team seems more at ease.
---
They go to L.A. for two preseason friendlies.
The irony of this is not lost on Sergio, who remembers all too clearly the first season Mourinho came to coach El Madrid, another season that was wanting for legends, captains.
Sergio doesn’t like long flights (he never has, he’s always preferred to drive, mostly because he likes being the same size as the things he watches out the window, it makes him feel more centered) and time differences still throw him off-kilter and make him cranky, but after so many years of first division football, he’s starting to get used it.
They climb up twelve stairs to get onto this plane. Sergio tugs at the new team-issued polos. He wishes that this year had been a suit year; as warm as suits are in the summer, he finds them infinitely more comfortable than the waffled fabric of the shirt he's wearing now, and the dress pants sit a little too high on his waist to be completely comfortable during a transatlantic flight. But if nothing else, the plane itself is comfortable enough, and Sergio settles in to his seat without issue.
“Can I sit?”
Sergio presses ‘pause’ on his iPod and looks up to see Gonzalo standing in the aisle. He pulls the earbuds out of his ears, leaving them to fall onto his shoulders, and offers up a small grin. “Of course, hombre, go for it,” he says standing up to let Gonzalo take the window seat. Sergio himself hates window seats, he’d much rather have the aisle and stretch out his legs.
"Thanks," Gonzalo says, and Sergio remembers that Gonzalo likes window seats best. It isn't odd; Sergio knows the airplane seating preference of most of his teammates (Iker always liked window seats the best because he could put his head against the window and fall asleep, while Gago takes aisle seats so that as soon as the fasten seatbelt sign turns off, he can get up and sprawl across whatever row is empty, and Cristiano likes middle seats, if they're available, because then he has two human pillows at his disposal) because they fly together on an almost weekly basis.
It's awkward. Gonzalo fiddles with the window shade for a few minutes as the rest of the team files onto the plane. Sergio's fingers drum erratic rhythms against his thigh.
"How was your summer?" he tries.
Gonzalo takes a minute to reply. "It was okay, I guess. Tough." He coughs. "Buenos Aires, you know."
"Well, no," Sergio says. "You never could convince me to come with you," he jokes. It's half-hearted at best. Gonzalo raises an eyebrow.
"I think that was less of my persuasive skills and more of you being stubborn," Gonzalo says, and it's not quite a joke, not quite friendly. Sergio doesn't know what to say.
"Sorry I didn't call you back," is what he eventually comes up with. Gonzalo grunts.
"I get it. You were busy with Iker and everything. It's okay."
"No, that's not-" Sergio struggles for words and when nothing presents itself to him, he makes a frustrated noise and slaps his open palm against his thigh. "Never mind."
Gonzalo just shrugs, so Sergio presses 'play' on his iPod, confused and tired. He closes his eyes and ignores the flight safety instructions, and after a while, when they're flying somewhere high above the clouds, he falls asleep.
He isn’t usually the type to sprawl on top of people- Sergio likes his own space, for the most part, so he does his best to respect that of others. But when they arrive in Los Angeles, Sergio grunts and finds that his cheek is pillowed on Gonzalo’s shoulder. His whole body is curled towards the Argentine striker, left shoulder tucked just behind Gonzalo’s right, and as he blinks himself awake, he realizes that he is nuzzling Gonzalo’s neck -kind of awkward, given their respective positions, but nice anyway. Then he remembers how stilted their conversation was earlier, how he pressed 'dismiss' when the missed calls showed up on his phone. He feels his cheeks heating up.
“Shit, sorry,” he says, jerking upright. He offers Gonzalo an apologetic half-smile.
"You're okay, it's fine," Gonzalo says. His voice is stiff despite his words. "Let's go." He shrugs and then pushes Sergio gently into the aisle so then can get off the plane.
---
What Sergio thinks of when they get to the hotel is the last time he was in L.A.
What he remembers is still being slightly unused to Mourinho's rules and training schedules and idiosyncrasies. He remembers at least three players not being able to speak Spanish with any sort of fluency, and how strange it had been to slow his speech for them. "I'm not even bad," he remembers teasing Mesut. "Iker, hombre, he's the one you gotta watch out for."
"Iker is what?" How strange Spanish had sounded with a thick German accent, even though he had heard Metzelder speaking similarly for a few years already.
"He speaks like- like his mouth is full?" Sergio had never learned another language, not even another dialect, in any formal sense. "Like he's chewing." All he could think to do was speak slowly, in short sentences. He felt like he was speaking to a child, the staccato syntax so at odds with how his words usually flowed. "Like there's no space in his mouth for the words."
"Oh," Mesut had said.
Sergio feels now like he assumes Mesut had back then. He takes a nap when they arrive at the hotel. He and Xabi are sharing a room, but when Sergio wakes up from his siesta, the Basque is still sleeping. Sergio gets up anyway and splashes cold water on his face before he puts on a shirt that isn't the team polo, grabs his keys, and leaves.
L.A. is a sprawling city and Sergio doesn't really know where he wants to go, so he retraces his steps. What he remembers is the four musketeers, taking pictures at every turn, speaking loudly in Spanish, signing more autographs than anyone had anticipated, because they were still famous from the World Cup. Spanish names were still fresh on American lips, pronounced with an English accent. Sergio remembers the 'g' in his name being too harsh.
Now it's his turn to pronounce things awkwardly. Two years of on and off English lessons aren't enough to help him that much here, where the language is choppier than he'd remembered, where people roll three words into one and call it intelligible.
"Beverly Hills hotel," he tells the cab driver when he's ready to head back. He trips over the two 'h's and bites his lip, but the driver just nods and turns on the meter.
Playing against Sevilla sucks sometimes, it really does. Sergio hates seeing the team that gave him a chance, hates seeing them lined up against them. He hates seeing players with whom he'd worked his way through the youth system high fiving each other and joking around during warm ups, because he isn't there with them. He feels like he missed out on some strangely important part of adolescence when he moved to Madrid and surrounded himself with Los Galacticos and found himself battling for the starting position with Michel Salgado, one of his childhood heroes. He's glad he did move to Madrid, though.
---
Four days into the preseason and Sergio feels like hell.
"Defend," Mourinho barks, and it takes all of Sergio's will power to not roll his eyes. Of course he tries to defend. He stands at the top of the box and bends his knees, drops his left leg a little and rises up on his toes. He's ready, but Gonzalo still beats him with a flick of his left foot and a pretty side-step. (Gonzalo beats Adan, too. Sergio kicks the ground where the 18-yard-box is painted onto the grass and frowns.)
"Again," Mourinho calls. Sergio jogs back into position and ignores the sympathetic looks Pepe and Marcelo are giving him.
Gonzalo starts dribbling towards him and Sergio bounces in place a little. He waits, this time, waits for Gonzalo to come to him. He thinks, what if Iker was in goal. What if Iker was in goal and Gonzalo was going to score, right now? The image of Iker's face when he lets in a goal has been long since burned into Sergio's mind, and it's been over five years since his main objective in football has been to stop Iker from ever making that face.
He goes down in a hard tackle, catching the ball but also Gonzalo's shin. They go down in a heap on the edge of the box and the ball goes spiraling off towards the sideline. Sergio stays down for a second, Gonzalo pressed on top of him, and he grunts. The grass is too short to be soft against his face or his stomach, where his practice jersey is riding up. Gonzalo picks himself up slowly and offers his hand to help Sergio get up. Sergio takes it gingerly, not sure if it's a peace offering or just a gesture of politeness.
"Better," Mourinho says. "Now do it without fouling."
Sergio runs through the drill three more times before he can cleanly take the ball from Gonzalo. Gonzalo scores twice more. Adan saves only one shot, but it is a fine save, the keeper's body stretched to his full extension. He palms the ball over the top of the cage and everyone watching, even Sergio, who is nearly doubled over with his hands on his knees, trying to figure out where he went wrong this time, starts cheering like crazy, whooping and clapping.
It's easy to forget sometimes that Adan went through the Real Madrid youth system. Sergio forgets sometimes (they all have, really) that Adan has had a few offers from clubs where he might actually earn caps. Even in Iker's last season, he was the only keeper to have logged minutes, Adan having moved to Mourinho's second-choice keeper after Dudek's retirement. (The Liverpool boys are the only ones who really miss Dudek, Sergio thinks privately. He was good -of course he was good, anyone who'd watched the Champions League back in 05 knew that- but he wasn't Iker.)
Mourinho finds Sergio after practice.
"How are you doing?"
It's not a question of sympathy, Sergio knows. He looks down at the tattered, team-issued sweatpants from the 2006 season that are hanging off of his hips, at odds with the new, still-stiff tracksuit jacket that he's wearing half-unzipped.
"Okay," he says carefully. He isn't sure what Mourinho wants to hear.
"You're allowed to struggle," Mourinho tells him, "but you are required to succeed."
How, Sergio wants to ask. He's never been a captain before. He's worn the armband for Spain a handful of times, during matches when Del Bosque had decided to rest Iker, but it's always been temporary.
"Okay," he says. "I will."
The look on Mourinho's face makes it clear that Sergio sounds just as convinced as feels (not at all), but the Portuguese doesn't say anything more, so Sergio leaves to rejoin the team. He falls asleep on the bus back to the hotel and when he gets back to his room, the only thing he does before he falls back asleep is call David Beckham.
---
"So how'd you get away? I heard Mourinho's training schedule was a bitch."
Sergio's glad David has kept up on with his Spanish. His accent is as funny as it was so many years ago, when Sergio first joined Real Madrid.
"Day off," Sergio explains. They're at some restaurant near David's house in L.A. where they're attracting their fair share of recognition, but nobody's actually approached them yet, which Sergio appreciates.
They order and chat as if they'd done a better job of keeping in contact since David left. There was always the occasional phone call, email, Christmas card, but of all the Real Madrid team that David left behind, Iker was the one who really kept up with David.
"So you all have had a good run lately," David says, turning the conversation to football. Sergio shrugs.
The truth is that yes, they've been having a good run lately. They've been having a good run since Mourinho came to the Bernabéu, but the truth is also that Sergio is afraid that he'll be the one to fuck it up.
The tabloids will blame Mourinho, of course. He's not worried about his reputation or anything like that, the tabloids always blame the coach- Sergio remembers Del Bosque, and knows that the club would do the same to Mourinho after one losing season.
"Yeah, I suppose," is what Sergio finally says. "I hope we can keep it up, yeah?"
David laughs. "You'll be fine."
Sergio scrunches up his nose and raises his eyebrow. "You think?"
David scrutinizes him for a moment. Sergio feels a little uncomfortable for the way that the Englishman's bright blue eyes are reading everything in his face, but he forces himself to stay still, let David look. Sergio's always been an easy person to read. "What are you worried about, gypsy boy?"
It's been a long time since he's heard David call him 'gypsy boy'. Sergio feels eighteen again, young and unused to the roar of the Bernabéu.
"Why did you retire?" Sergio asks. "From the captaincy," he clarifies.
The waitress returns to the table with their food before David can answer. Sergio thanks her and picks up his fork, poking at his plate. David takes a long drink of water and they are quiet for a moment.
"It was the right time," he replies, finally. "England needed something new, you know?"
Sergio blinks at him. He doesn't know.
What Sergio remembers from the World Cup in 2006 is the feeling of bitter, crushing disappointment. He remembers how the feeling of all that momentum came to a crashing halt. He remembers wishing he could break down like Cesc had, but he couldn't, because he wasn't the baby of the team anymore. He remembers crying a little bit, for posterity, but he also remembers crying for real, later, on his own. He hadn't paid attention to anything that had happened after he climbed sixteen steps onto the plane and left Germany.
"Well," David tries again. "I did everything I could, yeah? And it wasn't enough at the time." He pauses, drinks some water. Sergio doesn't say anything. "It was time to let someone else take over, that's all. I'd rather leave the captaincy when I had at least been able to do something rather than keeping it and running us into the ground, you know? I was trying not to be selfish."
Selfish.
"Oh," Sergio says.
David kicks at his shin under the table. "Iker wouldn't have left if he didn't think you were ready," he says quietly. "That man, I mean. You probably know him better than I do these days, but he never does anything without a reason, Iker."
"Hmm?" Sergio asks.
"He's a keeper," David shrugs. "It's how they are."
---
They get back to Madrid a week before the season starts and win the last of their preseason friendlies.
The thing about preseason is that it doesn't feel real. In his head, Sergio equates it to when he was a kid and his parents would send him to football camps over the summer, before he started training in earnest with Sevilla's youth system. Those weeks, when he did nothing but eat and go to training three times a day and play matches on Thursdays, not Saturdays, always felt like they were suspended in time. Preseason matches feel like that- no pressure (there's always pressure for Real Madrid, but lower pressure, at any rate), just football. Sergio's worn the armband during preseason before, when Dudek stepped in to give Iker a rest.
What he isn't prepared for is the beginning of the season.
---
"What's up with you and Pipa?"
Cristiano's house is huge. Half of it is filled with football memorabilia -jerseys, both Cristiano's own and one's he's traded for (Sergio can pick out two of Figo's, one from Portugal and one from Real Madrid), awards, pictures with all of the big names- but the other half is set up more like a house a normal person might own, despite its size. There are school books on the dining room table and the living room is messy. There's a grocery list taped to the stainless steel refrigerator. Sergio likes going to Cristiano's house in part because of its dual personality, but mostly because it feels more homey than his own apartment, which feels almost too sterile and empty.
"What do you mean, hombre?"
There's a pool table in the basement, and Sergio likes to practice his shots after dinner. He's got a beer balanced on the edge of the table and the chalk has smudged against his fingers. Cristiano lounges against the wall, drinking and watching Sergio line up scenario after scenario.
"I dunno, you haven't been that close lately, it seems."
Sergio always forgets how perceptive Cristiano is. It's easy, he finds, to forget things about Cristiano and become overwhelmed by his persona instead. Sergio's getting better at it- years of friendship tend to help, he thinks- but he and Cristiano aren't at the point that Kaká and Cristiano are, or even Cristiano and Mesut.
"I hadn't noticed," Sergio lies. He takes his shot and misses.
"Bullshit," Cristiano says. Sergio frowns.
"Okay, fine. I don't know what's up."
Cristiano raises his eyebrow. Sergio puts the pool cue on the table.
"We just didn't talk over the summer," he says. "And then things got crazy with Iker and everything, I don't know. Seriously, Cris, I don't know."
He doesn't wait for Cristiano to reply, just re-racks the balls and lines himself up for another shot.
"He thinks you love Iker more than you love him, puta," Cristiano says. Sergio can practically feel the winger staring at him. He takes his shot. He gets one ball in the pocket.
"Huh?" Sergio asks blankly.
"Iker," Cristiano explains patiently. Sergio pictures himself as Cristiano's son, being taught his maths homework. (Then again, Cristiano's always the one who can't figure out how much to give as a tip when they go out to eat, so perhaps being taught the offsides rule.) "Look, I don't know what you had going on with him, and to be honest, I really don't care, okay? But he's jealous of Iker and it's fucking up his game, so you need to fix it."
"He's jealous of Iker?"
Cristiano looks at him as if Sergio is trying to speak Chinese. "You stopped talking to him over the summer because of Iker," he says slowly, but the patience is gone. "You didn't mean to ignore him, whatever, but that's what it felt like, you know?"
"Oh," Sergio says.
"So you need to fix it, because I need a good strike partner."
The one thing that Sergio never forgets about Cristiano is that even when he's being a douche, he's a good person to keep around.
---
Their first La Liga game of the season is at the Bernabéu.
Sergio has walked into the Bernabéu wearing the white shirt more times than he can count. He still gets nervous every time, not because of the infamous Madrid faithful and what they might say or do, but because-
It's hard for him to articulate, really. Because he knows his family is watching, gathered around the nice TV he bought his father for Christmas a few years ago. Because he knows Del Bosque is watching, making sure he's still up for national duty. Because the legends that line the walls of the Bernabéu, whose shirts and trophies are on display, are watching; Guti, Raúl, Iker, watching to make sure he lives up to their legacy. Because the man whose position he took, all those years ago, the man he still respects as one of the best right backs in the world, Michel Salgado, is watching. Because he loves the white shirt.
Perhaps it is because Sergio came to love Madrid because Madrid came to love him, and he feels the weight of that debt every time he walks out of the tunnel to the cheering of the Bernabéu.
He shakes hands with the referee (it's Iturralde Gonzalez; Sergio makes a mental note to watch his tackles) and goes to wait for the starting whistle.
It's like watching a sinking ship.
Correction: it's being the captain of a sinking ship.
They don't lose; they are El Madrid, they don't lose to teams just coming out of the relegation zone (Sergio has to remind himself of this at multiple intervals throughout the match). They struggle their way to a nil-nil draw instead, but it feels like losing anyway.
It feels like watching the ball hit the crossbar fives times in the second half. It feels like sprinting back from half-field more times than he can count to stop a breakaway, a stupid turnover.
Adan is quiet in the cage, so different from Iker and the way he barked at Sergio. (Sergio can still hear the echoes of "va, Sergio! Aguanta! Aguanta, nene!" in his ears when he feels like he's running out of breath, energy, desire. He pictures Iker barking at him from the couch, sitting next to Sara with a beer open, wearing one of his jerseys, but somehow it's not the same.) Sergio wonders if Adan is this quiet by nature or if it's just because of first-game nerves.
Sergio remembers being pretty quiet in his own La Liga debut. He isn't mad at Adan.
Part of him is mad at Iker, but Sergio knows it isn't the keeper's fault, either.
Heading back into the tunnel after the match, Sergio catches Gonzalo's arm.
"Okay?" He asks. They all saw the frustration on the striker's face as he hit the post time and time again.
Gonzalo stares at him blankly for a second. Sergio forces himself to stare right back. Jealous of Iker, Cristiano had said. Gonzalo was jealous of Iker. Sergio tightens his grip on the striker's arm in desperation. He vividly pictures this scene last year, the two of them jumping up and down, whooping and cheering like idiots. He remembers what happened afterwards, when Gonzalo came to his apartment with a six-pack and they celebrated a little bit more privately, too.
"Yeah," Gonzalo says, but he sounds defeated, not okay. The careful order falls away from his face and he just looks lost now. "I'm good."
"Okay," Sergio replies slowly. He hadn't really gotten past this point in his head. "Come by later?"
Gonzalo shakes his head. "I don't think so. Plans with Eze," he says.
"Oh." Sergio is still holding Gonzalo's arm. He lets go and his hands swing awkwardly at his sides. "See you at training, then."
They go into the locker room side by side but not speaking. It's a more comfortable silence than usual, though, so Sergio takes it as a step in the right direction. Cristiano raises his eyebrows at the pair as they walk in. Sergio shrugs a little bit and strips his shirt off, ready for a hot shower.
"Progress is progress," Cristiano tells him.
Sure, Sergio thinks. Of course it is. But the statement doesn't seem to require a reply, so he doesn't say anything.
---
Iker calls Sergio on a Tuesday.
His phone starts buzzing, playing flamenco fast and loud out of tinny speakers. Sergio, napping on the couch, throws an arm out to the coffee table and searches around for it without opening his eyes. He is tired, bone tired, from the match at the weekend and from two brutal training sessions afterwards- major change in team dynamics or no, tying matches that should have been won doesn't sit will with Mourinho.
"Mfgh," Sergio grunts into the phone without looking at the caller ID.
"Hello to you too," Iker replies. Sergio blink a few times, trying to become fully awake.
"Iker?" He asks.
"Of course," the keeper replies. "How've you been?"
Sergio pulls the phone away from his ear for a second and stares at it in disbelief. A large part of him wants to start berating Iker for leaving. He wants to yell. All of the frustration from the past few weeks bubbles up in his chest and Sergio wants nothing more than to just let it all out.
Instead, he clenches his jaw and breathes out slowly. "Okay," he says then. "Not good. But it'll be okay."
He remembers what Beckham told him, that Iker doesn't do anything without thinking about it. He knows it's true. "Have you been watching?"
Iker laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle that comes from his belly. "Of course I've been watching, gypsy boy. I was white for how many years? It'd be like cutting my hands off, me not watching."
"You still are white," Sergio says.
There's a pause over the line. Sergio leans back against the couch cushions and waits.
"I am," Iker says finally. "But you are too."
"Hmm?"
"You need to stop pretending I'm coming back, Serg," Iker tells him. Sergio coughs.
"Sorry, what?"
"You know in the match how many times you looked over your shoulder at Adan?"
"I wasn't counting, no," Sergio replies.
"Too many. You need to go forward, Gitano. Not backwards."
---
Lunch with Adan is awkward.
They go to a small restaurant near Sergio's apartment. Sergio arrives first and sits down. He taps out a quick text to Gonzalo, can i come over later, figuring he might as well make amends there, too, and shreds bits of his paper napkin as he waits. He'd called Adan because-
He isn't really sure why he called Adan. It's something he needs to do, he knows, but he isn't exactly sure how to go about doing it.
When the keeper shows up, they order and make slightly stiff small talk over their water glasses. Sergio remembers too many years of ignoring the third-string goalkeeper to not feel awkward now, sitting across a table for him.
"You feeling okay?" He asks finally. "About the team and everything." He waves his hand around a little, as if it would help clarify. Adan blinks at him.
"Yeah," he says. "Of course." "Yeah?" Sergio is surprised by the certainty in Adan's voice.
"Listen, I know I'm not Iker," Adan says, "But I've been waiting for this and training for this since I was a kid, you know? I'm ready. I'm having a good time."
'A good time' isn't how Sergio would describe the start to their season, but then he thinks about how it would be for him to have his La Liga debut now. He remembers Mesut's first season, how they tied so many matches before they hit their stride. He remembers how much of a roller coaster Cristiano's first season had been. He remembers how giddy he himself had felt during his first season in the white shirt.
"Good," he tells Adan. "Good. I'm glad."
He smiles and some of the tension dissipates. The air feels less formal now, less captain and player and more teammates.
---
Sergio and Adan part ways outside of the restaurant. Adan gets into a taxi and Sergio walks around the block to find his Audi. He gets into the car and sits for a minute, then pulls out his phone to check his messages. There's one, from Gonzalo.
yeah i guess, it says. Sergio frowns, but types back his reply and turns the key in the ignition. on my way, he says.
He puts the phone on silent so that if Gonzalo changes his mind and texts him back negatively, he can claim ignorance, and pulls out into the Madrid traffic.
It's midday in September, so Sergio rolls the windows down all the way and puts one of his favorite flamenco CDs in the car stereo. He still hasn't quite adjusted back to the crazy Madrid drivers and their disregard for traffic regulations after a summer spent on the beach, but he makes it to Gonzalo's apartment without too much trouble and his car still in one piece.
Sergio can't count how many times he's climbed the stairs to the Argentine's apartment. He used to come over after every match, it seems, and now, after the entire preseason and one La Liga match, is the first time he's making an appearance. He feels awkward to be showing up with nothing but himself, almost as if he should have brought a peace offering (though peace for what, he still isn't quite sure). He knocks on the door and stands awkwardly, hoping the old woman from next door, who he'd once encountered when he was fairly drunk and making a right fool of himself, doesn't show up while he waits.
"Hey," Gonzalo says, opening the door. Sergio moves to step into the apartment, but the Argentine lounges in the doorway, leaning his hip against the door jamb, effectively blocking Sergio's way in.
"You gonna let me come in?" Sergio asks, trying out a half-smile. He shrugs apologetically and Gonzalo relents, taking a step backwards into the room.
Gonzalo's apartment is fairly boring. He's got a map of Argentina hanging on the wall of his living room and one of Raúl's shirts is framed and on display, but for the most part, it's pretty bare and beige. Sergio remembers that he'd lived in the same hotel as Gago had when he first moved to Madrid. He remembers when Gonzalo first moved into this apartment- the whole team had piled into the living room to play a Fifa'08 tournament. Sergio had crashed out in the second round and curled up on the sofa, content to watch Iker yell at the screen.
"So," Gonzalo drawls. "What's up?"
Sergio wanders further into the apartment and takes a seat at one of the barstools Gonzalo has instead of kitchen chairs. "I just."
He doesn't finish his sentence right away. Instead, he takes a second to drum his fingers against the countertop and bite his lower lip.
"I'm sorry?" He finally tries. "For whatever I did, man, I don't even know."
Gonzalo looks at him for a few minutes without saying anything.
"Thanks," he says after a beat.
"I guess I don't really get it, though?" Sergio says. He frowns. "I want us to be okay, yeah? But like. I don't get it."
Gonzalo sits down across the kitchen island from him. "It's stupid," he says. "It's just that, you know, you ignored me for three months." He stops. "Like, you know how we would always kind of lose touch but there was enough, right? E-mails and shit, whatever. It was enough. But then it just- you just stopped. And I get it, you were busy with Iker, it's cool."
"It's not, though," Sergio replies. "It's not cool." Gonzalo raises an eyebrow at him. "Look, man, the thing with Iker is like- he's my best friend. He's basically taken care of me since I got to El Madrid, you know? It was a big deal."
"It was a big deal for all of us," Gonzalo says. "You didn't have to shut down."
"I didn't," Sergio protests. "I didn't shut down."
"Not to Cristiano," Gonzalo says. "Not to Mesut, even. But to me? You did."
"Oh," Sergio says, quiet now. "Oh."
"Why are you here?" Gonzalo asks. There's no accusation in his voice, so Sergio knows he isn't talking about Iker anymore. "Just because of the team?"
"What, you mean because I'm captain?" Sergio isn't exactly sure how to respond.
"Yeah," Gonzalo says. "Are you here because you're the captain now and I fucked up on Saturday and you feel obliged to like, make it better or something?"
Sergio makes an aborted reach for Gonzalo, wanting to touch him, his arm, his hand, to center himself a little bit. He catches himself when about half of the distance is closed and lets his hand fall awkwardly onto the counter. "No no no, not at all," he tells the Argentine. "I'm here because I was worried and I felt bad. Man, it's weird, you know? Not talking to you all the time."
"It is," Gonzalo agrees.
"Are we okay?"
Gonzalo takes a minute to reply, as he has to almost everything this afternoon, but this time Sergio can hear his heart beating violently against his ribcage, thump thump, thump thump.
"Yeah," Gonzalo says finally, and Sergio feels his heartbeat calm down. He exhales loudly.
"Good," he says. "Good."
---
They go to the park.
It's full of neighborhood kids and their parents, out after school, Sergio assumes. They bring a football with them and start kicking around on the field that is more dirt than grass because of how many boys play on the weekends. Sergio steps into the goal and taunts Gonzalo like they're kids, like he used to do to René.
"Let's go, Pipita," he taunts. The goal is shorter than he is, but he jumps up and down a few times anyway, spreading out his arms to see how far his reach goes. "Put one past me."
Gonzalo snorts. "You take up most of the goal, Gitano," he complains, but he puts the ball on the penalty mark anyway and takes a few strides back.
The first shot bounces off of Sergio's abdomen. He doubles over in faux pain, scrambling to get to the ball. "Cheap shot," he calls. "No taking out the keeper."
Gonzalo rolls his eyes. "You know I'm not actually trying to hit you when I do that, right?"
Sergio shrugs. "So don't."
"It's not that simple."
They aren't talking about a game of one-on-one in the neighborhood park anymore. The words have a different meaning now but Sergio shrugs them off anyway. He lets the ball drop to the dusty ground and then picks it up with his foot, balancing it on his toe. He waves his foot around back and forth for a minute, and then tosses the ball up to himself and starts juggling. When he starts to lose the rhythm, he sends the ball to Gonzalo on a half volley.
"Sure it is," he says.
Gonzalo sends the ball back to him, a high lob, and Sergio lines himself up for a bicycle kick. He throws himself into the air and makes contact with the ball on the laces of his street shoes. The ball sails high over the bar of the tiny, rickety goal, but the neighborhood kids who have gathered, ready for their after-school pick-up match, cheer anyway. Sergio picks himself up from the ground and takes a bow.
"See?"
"You didn't score, puta," Gonzalo says, raising an eyebrow. Sergio reaches out and pinches his cheek.
"Language, Pipa, there are children present," he chides, sounding appropriately scandalized. "Why don't you show me how it's done?"
One of the boys throws a ball at them and Gonzalo catches it on his knee and brings it down. He shakes his head at Sergio, but he's laughing a little. "Do you all have a good keeper?" He asks the kids. "I need a world class keeper to shoot on, you know. Not like this clown." He elbows Sergio in the ribs before he takes off towards the opposite goal, the ball as tight on his street shoes as it ever is on his boots.
---
They play their first away match against Valencia.
Sergio fusses with the armband and throws his water bottle at Cristiano in the locker room. He's nervous.
"You'll be fine," Cristiano tells him, smacking him gently on the cheek. Sergio wonders if that's what he tells his kid before Cristiano Jr. goes to school in the mornings.
"Better than fine," Sergio replies, flashing a grin. Cristiano laughs, gives him a double thumbs up.
"That's more like it, Gitano."
Mesut fist bumps him before they go to line up in the tunnel. Marcelo slings an arm around his neck and clings for a while, making dirty jokes that Sergio half-understands at Cristiano in Portuguese.
They get to the tunnel, and Sergio pulls Gonzalo next to him in the line-up.
"You gonna show me how it's done, Pipita?"
Gonzalo flashes him a toothy grin. It's not how they used to be, with plenty of casual, lingering touches. It's more cynical now, a little more jaded. Sergio doesn't really like it, but he can work with it. "You know it, puta," the Argentine replies.
At halftime, they're tied 1-1 with goals from Mesut and Juan Mata.
Mourinho yells at them in the locker room for sloppy play, for depending on the refs. Sergio doesn't say anything.
"Let's fix it," El Mister says, and they all nod.
They are El Madrid.
They spill onto the field for the second half and they fix it. Cristiano first, and then Mesut again. It's 3-1 when Sergio finds himself streaking up the right touchline with the ball at his feet, feeling like he hasn't since he was nineteen. He takes a quick look up and finds an extra burst of speed that seems residual, if anything, a throwback to his early days in the white shirt. Gonzalo's waiting for him in the box, hovering just on the right side of the last defender. Sergio launches the ball forward in a perfect arc and watches as it sails high above three defenders.
His whole body thrums in excitement as he watches Gonzalo throw his arm up to aim himself before launching himself into the air and extending his right leg. Sergio takes off running towards the Argentine before he even sees the ball rocket past the keeper and into the back of the net, because he knows. He knows it's a goal. He knows it's 4-1 and they are unstoppable. They are El Madrid.
As always, just as they used to do, Sergio gets to Gonzalo first. They link arms and dance for a few seconds before the rest of the team arrives, pushing them together in an unbearable crush of bodies. They cling, the whole team, with Sergio and Gonzalo at the center, falling in on themselves before exploding outwards again, ready to score again and again, ready to conquer the world.
notes.
1. sergio and his sister mirian are often mistaken for a couple. i think it's funny; i'm sure they do, too.
2. in october 2009, real madrid played and lost to sevilla, in a match that is remembered now for iker casillas making two fantastic saves, the latter of which has been dubbed "the greatest save in history".
3. valdebebas is a little ridiculous.
4. cesc fabregas hates mushrooms.
5. as most of you probably know, sergio ramos loves twitter (and we love that he loves twitter). in LA for preseason after the 2010 world cup, he posted a series of pictures of himself, alvaro arbeloa, xabi alonso, and raul albiol, and called them the cuatro mosqueteros.
6. in the summer of 2010, rumors were flying about adan leaving real madrid before even making his la liga debut. adan is a product of the real madrid youth system, like casillas.
7. champions league 2005, commonly referred to as just 'istanbul' by liverpool fans, cemented dudek as a legend after he saved shevchenko's penalty to win the match.
8. del bosque was sacked in 2003, to the shock of most madridistas. hierro also was released at that time. i don't personally remember any slandering tabloid articles about him, but it's basically a general truth that the real madrid of late isn't nice to their coaches- they get kicked out if they win and if they lose. (enough of my personal bias. sorry.)
9. david beckham gave up the england captaincy in 2006 after a disappointing world cup run.
10. gonzalez is a la liga referee who gives out a lot of cards.
11. much much love to the wonderful reality0junkie for doing the lovely art/fanmix! and for her eternal patience with me, lord knows i didn't deserve it. you're an angel, sweetie.
12. eternal gratitude to influira for being my second set of eyes here and saving you all from who knows how many grammatical errors and my inability to spell.
13. a million thanks to my entire f-list for listening to me bitch about this for what, four months? and for encouraging and prodding and making me write this (special shout-out to lunar_art who wanted sergio/gonzalo and made sure that this thing actually came into existence. it's not as overtly slashy as it originally was, i'm sorry dear!). i couldn't have done it without you all, and the moral of this story is that i'm really not meant to write things that are over 5,000 words.
14. this was originally written for rpf_big_bang. this is not posted as a big bang because one of the stipulations is that that piece must be at least 15,000 words. i was going to, i really was, but then some serious personal issues came up that prevented me from posting this as a big bang. even so, big thank you to the mods over there who organized this and did a wonderful job of keeping everything in line.