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Hello! I go by Starbrigid, and I'm a new member. Nice to meet you all, and I hope you enjoy!
Title: Good Luck
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Peter Crouch/Steven Gerrard (one-sided), Peter Crouch/Abi Clancy
Warning: Het, some somewhat fluffy parts...
Disclaimer: All lies.
Archive: Beautiful Games
Summary: "Stevie? Is that Steven Gerrard? Oh, that's the name you said, you know, like, during sex, so I was just wondering."
Notes- This fic is based on watching Britain’s Next Top Model, which is what Abi’s characterization was based on, and of course articles and rumors, with which some liberty has of course been taken.
Good Luck
Starbrigid
That night wouldn't have happened if only Steven had agreed to come with the rest of them to celebrate. As it is, the team sort of drifts off into groups, Steven leading the pack of responsible men going home to their wives or girlfriends, Jamie leading the men who either don't have any or don't care too much about the ones they do. Peter Crouch, naturally, ends up in Jamie's group. By midnight, he's stumbling into their fourth different pub of the night, drunk but positively sober compared to John and Jamie, who seem determined that their slurred but heartfelt rendition of "We Are Liverpool" be heard by the entire neighborhood. Flanked from behind by a deliriously happy Luis, who is currently expressing his joy through flamenco dance, Peter makes his wincing way up to the bar of whatever dive Jamie's somehow talked him into visiting. The place is loud, smoky, crowded, and generally pretty filthy. At least Peter's drunken teammates fit right in.
"I'll have a beer," Peter says, and belatedly remembers that beers come in different kinds. Damn.
The girl behind the counter, though, doesn't seem to care. "Okay," she says, giggling to herself, "One beer coming up," then looks up, revealing a soft, pretty face and soft, pretty blue eyes. "Wow!" she shrieks, falling across the bar in shock. She's definitely from around here; her heavy Liverpool accent reminds Peter of his mum's. "Wow, you- you're Peter Crouch!"
Peter blinks, taken aback at being recognized for the few seconds it takes him to remember that he came in with four much bigger stars singing who they were at the top of their lungs. Still, getting recognized is quite a novelty for him, especially if gleeful chants of "Freak! Freak! Freak!" don't immediately follow it. He's no Gerrard.
"Oh, yeah," Peter says, and can feel himself blushing, which he can't stand, embarrassing himself in front of a pretty girl. "I'm- Peter Crouch." God, this is awkward. "Um- who are you?"
"Me?" the blonde girl cries. "Me- oh- I'm nobody," she giggles, smiling, and hands him his drink. "I- well, I'm Abi, actually."
"Peter," Peter replies automatically, even though she already knows, and mentally smacks himself for it.
"Well, Peter, you're the man!" Abi shouts brashly, leaning over the bar towards him. "Finally scored for us, haven't you?" The TV over the bar is set to a sports channel. Peter can see the highlights from a Chelsea game running behind her head.
"I guess I have," Peter manages. Normally, he can never talk to girls, but this one's guileless enthusiasm is infectious.
"You know, I love football," Abi is saying, all earnest. "And I've always wanted to marry a footballer," she giggles, and tosses her long light hair over her shoulder coquettishly.
"Like Steven Gerrard?" Peter asks, staring.
Abi, in a flash, hops over the counter and plops down onto the other side of it, her feet dangling in his face. "You," Abi says, "should have more confidence!"
Peter gapes up, speechless, at Abi, at her long shapely legs and the delicate toes of her bare feet, nails painted light blue, and at the ample outline of her breasts beneath her fuzzy pink sweater, at her naively confident smile. "Well- thanks," Peter finally manages to stutter out.
"Sure," Abi says, and drops into the stool next to him.
"Don't you need to work?" Peter asks.
"Ah, who cares?" Abi declares, and laughs uproariously. She has a laugh Peter would probably have thought was annoying and ditzy if it wasn't being shared with him. As it is, Peter thinks she laughs prettier than any girl he's ever met.
The manager walks up. "Abi-"
"Ah!" Abi cries. "Fire me! I don't care!" Turning away from the stunned man, she looks back at Peter, gaze comically intent. "So what were you saying?"
"Nothing, really," says Peter in a daze.
"Oh, that's okay," Abi giggles. "So can I call you Peter? You can call me Abi!"
"Sure," Peter says, watching Abi toss her blonde hair. He can't believe this is happening to him. Somewhere in the background, Jamie is giving him a thumb's-up.
"Sure, Abi!" Abi cries, grabbing his arm. "Call me Abi!"
"Sure, Abi," Peter repeats, staring down at her small soft hands.
"So!" Abi says, her smile growing progressively more dazzling. Girls this pretty- hell, girls in general- never talk to Peter Crouch. This girl could be a model, too, Peter thinks. She should be.
"Friends?" Abi says, offering him her other hand.
She's nice, too. "Friends," Peter says, and clasps her hand in his much larger one.
She breaks off quickly. "God, you're sweaty!" she squeals giddily.
"Sorry," Peter mutters. "I'm kind of nervous here."
"Oh!" Abi exclaims, covering her mouth with her hand, and gazes at him adoringly. "You're so cute!"
"Uh," says Peter.
"You are," says Abi. "Have more confidence."
The next morning, Peter wakes to a naked Abi next to him in bed, her right leg raised high in the air as she paints her toenails purple. The smell of nail polish mixes with the strong flowery perfume she wears, filling the room with her scent. She's not the first girl he's ever slept with, but she's certainly the best.
"Oh, good morning!" says Abi.
"Hey," Peter says slowly, feeling a stupid grin split open his face, and goes to kiss her.
"Hey," Abi says, "Stevie? Is that Steven? Like, Steven Gerrard?"
Peter stops. "Um- yeah," he says warily. "Why?"
"Well," Abi says, all matter-of-fact, "That's the name you said, you know, during sex and all, so I was just, like, wondering." Peter's jaw drops. No sound comes out. "Oh, relax," Abi giggles, and smacks him on the arm playfully. "You think I've never dated a guy who's bi before?" She finishes her right foot and sits up. "So, you going to make me breakfast?"
"Excuse me?" says Steven. He looks more bemused than anything else.
"I'd like box tickets for the season, please," Peter says. "I can get those for free, right?"
Steven tilts his head, a smile crossing his boyish face. He's sitting down, tying up his cleats, and his long legs are spread across the bench as if on display. Peter tries not to stare and fails. His eyes greedily follow down all that lean muscle, captivated by the strength in it, and by the soft, light brown, almost blonde hairs rippling across that devastatingly silky-looking skin-
Steven's said something Peter didn't hear. "Sorry, what?" Peter asks, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his head.
"I said, what are they for? Are you planning to get yourself injured for the rest of the season or something?" Steven grins.
John, being the hot-blooded redhead he is, takes the chance to hoot pervertedly. "Oh, you really liked that girl, didn't you?"
"Girl?" Steven asks, frowning. He never likes to be the one not getting the joke. Peter can see the characteristic 'A girl would actually have Peter?' bafflement registering across his face.
"Yeah, girl," John grins. "Peter was getting real chummy with some girl at the pub."
"Blonde," Jamie chimes in. "Huge knockers. Like, whoa."
"Really," says Steven.
"Her name is Abi," Peter says, leveling a glare at the other men. "She's my girlfriend. They're for her."
Peter watches Steven intently. In fantasy world, hearing that would make Steven madly jealous. Of course it doesn't. Steven's normal. Even if he wasn't it would be Peter. Peter knows that full well.
"Well, I think I should be able to do that for you," Steven says.
"Sure," says Peter. "Sure."
Abi squeals and starts jumping up and down when he presents her with her pass. "Oh, my God, I can't believe this!" she shrieks.
"Hey," Peter says, and loops his arms gently around her waist. Only a few days, and already he feels so comfortable with her it almost scares him. "I said I wanted you to be my girlfriend, didn't I?"
Abi rolls her eyes, but leans back into his arms, flashing him her pretty smile. "Honestly, Peter, I barely expected you to call. I thought you just said that to get me to have sex with you again."
"Abi," Peter says, imitating her, "You should have more confidence."
"I know!" she screams, waving the pass in the air gleefully, "I mean, just, yay!" and spins round to hug him with the full force of her body, nearly bowling Peter clean over. Peter kisses her on the forehead and wishes he'd had a sister like her.
Having Abi on the pitch with him is almost like a good luck charm. He's broken his scoreless streak, now, and he keeps on scoring. The only trouble is that every time he gets a goal, he wants to jump right over all the ad barriers to kiss her, and though he's sure Abi would be ecstatic, he doesn't relish the idea of going down in the books as the guy who couldn't keep his libido down long enough to keep from getting a yellow, especially since he's just getting back in the Liverpool fans' graces and that would sure endear him to them. Instead, he confines himself to trying to find her with his eyes and waving when something good happens, and just that makes him happy.
Abi is always yelling her head off, no matter what's going on and how Liverpool's doing. She wasn't lying, she really does love football. She wears one of his old jerseys to the matches, hanging it proudly in his or her closet in between games. She used to rather cheekily don a Gerrard one until Peter yelled at her to give it up, and no, he didn't want her to keep it for the bedroom. That one took him a few moments to consider, though. Just a few.
When Peter gets his official call-up for the England squad in Germany (he'd been playing in qualifiers recently, but he's still shocked and thrilled), Abi is the first one he calls. She comes over to his apartment unsuspecting, bearing a few cartons of Chinese and a copy of Cosmo with some new sex positions she thinks sound worth a shot. Once she's finally put those down, he shoves her hands full again with paper after paper.
“Okay, what’s this,” says Abi, then looks down and can’t even scream like she usually would, just lets out a soft gasp. Peter can see she’s looking at her ticket to Germany.
“I’m going to be playing for England in the Cup,” Peter says, and takes a deep breath. “Abi, I want you to be there with me.”
Abi first meets Steven under what could only be called unfortunate circumstances. She and Peter are celebrating some England victory, and both of them are ravingly trashed, especially Abi. They’re dancing in the crowd, happily making fools of themselves, Peter teaching his famous robot dance to Abi, who’s just steady enough on her feet still to manage. They do the robot together to “Sex Bomb”, then stumble off the dance floor howling with laughter, draped all over each other. They’re rating the men around them. “That’s a 9,” Peter says.
“Are you kidding?” Abi slurs. “5 at most. Now this guy coming up to us-”
“Peter?” Steven suddenly appears, eyeing them doubtfully. “Peter, I don’t think I’ve ever been properly introduced to your girlfriend before.”
This is very awkward, if only in Peter’s head. He can’t manage to say anything before Abi’s bounded forward and is shaking Steven’s hand enthusiastically. Peter is sure Steven can smell the alchohol on her breath. “Hi!” Abi yells. “I’m Abi! Hi, you’re Stevie, right? I’ve heard so much about you!” As if trying to make things even worse, she starts giggling for no apparent reason. Abi wouldn’t tell Steven anything, would she?
As it turns out, she hardly has time to try. “Thanks,” Steven says, all forced politeness. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” and quickly makes his exit.
“Well, I think that went well,” Abi says, and nearly trips over a nearby chair. “Dammit, those things aren’t supposed to move!”
“Sure,” Peter says agreeably, and tries very hard to push the incident clean out of his memory.
Steven won’t let him. The first thing next morning, Steven comes by his hotel room to talk to him. Because Abi for once hasn’t stayed over, too drunk to, he thinks it’s her, come to nurse her hangover with company, so he opens the door in only a pair of sweatpants, the sleepy words “Let’s make some coffee” freezing at the sight of Steven at his door, bright-eyed and clean-shaven, decked out in a devastating suit that has to be Armani. “Can I come in?” Steven asks, as if Peter has a choice.
“Sure,” says Peter, and Steven squeezes his way past Peter into the room. It’s messy, Peter’s a messy guy, and various articles of his and Abi’s clothing are strewn across the floor. Peter starts trying to clean up, but Steven waves him off.
“It’s okay,” Steven says absently. “Listen, I think we need to talk.”
“Okay,” says Peter, heart in his throat, and takes a seat on his bed. Steven slides down next to him.
“Alright,” Steven says, and takes a deep breath. “Peter, this isn’t easy to say. And maybe it’s none of my business. But I really don’t think you should be with that Clancy girl.”
Peter’s heart is threatening to explode. Is Steven actually jealous? Does he want Peter for himself? Peter can already feel the words forming in his mouth: “Of course, I feel like you do, yeah, I’ll break up with Abi right away, we’re not serious, it’s not her, it’s you, it’s always been you-”
“I mean, it’s great that you’re dating, but I think you can do so much better,” says Steven.
“What?”
“Peter,” Steven says, resting a comradely hand on Peter’s arm, “I know this may be hard to hear, but she’s just a celebrity groupie. She’s only with you because you’re a footballer. She’s only in it for the money. Everyone knows it except you. That kind of girl isn’t worth it. Now, I’m sorry this had to come from me, but I’m your captain-”
“No, you’re not,” says Peter. “Becks is my captain.”
“Yes, but-”
“I can’t believe you, Stevie!” Peter explodes. “How dare you say those things about Abi! You met her for what, two seconds?”
“She’s a drunken ditz,” Steven says, crossing his arms.
“You don’t know her! Not at all!” Peter yells, genuinely angry, but not just for the reasons Steven would think, and not just at Steven, at himself. “I can’t believe you! Abi’s my girl! How would you like it if I said those kind of things about your fiance? Bugger off!”
“Whoa, whoa, Petey,” Steven goes, and hastily backs off, clearly not having expected this kind of reaction. After all, Peter’s never spoken to Steven like that before. “Hey, calm down. I’ll shut up, okay?” Steven shoots his trademark charming grin at his teammatte in a sheepish attempt to placate him. “I won’t say anything else, I promise. I guess it is none of my business.”
“Good,” says Peter.
“Hey,” Stephen says, as if noticing for the first time, “You really are skinny, aren’t you? Like a skeleton,” he says playfully, and lays one of his hands across Peter’s bare stomach, fingers running across Peter’s ribs. “Feel that? You need to put on a few pounds.”
Peter can’t move, can barely breathe, paralyzed by the feel of Steven’s big, warm hands on him. If he were to just lean down a few centimeters and press Steven’s lips against his own-
A key turns in the lock, and then the door thrusts open and Abi stumbles in with tangled hair and dark sunglasses. “Okay,” she declares, “Why the fuck is it so bright in here?”
Steven slides up off the bed, looks from Abi to Peter, and fixes Peter with this look he can’t interpret, something heavy and languid that might just be contempt, then in a second, he’s pushed past the two of them and they’re alone.
“Abi!” Peter yells.
“Oh, I’m sorry, were you and Captain Wonderful about to get it on,” Abi yawns, and winces. “Can you not talk so loud?”
“Sorry.”
“God, my head hurts,” Abi complains.
Come to think of it, Peter’s does, too. “Want me to order us some coffee?”
Steven doesn’t have to wait long before he’s proven to be right. Peter gets woken up by a ringing phone one day very early on a morning he’d planned to sleep through, on account of not having any games that day, for once. It’s his agent, a man whose name Peter can never remember, who keeps screaming something about Abi being a crack whore, something Peter takes as a rather personal insult until he manages to discern that his agent is merely repeating what’s plastered over all of today’s tabloids. Peter, after a brief flash of utter bafflement that anyone would care enough about him for there to be a scandal over his girlfriend, says he’ll go buy a copy himself to check it out, but his agent assures him that it would be a very bad idea for him to go out before they have an official statement.
“Abi doesn’t take drugs,” says Peter.
His agent snaps impatiently that no one’s saying she does now, but there are photos of her doing cocaine when she was younger, back when she was in that confounded joke of a girl band of hers. Peter says that it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care. Peter’s agent, though, asks if Peter’s also so sure Abi’s never cheated on him, and that shuts Peter right up.
“You have to break up with her,” his agent says.
“What? I don’t want-”
“Peter,” his agent says. “Think about your career. It’s just starting to take off. Don’t you care about that? She’s just a girl.”
“I-”
“It’s just part of the business,” his agent says, not at all sympathetic. “It’s what any footballer would do in the same situation. Even, say, oh, Steven Gerrard. Think about it.”
‘Dear Abi,’ Peter types, and he feels so phony doing this over the fax, but it’s what he was told to do, ‘I don’t think we should see each other for a while. You should fly back home. I’m sorry. Peter.’ He closes his eyes, presses the “send” button, curses to himself, and checks the clock. 3:57. If he doesn’t get going, he’ll be late for practice.
He’s the last person in the locker room, and everyone quiets when he walks in. Steven is the first one to speak. “I’m sorry,” Steven says, but Peter can see the smugness in his eyes. Abi flies home. England loses the Cup.
After that, it’s only a step further to put out the legal statement about the two of them not being together, so will she please stop saying they are that basically amounts to a restraining order. He himself doesn’t blame Abi. He knows full well that she probably didn’t get, in her adorably clueless way, that he’d broken up with her. He misses her, misses the soft warmth of her body, her cheers of support from the stands at every match, her idiotic jokes, her inappropriate comments, her runway walk, her unshakeable, infectious cheerfulness. He watches Britain’s Next Top Model and sulks and secretly roots for her. A few hours after his people release the legal statement, he gets a message on his phone from her. It says, ‘Is this because you lost the World Cup? I’m sorry I wasn’t a good enough good luck charm. :-( Abi,’ and though she has to know full well why he dumped her by now, he almost feels like he’s going to cry. Of course, then Steven comes in and starts to change, and Peter pretty much loses the plot.
Until later that night, when the thought hits him like a goalpost between the eyes that Abi knows about Steven, and there goes everything, his friends, his family, his football, everything. Now the fans would have a real reason to call him a freak. Why shouldn’t Abi tell? If he were in her place, he would.
Peter doesn’t know how many days he lives in abject terror until after yet another tabloid clean of his name, it finally hits him that Abi isn’t going to tell.
So the night before the home ECQ against Macedonia, Peter finds himself getting an extra ticket for the match from John Terry and sending it with a note to Abi’s place, because, damn it all, he doesn’t really care anymore, and he wants her to be there.
So when Peter slams the ball into the net for the only goal of the night in an overhead kick even he didn’t know he had in him, he looks up to the stands and there’s Abi, waving with both her hands and screaming her head off, and everything perfect.
So when everyone’s in the locker room afterwards and they’re all still congratulating Peter, the door opens and Abi walks in (this girl never knocks), making the entire room freeze in silence, and Peter looks up and can’t help but meet her idiotic grin with an even more idiotic grin of his own, and say, “Come on, Abi,” and walk up and take her by the hand. Steven Gerrard looks, as Abi would put it, absolutely fucking furious as Peter and Abi stride out together into the brilliant sunlight.
“Hey,” Abi says.
“Hey,” Peter says, and Abi takes his arm as if she’s never left that place, as if that’s where she belongs, and Peter supposes she does.
“So Captain Wonderful looked mad,” Abi comments.
“He doesn’t like you,” Peter laughs.
“No, come on,” Abi says. “It was you. You just have to have-”
“A little more confidence,” Peter finishes.
“Exactly,” Abi says, and laughs, and he’s so happy to hear her laugh again. “You’ve just got to throw him down sometime and have your way with him. I bet he wouldn’t mind.”
Peter snorts disbelievingly. “Oh, right.”
“Yeah, right,” says Abi. “Tell you what, I’d even help you tie him up.”
And the thing Peter loves most about Abi is that she is absolutely serious.
Title: Good Luck
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Peter Crouch/Steven Gerrard (one-sided), Peter Crouch/Abi Clancy
Warning: Het, some somewhat fluffy parts...
Disclaimer: All lies.
Archive: Beautiful Games
Summary: "Stevie? Is that Steven Gerrard? Oh, that's the name you said, you know, like, during sex, so I was just wondering."
Notes- This fic is based on watching Britain’s Next Top Model, which is what Abi’s characterization was based on, and of course articles and rumors, with which some liberty has of course been taken.
Good Luck
Starbrigid
That night wouldn't have happened if only Steven had agreed to come with the rest of them to celebrate. As it is, the team sort of drifts off into groups, Steven leading the pack of responsible men going home to their wives or girlfriends, Jamie leading the men who either don't have any or don't care too much about the ones they do. Peter Crouch, naturally, ends up in Jamie's group. By midnight, he's stumbling into their fourth different pub of the night, drunk but positively sober compared to John and Jamie, who seem determined that their slurred but heartfelt rendition of "We Are Liverpool" be heard by the entire neighborhood. Flanked from behind by a deliriously happy Luis, who is currently expressing his joy through flamenco dance, Peter makes his wincing way up to the bar of whatever dive Jamie's somehow talked him into visiting. The place is loud, smoky, crowded, and generally pretty filthy. At least Peter's drunken teammates fit right in.
"I'll have a beer," Peter says, and belatedly remembers that beers come in different kinds. Damn.
The girl behind the counter, though, doesn't seem to care. "Okay," she says, giggling to herself, "One beer coming up," then looks up, revealing a soft, pretty face and soft, pretty blue eyes. "Wow!" she shrieks, falling across the bar in shock. She's definitely from around here; her heavy Liverpool accent reminds Peter of his mum's. "Wow, you- you're Peter Crouch!"
Peter blinks, taken aback at being recognized for the few seconds it takes him to remember that he came in with four much bigger stars singing who they were at the top of their lungs. Still, getting recognized is quite a novelty for him, especially if gleeful chants of "Freak! Freak! Freak!" don't immediately follow it. He's no Gerrard.
"Oh, yeah," Peter says, and can feel himself blushing, which he can't stand, embarrassing himself in front of a pretty girl. "I'm- Peter Crouch." God, this is awkward. "Um- who are you?"
"Me?" the blonde girl cries. "Me- oh- I'm nobody," she giggles, smiling, and hands him his drink. "I- well, I'm Abi, actually."
"Peter," Peter replies automatically, even though she already knows, and mentally smacks himself for it.
"Well, Peter, you're the man!" Abi shouts brashly, leaning over the bar towards him. "Finally scored for us, haven't you?" The TV over the bar is set to a sports channel. Peter can see the highlights from a Chelsea game running behind her head.
"I guess I have," Peter manages. Normally, he can never talk to girls, but this one's guileless enthusiasm is infectious.
"You know, I love football," Abi is saying, all earnest. "And I've always wanted to marry a footballer," she giggles, and tosses her long light hair over her shoulder coquettishly.
"Like Steven Gerrard?" Peter asks, staring.
Abi, in a flash, hops over the counter and plops down onto the other side of it, her feet dangling in his face. "You," Abi says, "should have more confidence!"
Peter gapes up, speechless, at Abi, at her long shapely legs and the delicate toes of her bare feet, nails painted light blue, and at the ample outline of her breasts beneath her fuzzy pink sweater, at her naively confident smile. "Well- thanks," Peter finally manages to stutter out.
"Sure," Abi says, and drops into the stool next to him.
"Don't you need to work?" Peter asks.
"Ah, who cares?" Abi declares, and laughs uproariously. She has a laugh Peter would probably have thought was annoying and ditzy if it wasn't being shared with him. As it is, Peter thinks she laughs prettier than any girl he's ever met.
The manager walks up. "Abi-"
"Ah!" Abi cries. "Fire me! I don't care!" Turning away from the stunned man, she looks back at Peter, gaze comically intent. "So what were you saying?"
"Nothing, really," says Peter in a daze.
"Oh, that's okay," Abi giggles. "So can I call you Peter? You can call me Abi!"
"Sure," Peter says, watching Abi toss her blonde hair. He can't believe this is happening to him. Somewhere in the background, Jamie is giving him a thumb's-up.
"Sure, Abi!" Abi cries, grabbing his arm. "Call me Abi!"
"Sure, Abi," Peter repeats, staring down at her small soft hands.
"So!" Abi says, her smile growing progressively more dazzling. Girls this pretty- hell, girls in general- never talk to Peter Crouch. This girl could be a model, too, Peter thinks. She should be.
"Friends?" Abi says, offering him her other hand.
She's nice, too. "Friends," Peter says, and clasps her hand in his much larger one.
She breaks off quickly. "God, you're sweaty!" she squeals giddily.
"Sorry," Peter mutters. "I'm kind of nervous here."
"Oh!" Abi exclaims, covering her mouth with her hand, and gazes at him adoringly. "You're so cute!"
"Uh," says Peter.
"You are," says Abi. "Have more confidence."
The next morning, Peter wakes to a naked Abi next to him in bed, her right leg raised high in the air as she paints her toenails purple. The smell of nail polish mixes with the strong flowery perfume she wears, filling the room with her scent. She's not the first girl he's ever slept with, but she's certainly the best.
"Oh, good morning!" says Abi.
"Hey," Peter says slowly, feeling a stupid grin split open his face, and goes to kiss her.
"Hey," Abi says, "Stevie? Is that Steven? Like, Steven Gerrard?"
Peter stops. "Um- yeah," he says warily. "Why?"
"Well," Abi says, all matter-of-fact, "That's the name you said, you know, during sex and all, so I was just, like, wondering." Peter's jaw drops. No sound comes out. "Oh, relax," Abi giggles, and smacks him on the arm playfully. "You think I've never dated a guy who's bi before?" She finishes her right foot and sits up. "So, you going to make me breakfast?"
"Excuse me?" says Steven. He looks more bemused than anything else.
"I'd like box tickets for the season, please," Peter says. "I can get those for free, right?"
Steven tilts his head, a smile crossing his boyish face. He's sitting down, tying up his cleats, and his long legs are spread across the bench as if on display. Peter tries not to stare and fails. His eyes greedily follow down all that lean muscle, captivated by the strength in it, and by the soft, light brown, almost blonde hairs rippling across that devastatingly silky-looking skin-
Steven's said something Peter didn't hear. "Sorry, what?" Peter asks, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his head.
"I said, what are they for? Are you planning to get yourself injured for the rest of the season or something?" Steven grins.
John, being the hot-blooded redhead he is, takes the chance to hoot pervertedly. "Oh, you really liked that girl, didn't you?"
"Girl?" Steven asks, frowning. He never likes to be the one not getting the joke. Peter can see the characteristic 'A girl would actually have Peter?' bafflement registering across his face.
"Yeah, girl," John grins. "Peter was getting real chummy with some girl at the pub."
"Blonde," Jamie chimes in. "Huge knockers. Like, whoa."
"Really," says Steven.
"Her name is Abi," Peter says, leveling a glare at the other men. "She's my girlfriend. They're for her."
Peter watches Steven intently. In fantasy world, hearing that would make Steven madly jealous. Of course it doesn't. Steven's normal. Even if he wasn't it would be Peter. Peter knows that full well.
"Well, I think I should be able to do that for you," Steven says.
"Sure," says Peter. "Sure."
Abi squeals and starts jumping up and down when he presents her with her pass. "Oh, my God, I can't believe this!" she shrieks.
"Hey," Peter says, and loops his arms gently around her waist. Only a few days, and already he feels so comfortable with her it almost scares him. "I said I wanted you to be my girlfriend, didn't I?"
Abi rolls her eyes, but leans back into his arms, flashing him her pretty smile. "Honestly, Peter, I barely expected you to call. I thought you just said that to get me to have sex with you again."
"Abi," Peter says, imitating her, "You should have more confidence."
"I know!" she screams, waving the pass in the air gleefully, "I mean, just, yay!" and spins round to hug him with the full force of her body, nearly bowling Peter clean over. Peter kisses her on the forehead and wishes he'd had a sister like her.
Having Abi on the pitch with him is almost like a good luck charm. He's broken his scoreless streak, now, and he keeps on scoring. The only trouble is that every time he gets a goal, he wants to jump right over all the ad barriers to kiss her, and though he's sure Abi would be ecstatic, he doesn't relish the idea of going down in the books as the guy who couldn't keep his libido down long enough to keep from getting a yellow, especially since he's just getting back in the Liverpool fans' graces and that would sure endear him to them. Instead, he confines himself to trying to find her with his eyes and waving when something good happens, and just that makes him happy.
Abi is always yelling her head off, no matter what's going on and how Liverpool's doing. She wasn't lying, she really does love football. She wears one of his old jerseys to the matches, hanging it proudly in his or her closet in between games. She used to rather cheekily don a Gerrard one until Peter yelled at her to give it up, and no, he didn't want her to keep it for the bedroom. That one took him a few moments to consider, though. Just a few.
When Peter gets his official call-up for the England squad in Germany (he'd been playing in qualifiers recently, but he's still shocked and thrilled), Abi is the first one he calls. She comes over to his apartment unsuspecting, bearing a few cartons of Chinese and a copy of Cosmo with some new sex positions she thinks sound worth a shot. Once she's finally put those down, he shoves her hands full again with paper after paper.
“Okay, what’s this,” says Abi, then looks down and can’t even scream like she usually would, just lets out a soft gasp. Peter can see she’s looking at her ticket to Germany.
“I’m going to be playing for England in the Cup,” Peter says, and takes a deep breath. “Abi, I want you to be there with me.”
Abi first meets Steven under what could only be called unfortunate circumstances. She and Peter are celebrating some England victory, and both of them are ravingly trashed, especially Abi. They’re dancing in the crowd, happily making fools of themselves, Peter teaching his famous robot dance to Abi, who’s just steady enough on her feet still to manage. They do the robot together to “Sex Bomb”, then stumble off the dance floor howling with laughter, draped all over each other. They’re rating the men around them. “That’s a 9,” Peter says.
“Are you kidding?” Abi slurs. “5 at most. Now this guy coming up to us-”
“Peter?” Steven suddenly appears, eyeing them doubtfully. “Peter, I don’t think I’ve ever been properly introduced to your girlfriend before.”
This is very awkward, if only in Peter’s head. He can’t manage to say anything before Abi’s bounded forward and is shaking Steven’s hand enthusiastically. Peter is sure Steven can smell the alchohol on her breath. “Hi!” Abi yells. “I’m Abi! Hi, you’re Stevie, right? I’ve heard so much about you!” As if trying to make things even worse, she starts giggling for no apparent reason. Abi wouldn’t tell Steven anything, would she?
As it turns out, she hardly has time to try. “Thanks,” Steven says, all forced politeness. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” and quickly makes his exit.
“Well, I think that went well,” Abi says, and nearly trips over a nearby chair. “Dammit, those things aren’t supposed to move!”
“Sure,” Peter says agreeably, and tries very hard to push the incident clean out of his memory.
Steven won’t let him. The first thing next morning, Steven comes by his hotel room to talk to him. Because Abi for once hasn’t stayed over, too drunk to, he thinks it’s her, come to nurse her hangover with company, so he opens the door in only a pair of sweatpants, the sleepy words “Let’s make some coffee” freezing at the sight of Steven at his door, bright-eyed and clean-shaven, decked out in a devastating suit that has to be Armani. “Can I come in?” Steven asks, as if Peter has a choice.
“Sure,” says Peter, and Steven squeezes his way past Peter into the room. It’s messy, Peter’s a messy guy, and various articles of his and Abi’s clothing are strewn across the floor. Peter starts trying to clean up, but Steven waves him off.
“It’s okay,” Steven says absently. “Listen, I think we need to talk.”
“Okay,” says Peter, heart in his throat, and takes a seat on his bed. Steven slides down next to him.
“Alright,” Steven says, and takes a deep breath. “Peter, this isn’t easy to say. And maybe it’s none of my business. But I really don’t think you should be with that Clancy girl.”
Peter’s heart is threatening to explode. Is Steven actually jealous? Does he want Peter for himself? Peter can already feel the words forming in his mouth: “Of course, I feel like you do, yeah, I’ll break up with Abi right away, we’re not serious, it’s not her, it’s you, it’s always been you-”
“I mean, it’s great that you’re dating, but I think you can do so much better,” says Steven.
“What?”
“Peter,” Steven says, resting a comradely hand on Peter’s arm, “I know this may be hard to hear, but she’s just a celebrity groupie. She’s only with you because you’re a footballer. She’s only in it for the money. Everyone knows it except you. That kind of girl isn’t worth it. Now, I’m sorry this had to come from me, but I’m your captain-”
“No, you’re not,” says Peter. “Becks is my captain.”
“Yes, but-”
“I can’t believe you, Stevie!” Peter explodes. “How dare you say those things about Abi! You met her for what, two seconds?”
“She’s a drunken ditz,” Steven says, crossing his arms.
“You don’t know her! Not at all!” Peter yells, genuinely angry, but not just for the reasons Steven would think, and not just at Steven, at himself. “I can’t believe you! Abi’s my girl! How would you like it if I said those kind of things about your fiance? Bugger off!”
“Whoa, whoa, Petey,” Steven goes, and hastily backs off, clearly not having expected this kind of reaction. After all, Peter’s never spoken to Steven like that before. “Hey, calm down. I’ll shut up, okay?” Steven shoots his trademark charming grin at his teammatte in a sheepish attempt to placate him. “I won’t say anything else, I promise. I guess it is none of my business.”
“Good,” says Peter.
“Hey,” Stephen says, as if noticing for the first time, “You really are skinny, aren’t you? Like a skeleton,” he says playfully, and lays one of his hands across Peter’s bare stomach, fingers running across Peter’s ribs. “Feel that? You need to put on a few pounds.”
Peter can’t move, can barely breathe, paralyzed by the feel of Steven’s big, warm hands on him. If he were to just lean down a few centimeters and press Steven’s lips against his own-
A key turns in the lock, and then the door thrusts open and Abi stumbles in with tangled hair and dark sunglasses. “Okay,” she declares, “Why the fuck is it so bright in here?”
Steven slides up off the bed, looks from Abi to Peter, and fixes Peter with this look he can’t interpret, something heavy and languid that might just be contempt, then in a second, he’s pushed past the two of them and they’re alone.
“Abi!” Peter yells.
“Oh, I’m sorry, were you and Captain Wonderful about to get it on,” Abi yawns, and winces. “Can you not talk so loud?”
“Sorry.”
“God, my head hurts,” Abi complains.
Come to think of it, Peter’s does, too. “Want me to order us some coffee?”
Steven doesn’t have to wait long before he’s proven to be right. Peter gets woken up by a ringing phone one day very early on a morning he’d planned to sleep through, on account of not having any games that day, for once. It’s his agent, a man whose name Peter can never remember, who keeps screaming something about Abi being a crack whore, something Peter takes as a rather personal insult until he manages to discern that his agent is merely repeating what’s plastered over all of today’s tabloids. Peter, after a brief flash of utter bafflement that anyone would care enough about him for there to be a scandal over his girlfriend, says he’ll go buy a copy himself to check it out, but his agent assures him that it would be a very bad idea for him to go out before they have an official statement.
“Abi doesn’t take drugs,” says Peter.
His agent snaps impatiently that no one’s saying she does now, but there are photos of her doing cocaine when she was younger, back when she was in that confounded joke of a girl band of hers. Peter says that it doesn’t matter, he doesn’t care. Peter’s agent, though, asks if Peter’s also so sure Abi’s never cheated on him, and that shuts Peter right up.
“You have to break up with her,” his agent says.
“What? I don’t want-”
“Peter,” his agent says. “Think about your career. It’s just starting to take off. Don’t you care about that? She’s just a girl.”
“I-”
“It’s just part of the business,” his agent says, not at all sympathetic. “It’s what any footballer would do in the same situation. Even, say, oh, Steven Gerrard. Think about it.”
‘Dear Abi,’ Peter types, and he feels so phony doing this over the fax, but it’s what he was told to do, ‘I don’t think we should see each other for a while. You should fly back home. I’m sorry. Peter.’ He closes his eyes, presses the “send” button, curses to himself, and checks the clock. 3:57. If he doesn’t get going, he’ll be late for practice.
He’s the last person in the locker room, and everyone quiets when he walks in. Steven is the first one to speak. “I’m sorry,” Steven says, but Peter can see the smugness in his eyes. Abi flies home. England loses the Cup.
After that, it’s only a step further to put out the legal statement about the two of them not being together, so will she please stop saying they are that basically amounts to a restraining order. He himself doesn’t blame Abi. He knows full well that she probably didn’t get, in her adorably clueless way, that he’d broken up with her. He misses her, misses the soft warmth of her body, her cheers of support from the stands at every match, her idiotic jokes, her inappropriate comments, her runway walk, her unshakeable, infectious cheerfulness. He watches Britain’s Next Top Model and sulks and secretly roots for her. A few hours after his people release the legal statement, he gets a message on his phone from her. It says, ‘Is this because you lost the World Cup? I’m sorry I wasn’t a good enough good luck charm. :-( Abi,’ and though she has to know full well why he dumped her by now, he almost feels like he’s going to cry. Of course, then Steven comes in and starts to change, and Peter pretty much loses the plot.
Until later that night, when the thought hits him like a goalpost between the eyes that Abi knows about Steven, and there goes everything, his friends, his family, his football, everything. Now the fans would have a real reason to call him a freak. Why shouldn’t Abi tell? If he were in her place, he would.
Peter doesn’t know how many days he lives in abject terror until after yet another tabloid clean of his name, it finally hits him that Abi isn’t going to tell.
So the night before the home ECQ against Macedonia, Peter finds himself getting an extra ticket for the match from John Terry and sending it with a note to Abi’s place, because, damn it all, he doesn’t really care anymore, and he wants her to be there.
So when Peter slams the ball into the net for the only goal of the night in an overhead kick even he didn’t know he had in him, he looks up to the stands and there’s Abi, waving with both her hands and screaming her head off, and everything perfect.
So when everyone’s in the locker room afterwards and they’re all still congratulating Peter, the door opens and Abi walks in (this girl never knocks), making the entire room freeze in silence, and Peter looks up and can’t help but meet her idiotic grin with an even more idiotic grin of his own, and say, “Come on, Abi,” and walk up and take her by the hand. Steven Gerrard looks, as Abi would put it, absolutely fucking furious as Peter and Abi stride out together into the brilliant sunlight.
“Hey,” Abi says.
“Hey,” Peter says, and Abi takes his arm as if she’s never left that place, as if that’s where she belongs, and Peter supposes she does.
“So Captain Wonderful looked mad,” Abi comments.
“He doesn’t like you,” Peter laughs.
“No, come on,” Abi says. “It was you. You just have to have-”
“A little more confidence,” Peter finishes.
“Exactly,” Abi says, and laughs, and he’s so happy to hear her laugh again. “You’ve just got to throw him down sometime and have your way with him. I bet he wouldn’t mind.”
Peter snorts disbelievingly. “Oh, right.”
“Yeah, right,” says Abi. “Tell you what, I’d even help you tie him up.”
And the thing Peter loves most about Abi is that she is absolutely serious.