(no subject)
Still recovering from yesterday's game. :( Had to write something to deal with the disappointment, so on the upside, I suppose this is me venturing into a new fandom.
Title: Spielerfrau
Pairing: Bastian Schweinsteiger/Sarah Brandner
Rating: PG
Summary: She's there for him when it counts.
A/N: Set after the Germany-Spain semi final. Mushy hurt/comfort to soothe the soul. :)
It was late by the time Sarah arrived, exhausted and unkempt, but on a mission and determined. She squared her shoulders and held her chin high as she entered the lobby of the swank hotel, but she needn’t have worried. The place was empty; the reporters had retreated to the other end of the sprawling property, disappointment over the lost semi-finals having dampened the spirits of even the most persistent tabloid writers, and the coaches, too, seemed to have finished their rounds. There was nothing they could have said tonight, no assurances of a tournament well played or promises of a bright future that could have tempted any of the players at this moment. They’d lost the most important match most of them had ever played in their young careers. Tomorrow would be a new day, but now, a long, dark night was ahead, and everything looked bleak in the middle of the South African winter.
Heels clicking on the stone floor, Sarah quickly crossed the lobby that was almost deserted, nodding at the lone receptionist behind the marble counter. Security guards were standing by the elevators, watching who came and went at the closed-off hotel that the DFB had secured like a fortress. She didn’t have a security pass, but she was ready to fight to get to where she needed to be tonight and maybe they saw it in her expression; or maybe, Sarah thought, being the queen of the German WAGs came in handy for once. She despised the title as she despised all the fuss that was being made about her presence at the team’s matches, but her popularity gave her a certain leverage, and it never hurt to have a pretty face. Sarah forced a smile that was far more cheerful than she felt, and the guards let her step through into the elevator without comment.
The team resided on the second floor in a wing of the hotel that overlooked the makeshift training field. When she exited the elevator and glanced out a high window now, though, the gardens lay in darkness, little light from the hotel illuminating the grounds. A lot of the guys seemed to have the lights out already, although she was sure none of the players would be sleeping yet.
Sarah quickened her steps. She would’ve wanted to be there with her boyfriend right after the match, but the guys had walked off the pitch quickly with their heads bowed, and she couldn’t go into the locker rooms, nor could she ride along on the team bus, and the wives and girlfriends weren’t booked on the chartered plane back to Johannesburg, either. She’d had to wait for the stadium to clear, for the crowd to scatter, for the lights to be switched off until she could find her driver in the melee of post-match euphoria and grief - always so close together - and set about getting back to Johannesburg. It had been stressful, and she felt tired now, tired and defeated as if she’d spent ninety minutes on the field too instead of just watching the match.
Basti would be crushed.
Shivering, she searched the depths of her bag to find the key card she’d snagged on her last visit, against the express orders of the coach that no wives or girlfriends were to have access to the team hotel. The room she wanted was at the end of the hall, a nice, bright suite with a balcony looking out over the grounds and all the luxuries of expensive sheets and fancy gift baskets anyone could ever want. It was cozy and beautiful, and the hours Sarah had spent there previously, on her first visit, had been heaven on earth. Tonight, all the comfort in the world just felt pointless.
She took a deep breath, then slipped the key card into the lock and pressed down the door handle. She didn’t know if her presence would be welcome - she was sure there was nothing she could actually do - but this was where she needed to be tonight. Muted light spilled into the hall from the suite. Sarah slipped inside, closing the door quickly, locking out the rest of the world. Her steps were noiseless on the carpeted floor as she crept towards the bedroom. The sharp menthol smell of sports cream stung in her nose and made her eyes water as she pushed open the door. Bastian sat hunched over at the end of his bed, clad only in a pair of white shorts and heat pads that were strapped to his bare thighs. He held his head in his hands, and his shoulders were shaking with the force of the emotion he was trying desperately to contain.
Sarah froze by the door. Seeing a strong, confident man like Basti cry was heart-wrenching. They’d been through so much; victories, defeats, triumphs and injuries, as well as the ups and downs of everyday life together, and yet, she could never get used to this.
“Hey,” she said, her voice barely rising above a whisper.
Bastian started like he’d been slapped. He jumped up, bracing himself as if against an attacker. He blinked rapidly at Sarah, shock and disbelief chasing each other across his face before he dropped his defensive stance and wiped a shaky hand over his face. “Jesus, Sarah,” he choked out, “what are you doing here?”
They stared at each other across the room for a few long moments. Bastian’s face was pale, and the red blotches his fists had made around his eyes looked like bruises. He was holding himself stiffly, and Sarah knew how exhausted he must be, how drained after a long, hard match and subsequent heartbreak. She wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms. “I couldn’t leave you alone, could I,” she said simply. “We’re a team, you and I.”
He snorted bitterly. His movements were edgy, not fluid and graceful like he usually was, when he bent down to retrieve the hot packs that had fallen to the floor, then slumped back on the foot of the bed again, facing away from her. His voice was hollow. “Don’t. Just, don’t.”
They’d been together long enough for Sarah to know that no one should try to comfort a footballer right after his team had lost an important match, and especially not if that match had been the World Cup semi-finals. Still, she couldn’t stand to see him hurting, to let him suffer alone. She left her bag by the door and toed off her shoes before she crawled up on the mattress behind him, put her arms around him and laid her cheek against his shoulder. “Sucks,” she whispered in his ear.
Bastian made an angry noise of agreement.
“I’m sorry,” she offered gently.
His lean, sinewy body tightened under her hands. He shrugged her off with a sharp jerk of his shoulders, twisting around to look at her with a deep frown on his face and his hands hard on her arms. He pushed her back, breathing harshly like her closeness was suffocating him. “Just leave it, Sarah, okay? I don’t want to hear it, not now.” His voice cracked. Brusquely, he turned away.
Sarah sat back on the bed, fingers twisting the slippery fabric of her number 7 jersey in agitation. The German colors they’d all worn so proudly were only a blurry smear of make-up on her cheek now that felt sticky and flaked when she frowned. She rubbed at her face absentmindedly as she watched him, debating what to do. She wanted so much to make things better, help him through the pain and disappointment, but there was nothing she could do. Nothing, except be here and wait him out until he was ready. She didn’t like it - she didn’t have it in her to be so passive - but tonight, she could be what he needed her to be.
When they first got together, it had been he who’d had to wait for her, wait while she teased him and ignored him completely in turn. The attraction had been there, but she’d dated her fair share of men before him, and athletes were notoriously self-involved. She’d tested his patience, tried his temper flirting with other men, but he hadn’t lost interest, hadn’t given up. He’d persisted, as he always did when there were obstacles in the way of getting something he really wanted, and he’d wanted her then.
No one ever believed that a footballer could have anything to say, could make conversation that didn’t revolve around match strategies and goal statistics and other unbelievably boring details of the game. She hadn’t believed it when she reluctantly agreed to their first date, but she’d soon realized how wrong she’d been. He’d had her at the first, fond description of his family, the stories about his mischievous childhood in Oberaudorf, making her laugh in spite of herself as she tried and failed to play hard to get, and it hadn’t been long then until he’d finally made it over the treshold into her apartment, into her bed, into her heart. She knew him now, better than anyone else did, knew how he liked his coffee and that he sometimes sang the national anthem in the shower and all the other little things that made him happy. She knew what he could do on the pitch and off, but she knew the things he wasn’t good at, too.
Losing was one of those.
He wasn’t a bad sportsman, not at all; after a lost match, he would graciously congratulate his opponents, as she was sure he had done that night. But the disappointment of it tore at his soul, and each defeat left a scar that no amount of reasoning and match analysis could soothe. He threw himself into his sport with everything he had, and before every big match, Sarah was scared that he wouldn’t come back out again, afterwards, with his heart in one piece. He was too good at what he did, too passionate. It could hurt him too deeply.
Unhappily, she looked at his tense back, the taut lines of muscles that bunched beneath pale skin . He had stopped shaking quite so badly, but she could still hear him breathe heavily, trying to get himself under control. She hugged her knees to her chest, making herself as small as she could on the large bed. It was for her sake that he was struggling so hard now to compose himself. Maybe she shouldn’t have come after all. Maybe she should’ve left him to grieve without an audience in the lonely nighttime hours, let him come to her on his own terms. There was nothing she could do. And yet, she’d sensed that she needed to be here with him; remind him that he wasn’t alone, that he was loved, no matter what. She didn’t want to leave him to beat himself up, alone in the dark as if in the deepest pit of hell. They were a team; partners, in good times and in bad.
“How’d you even get here?” His hoarse voice startled her. “Are the other wives here, too?”
Her stomach flip-flopped pleasantly at his wording. “It’s just me.” Belatedly, it occurred to her that it might get him in trouble with his teammates if he was the only one to have a nightly visitor. She’d only considered the displeasure that would be directed at her by the coaches, and dismissed it summarily without a second thought. “Don’t worry, I’ll sneak out early.”
“The security guards must’ve seen you already,” he huffed.
She frowned. For all his upset, she hadn’t imagined that he would be truly displeased to see her. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I just, I thought, I didn’t want to leave you alone tonight.”
“I’ll live.” Bastian’s voice was hard. “There’s nothing you can even do.”
Sarah swallowed hard around a lump in her throat. He didn’t want her here, fine; but she was here now, and there had to be something she could do. She crawled back across the mattress to sit behind him, her arms loose around his waist and her legs on either side of him, drawing him in towards her. “There’s this,” she offered, stroking her hands gently over his hard stomach. “And this.” She kissed his shoulder, rubbing her nose in the crook of his neck. “No good?”
His breath escaped on a long sigh. “Sarah.”
“Basti?”
He huffed. “I can’t do this right now.”
“Do what?” she asked.
“Pretend that you can kiss it better. You can’t.”
“Maybe not,” she allowed, “but this can’t be worse than sitting here alone.” She kissed him again, a warm, lingering touch of her lips to his neck, and finally felt him relax ever so slightly in her arms.
“I don’t want you to see me like this.”
She snorted indelicately. “Oh, stop it! I saw you after you had your wisdom teeth removed. I think that’s as bad as it gets.”
He chuckled quietly at that. For all his bravado on the field, when at home and sick, he became a cranky baby like all men. Sarah had nursed him back to health after more than one injury, but the wisdom teeth had been the worst, maybe because the pain he suffered hadn’t been inflicted during a match. The bruises caused by his opponents’ fouls were like badges to him, and he wore them proudly.
With gentle hands, she began to explore his body, petting and stroking carefully, searching for new scrapes and cuts. She felt his tense muscles loosen beneath the feathery touch of her fingertips. He leaned back into her, and Sarah held him tightly for a moment before urging him to lie back, sliding off the bed so he could stretch out. He held out his hand to her and she went to kneel beside him, her attention now focussed on his legs. There were the usual scrapes on his knees, the perpetual black and blue of bruises and the dirt from the pitch that wouldn’t come off no matter how hard he scrubbed. They were souvenirs of every match he’d ever played, sand and dirt that had been burned into his skin practicing under scorching summer sun, or on hazy winter days, slipping on frozen ground. Smaller, round blue marks were stamped all over his thigh, where the team physician had treated his strained hamstring with injections. Bastian’s body was all solid muscle and tense with hurt, and only gradually, under her caresses, did he relax.
His tight frown eased a little. He tugged at her jersey. “Take that off,” he whispered roughly. “I can’t look at it anymore tonight.”
Sarah pulled the shirt over her head and dropped it next to the bed, then wriggled out of her jeans too. For a moment, she considered stripping naked and distracting him that way, but she knew he was too exhausted, physically and mentally, for arousal to be anything but a chore right now. She lay down on the bed beside him, clad in her panties and the white long-sleeved tee she’d worn against the cold underneath her team shirt. He watched her with tired, heavy-lidded eyes as she reached down to wedge one of his heat packs in between them, keeping it in place with her thigh against his, their legs tangling naturally, familiarly, like they were in bed at home together after a long day of training and work.
“Okay?” she murmured, lips brushing his cheek.
“Yeah.” He swallowed hard and looked away, up at the ceiling. “I don’t deserve this. I messed up--”
“You didn’t mess up.”
“Yes, I did. We all did. And now it’s over, it’s done with, and I can’t… No matter what I do, I can’t make up for this. This was the one match we had to win--”
“But you did the best you could,” she protested. “I saw, I watched you.”
Bastian’s thin mouth twisted. “That’s even worse then,” he said tonelessly, “If it’s the best I can do to lose, over and over again.”
Sarah wanted to cry at the look of utter dejectedness on his face. She’d comforted him after many important matches, but never after a lost World Cup semi-final. They hadn’t been together the last time he played the World Cup. She had no precedent to fall back on, no way of knowing the pain he felt. But she knew him; the rest, she’d have to make up on the spot.
“Today it was that way,” she said firmly. “It’ll be different next time.”
“You can’t know that.”
Sarah sighed. She poked his ribs with one finger, easily finding the spot where he was ticklish. He growled, not in the mood to play, and, smiling, she did it again. “You know full well they call you the heart and soul of the team. The engine of the midfield.”
“And tomorrow they’ll call me names.” It was entirely possible, she knew. The media loved to build someone up only to watch them fall. A lot of stupid things had been written about him, and even more about the two of them together. It wasn’t really something that ever got easier.
“That won’t make anything that happened before any less true.”
Bastian turned his head and looked her squarely in the eye. “We lost, Sarah,” he snapped, as if he thought she hadn’t realized that before.
“You did, and I’m sorry,” she shot back. “But you won’t convince me that you aren’t the best thing that ever happened to the German National Team. Or to me. Nothing you can say, nothing you can do, that’s just how it is.”
He stared at her, a deep crease between his brows. “You’re probably the only person who thinks that right now.”
“Good thing I’m your girlfriend then,” she retorted, and finally, his expression softened.
“Good thing,” he echoed.
She smiled. “So let me take care of you, okay?”
He nodded tiredly, no energy left to argue. “Can you heat those up again?” He gestured at the hot packs on his legs. “Africa is colder than I would’ve thought.”
“It is winter.” Sarah grabbed the gel packs and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A microwave had been set up on a polished cherrywood sideboard for the exact purpose of warming up bandages, an eyesore in the otherwise elegant room. Footballers, Sarah thought to herself, amused, as she tossed the packs into the microwave and set it to heat up.
“I like our winter better.” Now that the first rush of grief and anger had subsided, he only looked drained. His powerful body was sinking deeper into the mattress with each deep breath, and his eyes were drifting shut. “Snow, skiing in the mountains…”
“I don’t know, maybe you can ski in the mountains here, too.” The microwave beeped. Sarah took out the packs and pressed them to her cheek, testing the temperature. Hot enough to last for a while, but not so much so they’d burn his sore legs.
“I like our mountains at home,” he murmured. “They’re nicer somehow.”
“That’s because they’re home,” she smiled. “There’s no Oberaudorf in South Africa.”
His face scrunched up like a baby’s. “I want to go home.”
“There’s another match on Saturday,” she reminded him gently. “Don’t you want to play that one before we go home?”
He groaned at the thought of another match, a low growl of frustration. “Right now I don’t.”
“But tomorrow you will,” she stated without the shadow of a doubt. No matter how badly he got hurt, how high he lost, there was one thing that could be counted on, and that was that Bastian would always want to play football again eventually. It was one of the things she admired most about him, his resilience. Carefully, she placed the gel packs on his legs, watching his face for a reaction. “Okay?”
“Perfect,” he said, and he smiled a little at her. “How do you always know how to make them just right?”
“Lots of practice,” she laughed. This was what the glamorous life of this WAG was truly all about - mastering the settings on a microwave - and Sarah wouldn’t have had it any other way. It was, bafflingly, a lot less stupid than the things people believed she did all day, and right now, it was the best she could do to soothe her boyfriend’s body and soul. Snorting softly to herself, she secured the packs on his legs with the velcro straps that had come loose, then climbed into bed with him again, pulling the blankets over them both. “Think you can sleep now?”
“Now that you’re here, yeah,” he sighed.
She leaned over him and ran her fingertips through his short hair. The closely cropped haircut made him look tougher than the longer hair he’d worn before, which had been his intention when he’d cut it off. She was a little sad that he felt the need to project such an image, but she knew it was necessary sometimes. Football was a business, much as Bastian hated to think of it that way, and appearances mattered. That had played out in their favor sometimes too, but he still despised the media’s focus on what went on in their life off the pitch. When things didn’t go well on the pitch either, it all became a little much.
“My presence puts you to sleep?” she teased.
“Feels like home.” He squinted at her in the dim light, his eyes falling shut now no matter how hard he tried to fight the tiredness that was taking over. “Thank you.”
“We’re going home soon,” she promised.
“Soon.” His brow furrowed sleepily. “I was going to…”
“Hmm?”
“The Cup,” he murmured. “Take it home, and then I wanted… I was going to, I was… But I can’t, now.”
She shook her head wryly. He wasn’t making much sense anymore, but she was glad he was finally relaxing enough to drift off. “There’s nothing you can’t do, Basti.”
“But you don’t…” His eyes opened again briefly, and he looked at her with such adoration that she felt her heart constrict painfully inside her chest. There’d never been a lack of men interested in her, but she’d been hardly more than a piece of meat to most of them. Her relationship with Bastian was different; she knew he found her attractive on a purely physical level, as she did him, but he also respected her opinions, her choices, her crazy job that took her around the world for weeks at a time and away from him to pose in photoshoots that would’ve made other men rage with jealousy. In turn, she put up with his dedication to his sport, put bandages on his knees, reassured him when he was hurting and his motivation was running low. They respected each other, but they also pushed each other, made each other want to be stronger, better, and she loved him so much for it. Having him love her back was nothing short of amazing.
“Never mind,” he said softly.
“No, tell me,” Sarah coaxed.
He cradled the back of her head in his palm and drew her close to kiss her. Happily, she surrendered to the strong arms that held her so possessively, basking in the warmth that spread between them, skin to skin, the closeness that felt so right. He turned her around in his arms so her back was to him and he could curl around her, one leg wedged between hers, his hand sneaking up under her shirt to stroke her bare stomach.
“I wanted to win,” he murmured into her hair.
She laid her hand over his, tracing his knuckles with her fingertips. “I know. You will. Next time.”
“It wasn’t supposed to… I had plans. I wanted to win. I wanted to win this and then I was going to ask you.”
“Ask me what?” she smiled. There was no reply. “Basti?”
He stirred once more. “I love you, Sarah.” That last bit was only a whisper. He was asleep.
She sighed fondly, snuggling back against the hard body behind her. He was holding her too tightly, and the muscular thigh that pressed in between hers was heavy on top of her slim leg, but Sarah didn’t mind. Their life was victories and triumphs, public joy and celebration, and sometimes, when they stole away for a weekend, quiet moments of blissful togetherness, watching the sun rise on top of a mountain after a long hike, or sneaking into a stranger’s barn to make love in a haystack. Tonight, in the wintery darkness, she would be there for him just like she had been on the days of sunshine and laughter. She’d take the bad days with the good. They were more than worth it.
Title: Spielerfrau
Pairing: Bastian Schweinsteiger/Sarah Brandner
Rating: PG
Summary: She's there for him when it counts.
A/N: Set after the Germany-Spain semi final. Mushy hurt/comfort to soothe the soul. :)
It was late by the time Sarah arrived, exhausted and unkempt, but on a mission and determined. She squared her shoulders and held her chin high as she entered the lobby of the swank hotel, but she needn’t have worried. The place was empty; the reporters had retreated to the other end of the sprawling property, disappointment over the lost semi-finals having dampened the spirits of even the most persistent tabloid writers, and the coaches, too, seemed to have finished their rounds. There was nothing they could have said tonight, no assurances of a tournament well played or promises of a bright future that could have tempted any of the players at this moment. They’d lost the most important match most of them had ever played in their young careers. Tomorrow would be a new day, but now, a long, dark night was ahead, and everything looked bleak in the middle of the South African winter.
Heels clicking on the stone floor, Sarah quickly crossed the lobby that was almost deserted, nodding at the lone receptionist behind the marble counter. Security guards were standing by the elevators, watching who came and went at the closed-off hotel that the DFB had secured like a fortress. She didn’t have a security pass, but she was ready to fight to get to where she needed to be tonight and maybe they saw it in her expression; or maybe, Sarah thought, being the queen of the German WAGs came in handy for once. She despised the title as she despised all the fuss that was being made about her presence at the team’s matches, but her popularity gave her a certain leverage, and it never hurt to have a pretty face. Sarah forced a smile that was far more cheerful than she felt, and the guards let her step through into the elevator without comment.
The team resided on the second floor in a wing of the hotel that overlooked the makeshift training field. When she exited the elevator and glanced out a high window now, though, the gardens lay in darkness, little light from the hotel illuminating the grounds. A lot of the guys seemed to have the lights out already, although she was sure none of the players would be sleeping yet.
Sarah quickened her steps. She would’ve wanted to be there with her boyfriend right after the match, but the guys had walked off the pitch quickly with their heads bowed, and she couldn’t go into the locker rooms, nor could she ride along on the team bus, and the wives and girlfriends weren’t booked on the chartered plane back to Johannesburg, either. She’d had to wait for the stadium to clear, for the crowd to scatter, for the lights to be switched off until she could find her driver in the melee of post-match euphoria and grief - always so close together - and set about getting back to Johannesburg. It had been stressful, and she felt tired now, tired and defeated as if she’d spent ninety minutes on the field too instead of just watching the match.
Basti would be crushed.
Shivering, she searched the depths of her bag to find the key card she’d snagged on her last visit, against the express orders of the coach that no wives or girlfriends were to have access to the team hotel. The room she wanted was at the end of the hall, a nice, bright suite with a balcony looking out over the grounds and all the luxuries of expensive sheets and fancy gift baskets anyone could ever want. It was cozy and beautiful, and the hours Sarah had spent there previously, on her first visit, had been heaven on earth. Tonight, all the comfort in the world just felt pointless.
She took a deep breath, then slipped the key card into the lock and pressed down the door handle. She didn’t know if her presence would be welcome - she was sure there was nothing she could actually do - but this was where she needed to be tonight. Muted light spilled into the hall from the suite. Sarah slipped inside, closing the door quickly, locking out the rest of the world. Her steps were noiseless on the carpeted floor as she crept towards the bedroom. The sharp menthol smell of sports cream stung in her nose and made her eyes water as she pushed open the door. Bastian sat hunched over at the end of his bed, clad only in a pair of white shorts and heat pads that were strapped to his bare thighs. He held his head in his hands, and his shoulders were shaking with the force of the emotion he was trying desperately to contain.
Sarah froze by the door. Seeing a strong, confident man like Basti cry was heart-wrenching. They’d been through so much; victories, defeats, triumphs and injuries, as well as the ups and downs of everyday life together, and yet, she could never get used to this.
“Hey,” she said, her voice barely rising above a whisper.
Bastian started like he’d been slapped. He jumped up, bracing himself as if against an attacker. He blinked rapidly at Sarah, shock and disbelief chasing each other across his face before he dropped his defensive stance and wiped a shaky hand over his face. “Jesus, Sarah,” he choked out, “what are you doing here?”
They stared at each other across the room for a few long moments. Bastian’s face was pale, and the red blotches his fists had made around his eyes looked like bruises. He was holding himself stiffly, and Sarah knew how exhausted he must be, how drained after a long, hard match and subsequent heartbreak. She wanted nothing more than to take him in her arms. “I couldn’t leave you alone, could I,” she said simply. “We’re a team, you and I.”
He snorted bitterly. His movements were edgy, not fluid and graceful like he usually was, when he bent down to retrieve the hot packs that had fallen to the floor, then slumped back on the foot of the bed again, facing away from her. His voice was hollow. “Don’t. Just, don’t.”
They’d been together long enough for Sarah to know that no one should try to comfort a footballer right after his team had lost an important match, and especially not if that match had been the World Cup semi-finals. Still, she couldn’t stand to see him hurting, to let him suffer alone. She left her bag by the door and toed off her shoes before she crawled up on the mattress behind him, put her arms around him and laid her cheek against his shoulder. “Sucks,” she whispered in his ear.
Bastian made an angry noise of agreement.
“I’m sorry,” she offered gently.
His lean, sinewy body tightened under her hands. He shrugged her off with a sharp jerk of his shoulders, twisting around to look at her with a deep frown on his face and his hands hard on her arms. He pushed her back, breathing harshly like her closeness was suffocating him. “Just leave it, Sarah, okay? I don’t want to hear it, not now.” His voice cracked. Brusquely, he turned away.
Sarah sat back on the bed, fingers twisting the slippery fabric of her number 7 jersey in agitation. The German colors they’d all worn so proudly were only a blurry smear of make-up on her cheek now that felt sticky and flaked when she frowned. She rubbed at her face absentmindedly as she watched him, debating what to do. She wanted so much to make things better, help him through the pain and disappointment, but there was nothing she could do. Nothing, except be here and wait him out until he was ready. She didn’t like it - she didn’t have it in her to be so passive - but tonight, she could be what he needed her to be.
When they first got together, it had been he who’d had to wait for her, wait while she teased him and ignored him completely in turn. The attraction had been there, but she’d dated her fair share of men before him, and athletes were notoriously self-involved. She’d tested his patience, tried his temper flirting with other men, but he hadn’t lost interest, hadn’t given up. He’d persisted, as he always did when there were obstacles in the way of getting something he really wanted, and he’d wanted her then.
No one ever believed that a footballer could have anything to say, could make conversation that didn’t revolve around match strategies and goal statistics and other unbelievably boring details of the game. She hadn’t believed it when she reluctantly agreed to their first date, but she’d soon realized how wrong she’d been. He’d had her at the first, fond description of his family, the stories about his mischievous childhood in Oberaudorf, making her laugh in spite of herself as she tried and failed to play hard to get, and it hadn’t been long then until he’d finally made it over the treshold into her apartment, into her bed, into her heart. She knew him now, better than anyone else did, knew how he liked his coffee and that he sometimes sang the national anthem in the shower and all the other little things that made him happy. She knew what he could do on the pitch and off, but she knew the things he wasn’t good at, too.
Losing was one of those.
He wasn’t a bad sportsman, not at all; after a lost match, he would graciously congratulate his opponents, as she was sure he had done that night. But the disappointment of it tore at his soul, and each defeat left a scar that no amount of reasoning and match analysis could soothe. He threw himself into his sport with everything he had, and before every big match, Sarah was scared that he wouldn’t come back out again, afterwards, with his heart in one piece. He was too good at what he did, too passionate. It could hurt him too deeply.
Unhappily, she looked at his tense back, the taut lines of muscles that bunched beneath pale skin . He had stopped shaking quite so badly, but she could still hear him breathe heavily, trying to get himself under control. She hugged her knees to her chest, making herself as small as she could on the large bed. It was for her sake that he was struggling so hard now to compose himself. Maybe she shouldn’t have come after all. Maybe she should’ve left him to grieve without an audience in the lonely nighttime hours, let him come to her on his own terms. There was nothing she could do. And yet, she’d sensed that she needed to be here with him; remind him that he wasn’t alone, that he was loved, no matter what. She didn’t want to leave him to beat himself up, alone in the dark as if in the deepest pit of hell. They were a team; partners, in good times and in bad.
“How’d you even get here?” His hoarse voice startled her. “Are the other wives here, too?”
Her stomach flip-flopped pleasantly at his wording. “It’s just me.” Belatedly, it occurred to her that it might get him in trouble with his teammates if he was the only one to have a nightly visitor. She’d only considered the displeasure that would be directed at her by the coaches, and dismissed it summarily without a second thought. “Don’t worry, I’ll sneak out early.”
“The security guards must’ve seen you already,” he huffed.
She frowned. For all his upset, she hadn’t imagined that he would be truly displeased to see her. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I just, I thought, I didn’t want to leave you alone tonight.”
“I’ll live.” Bastian’s voice was hard. “There’s nothing you can even do.”
Sarah swallowed hard around a lump in her throat. He didn’t want her here, fine; but she was here now, and there had to be something she could do. She crawled back across the mattress to sit behind him, her arms loose around his waist and her legs on either side of him, drawing him in towards her. “There’s this,” she offered, stroking her hands gently over his hard stomach. “And this.” She kissed his shoulder, rubbing her nose in the crook of his neck. “No good?”
His breath escaped on a long sigh. “Sarah.”
“Basti?”
He huffed. “I can’t do this right now.”
“Do what?” she asked.
“Pretend that you can kiss it better. You can’t.”
“Maybe not,” she allowed, “but this can’t be worse than sitting here alone.” She kissed him again, a warm, lingering touch of her lips to his neck, and finally felt him relax ever so slightly in her arms.
“I don’t want you to see me like this.”
She snorted indelicately. “Oh, stop it! I saw you after you had your wisdom teeth removed. I think that’s as bad as it gets.”
He chuckled quietly at that. For all his bravado on the field, when at home and sick, he became a cranky baby like all men. Sarah had nursed him back to health after more than one injury, but the wisdom teeth had been the worst, maybe because the pain he suffered hadn’t been inflicted during a match. The bruises caused by his opponents’ fouls were like badges to him, and he wore them proudly.
With gentle hands, she began to explore his body, petting and stroking carefully, searching for new scrapes and cuts. She felt his tense muscles loosen beneath the feathery touch of her fingertips. He leaned back into her, and Sarah held him tightly for a moment before urging him to lie back, sliding off the bed so he could stretch out. He held out his hand to her and she went to kneel beside him, her attention now focussed on his legs. There were the usual scrapes on his knees, the perpetual black and blue of bruises and the dirt from the pitch that wouldn’t come off no matter how hard he scrubbed. They were souvenirs of every match he’d ever played, sand and dirt that had been burned into his skin practicing under scorching summer sun, or on hazy winter days, slipping on frozen ground. Smaller, round blue marks were stamped all over his thigh, where the team physician had treated his strained hamstring with injections. Bastian’s body was all solid muscle and tense with hurt, and only gradually, under her caresses, did he relax.
His tight frown eased a little. He tugged at her jersey. “Take that off,” he whispered roughly. “I can’t look at it anymore tonight.”
Sarah pulled the shirt over her head and dropped it next to the bed, then wriggled out of her jeans too. For a moment, she considered stripping naked and distracting him that way, but she knew he was too exhausted, physically and mentally, for arousal to be anything but a chore right now. She lay down on the bed beside him, clad in her panties and the white long-sleeved tee she’d worn against the cold underneath her team shirt. He watched her with tired, heavy-lidded eyes as she reached down to wedge one of his heat packs in between them, keeping it in place with her thigh against his, their legs tangling naturally, familiarly, like they were in bed at home together after a long day of training and work.
“Okay?” she murmured, lips brushing his cheek.
“Yeah.” He swallowed hard and looked away, up at the ceiling. “I don’t deserve this. I messed up--”
“You didn’t mess up.”
“Yes, I did. We all did. And now it’s over, it’s done with, and I can’t… No matter what I do, I can’t make up for this. This was the one match we had to win--”
“But you did the best you could,” she protested. “I saw, I watched you.”
Bastian’s thin mouth twisted. “That’s even worse then,” he said tonelessly, “If it’s the best I can do to lose, over and over again.”
Sarah wanted to cry at the look of utter dejectedness on his face. She’d comforted him after many important matches, but never after a lost World Cup semi-final. They hadn’t been together the last time he played the World Cup. She had no precedent to fall back on, no way of knowing the pain he felt. But she knew him; the rest, she’d have to make up on the spot.
“Today it was that way,” she said firmly. “It’ll be different next time.”
“You can’t know that.”
Sarah sighed. She poked his ribs with one finger, easily finding the spot where he was ticklish. He growled, not in the mood to play, and, smiling, she did it again. “You know full well they call you the heart and soul of the team. The engine of the midfield.”
“And tomorrow they’ll call me names.” It was entirely possible, she knew. The media loved to build someone up only to watch them fall. A lot of stupid things had been written about him, and even more about the two of them together. It wasn’t really something that ever got easier.
“That won’t make anything that happened before any less true.”
Bastian turned his head and looked her squarely in the eye. “We lost, Sarah,” he snapped, as if he thought she hadn’t realized that before.
“You did, and I’m sorry,” she shot back. “But you won’t convince me that you aren’t the best thing that ever happened to the German National Team. Or to me. Nothing you can say, nothing you can do, that’s just how it is.”
He stared at her, a deep crease between his brows. “You’re probably the only person who thinks that right now.”
“Good thing I’m your girlfriend then,” she retorted, and finally, his expression softened.
“Good thing,” he echoed.
She smiled. “So let me take care of you, okay?”
He nodded tiredly, no energy left to argue. “Can you heat those up again?” He gestured at the hot packs on his legs. “Africa is colder than I would’ve thought.”
“It is winter.” Sarah grabbed the gel packs and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A microwave had been set up on a polished cherrywood sideboard for the exact purpose of warming up bandages, an eyesore in the otherwise elegant room. Footballers, Sarah thought to herself, amused, as she tossed the packs into the microwave and set it to heat up.
“I like our winter better.” Now that the first rush of grief and anger had subsided, he only looked drained. His powerful body was sinking deeper into the mattress with each deep breath, and his eyes were drifting shut. “Snow, skiing in the mountains…”
“I don’t know, maybe you can ski in the mountains here, too.” The microwave beeped. Sarah took out the packs and pressed them to her cheek, testing the temperature. Hot enough to last for a while, but not so much so they’d burn his sore legs.
“I like our mountains at home,” he murmured. “They’re nicer somehow.”
“That’s because they’re home,” she smiled. “There’s no Oberaudorf in South Africa.”
His face scrunched up like a baby’s. “I want to go home.”
“There’s another match on Saturday,” she reminded him gently. “Don’t you want to play that one before we go home?”
He groaned at the thought of another match, a low growl of frustration. “Right now I don’t.”
“But tomorrow you will,” she stated without the shadow of a doubt. No matter how badly he got hurt, how high he lost, there was one thing that could be counted on, and that was that Bastian would always want to play football again eventually. It was one of the things she admired most about him, his resilience. Carefully, she placed the gel packs on his legs, watching his face for a reaction. “Okay?”
“Perfect,” he said, and he smiled a little at her. “How do you always know how to make them just right?”
“Lots of practice,” she laughed. This was what the glamorous life of this WAG was truly all about - mastering the settings on a microwave - and Sarah wouldn’t have had it any other way. It was, bafflingly, a lot less stupid than the things people believed she did all day, and right now, it was the best she could do to soothe her boyfriend’s body and soul. Snorting softly to herself, she secured the packs on his legs with the velcro straps that had come loose, then climbed into bed with him again, pulling the blankets over them both. “Think you can sleep now?”
“Now that you’re here, yeah,” he sighed.
She leaned over him and ran her fingertips through his short hair. The closely cropped haircut made him look tougher than the longer hair he’d worn before, which had been his intention when he’d cut it off. She was a little sad that he felt the need to project such an image, but she knew it was necessary sometimes. Football was a business, much as Bastian hated to think of it that way, and appearances mattered. That had played out in their favor sometimes too, but he still despised the media’s focus on what went on in their life off the pitch. When things didn’t go well on the pitch either, it all became a little much.
“My presence puts you to sleep?” she teased.
“Feels like home.” He squinted at her in the dim light, his eyes falling shut now no matter how hard he tried to fight the tiredness that was taking over. “Thank you.”
“We’re going home soon,” she promised.
“Soon.” His brow furrowed sleepily. “I was going to…”
“Hmm?”
“The Cup,” he murmured. “Take it home, and then I wanted… I was going to, I was… But I can’t, now.”
She shook her head wryly. He wasn’t making much sense anymore, but she was glad he was finally relaxing enough to drift off. “There’s nothing you can’t do, Basti.”
“But you don’t…” His eyes opened again briefly, and he looked at her with such adoration that she felt her heart constrict painfully inside her chest. There’d never been a lack of men interested in her, but she’d been hardly more than a piece of meat to most of them. Her relationship with Bastian was different; she knew he found her attractive on a purely physical level, as she did him, but he also respected her opinions, her choices, her crazy job that took her around the world for weeks at a time and away from him to pose in photoshoots that would’ve made other men rage with jealousy. In turn, she put up with his dedication to his sport, put bandages on his knees, reassured him when he was hurting and his motivation was running low. They respected each other, but they also pushed each other, made each other want to be stronger, better, and she loved him so much for it. Having him love her back was nothing short of amazing.
“Never mind,” he said softly.
“No, tell me,” Sarah coaxed.
He cradled the back of her head in his palm and drew her close to kiss her. Happily, she surrendered to the strong arms that held her so possessively, basking in the warmth that spread between them, skin to skin, the closeness that felt so right. He turned her around in his arms so her back was to him and he could curl around her, one leg wedged between hers, his hand sneaking up under her shirt to stroke her bare stomach.
“I wanted to win,” he murmured into her hair.
She laid her hand over his, tracing his knuckles with her fingertips. “I know. You will. Next time.”
“It wasn’t supposed to… I had plans. I wanted to win. I wanted to win this and then I was going to ask you.”
“Ask me what?” she smiled. There was no reply. “Basti?”
He stirred once more. “I love you, Sarah.” That last bit was only a whisper. He was asleep.
She sighed fondly, snuggling back against the hard body behind her. He was holding her too tightly, and the muscular thigh that pressed in between hers was heavy on top of her slim leg, but Sarah didn’t mind. Their life was victories and triumphs, public joy and celebration, and sometimes, when they stole away for a weekend, quiet moments of blissful togetherness, watching the sun rise on top of a mountain after a long hike, or sneaking into a stranger’s barn to make love in a haystack. Tonight, in the wintery darkness, she would be there for him just like she had been on the days of sunshine and laughter. She’d take the bad days with the good. They were more than worth it.