we'll drive at sixty miles an hour
by mardia
When Martin moves out of his parents' house and gets his own place, he has some grand ideas of striking out on his own, being his own man, learning to be independent and free.
The first week where he has to try and actually cook for himself sets him straight in a hurry. Still, even with his mum continuing to deliver plenty of food in plastic containers every weekend, Martin likes living on his own. He likes his neighbors, having a place to himself, being able to be alone when he wants, being able to invite people over whenever he wants.
One of those people ends up being Conor Coady, oddly enough. Martin's not sure how it became such a regular thing, having Conor over at his flat so often, but he likes it.
"God, this place is boss," Conor says gleefully, stretching out on Martin's couch. "Can't wait to get my own flat."
"Not so much fun when you've got to cook for yourself," Martin says, smiling as he sits next to Conor on the couch.
"Like you cook for yourself," Conor says, laughing. "Besides, not all of us are hopeless in the kitchen."
"Oi, since when do you cook?" Martin asks in disbelief.
"I don't," Conor says, with a shrug. "But I could if I wanted to."
This is so ridiculous that Martin can only gape for a moment, before going sharply, "Right," and pulling a protesting Conor into a headlock, not letting him up until Conor gasps for mercy, laughing all the while.
When Martin finally lets him go, Conor's cheeks are flushed and he's grinning widely at Martin. Martin grins back, because--well. It's just a nice thing, seeing that.
*
Martin's fairly aware that his life doesn't come anywhere close to approaching normal. He tries to keep a low profile, for the most part, and he knows he's nowhere near getting the kind of press attention that some of his teammates get. He can go to the cinema or to the shops without being followed by the paparazzi, even if he is signing more autographs these days. That’s not a bad thing at all, it’s just--different.
He tries to keep in touch with some of his old friends from school, but it’s hard sometimes, relating--some of them are in uni, worried about exams and the current job market; meanwhile, he’s worried about staying in the first team on a regular basis, about making sure he’s impressing the gaffer every week in training.
His friends from school worry about impressing their professors, or their managers at their entry-level jobs. Martin worries about impressing Kenny Dalglish and Fabio Capello.
There’s a difference, is all. Martin works at bridging that gap, sure, but sometimes--it’s just easier talking with people who he doesn’t have that gap with. Like Jay, or Jonjo--or Conor. People who get it, who know what it’s like playing for this club, this manager, wanting so badly to impress, to succeed. To play.
When Conor’s over at Martin’s flat, no matter what they start out talking about--films, the latest episode of Who, the contestants on X Factor--it always comes back to football in the end. Always, and with Conor, it’s like Martin’s looking at an echo of himself, three years ago.
Martin wants to play for Liverpool, and he wants to play for England. He wants it more than anything, and he knows Conor is the exact same way.
When you look at it like that, it makes sense, him spending so much time with Conor these days.
*
"I see what this is really about," Martin says, the third time that Conor comes over and they end up playing ProEvo. "You're just after my video games, that's why you're here so often."
"Yeah, pretty much," Conor agrees with a laugh, and Martin shoves him in the side in retaliation. It's not hard to do; they're sitting pretty close together on the couch. Conor's never been one for personal space, and Martin finds it hard to mind. The result is that their elbows and arms keep brushing each other as they work at the controllers.
After getting beaten, again, Martin goes to the refrigerator for a consolation snack. "Do you want anything?" he calls out. "I've got Coke, juice--there's beer too, but don't tell the gaffer that, eh?"
"Um..." Over in the living room, Martin sees Conor twist about in his seat so he's looking over the back of the couch at Martin. "Juice, I think?"
"All right," Martin says, pulling it out. After a second's consideration, he grabs two glasses--he's not much in the mood for beer, to be honest, and it would feel weird, drinking while Conor abstained.
They settle back into another game, AC Milan against Real Madrid. After a while, Conor says, "Hey, listen--if I'm wearing out my welcome, just say so. I can clear right out."
"Don't be stupid, I like having you around." Martin focuses on the screen, where Ibrahimovic is trying to score on Casillas. "If I wanted you out, I'd tell you."
Conor turns to beam at him. "Good."
Martin smiles back. It's easy to do, with Conor beaming at him like that. The moment lasts for maybe a second or two longer than it should, but it doesn't feel awkward, just--just nice.
Suddenly there's a knock on the door, and Martin blinks. "Maybe it's one of my neighbors," he says, getting up from his seat. "Hang on a second..."
It's not one of his neighbors, it's his brother. Martin stares at him, surprised. "Um, hello, Warren."
Warren holds up a bag. "Mum wanted me to drop off some food for you, she's still convinced you'll starve if left to your own devices," he explains, and then looks past Martin to see Conor still on the couch. "Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you had company."
There's a leading, suggestive note to his voice, and it makes Martin flush, but Conor, thank Christ, doesn't pick up on it. "I'm Conor," he says, waving. "I'm one of Martin's teammates--well, sort of, I'm still on the reserves."
"Nice to meet you," Warren says, grinning broadly. He turns that broad, knowing smile onto Martin, and Martin narrows his eyes at him, thinking as loudly as he can, Do not even start with me, Warren. Do not.
Warren, because he's his brother, picks up on it. And because he's Martin's brother, he rolls his eyes and says, "You want to let me in so I can put this in the kitchen? Not that I want to interrupt your evening," he adds, cheekily, and Martin would bang his head into the wall if he could.
"Actually, I should probably get going," Conor says, getting up. "I hadn't realized how late it was getting, and my parents'll be wondering where I am."
"Oh, okay," Martin says, a bit disappointed. "Rematch?"
"Of course," Conor says, grinning at him as he shrugs into his coat. "Can't have you getting the idea you're better than me."
"You were losing 2-1!"
"I was just about to mount a comeback," Conor says loftily. "It'd be Istanbul all over again." He nods at Warren, friendly. "Nice to meet you."
"Oh, likewise," Warren says, with that smug look that makes Martin want to kick him.
"See you later, Martin," Conor says, patting him on the arm as he leave. Once he's gone, Martin fixes his brother with a look, takes the bag of food, and says, "Don't even start with me."
"What, I haven't said anything," Warren protests as Martin heads into the kitchen. "I haven't said anything at all, not about you, not about the young, fit teenager you had in here that clearly hangs on your every word--"
"Oh my God," Martin groans, shutting the refrigerator door. "Didn't I just tell you not to start? Didn't I? And it's not even like that with Conor, he's just a friend, so don't start on me with the matchmaking."
Warren studies him for a second, seems to decide he's telling the truth, and says, "Well, why not? He's good-looking."
"He's a friend," Martin corrects. "You know, I told you lot I was bi so I could be honest with you, not because I wanted you to pair me off with every single person you saw me with, no matter the gender."
"No, that's just a bonus," Warren says with a laugh. "Besides, if Mum's fussing over you, that means she's not asking me about grandchildren."
"And now I see what your evil plan really is," Martin deadpans, which has Warren laughing at him. "But really, Conor's just--look, half the time, I think he sees me as like, an older brother, you know, a sort of mentor. We're not--well, we're just not."
Warren, thank God, believes him. "Okay. Just--it'd be nice seeing you with someone. For the record."
"Yeah," Martin says. Neither of them say the obvious--that for the sake of Martin's future career, that someone should probably be a girl, or possibly a very understanding boy. Like, a candidate for sainthood, he'd have to be that understanding.
It's not that nice of a thing to think about, so Martin tries not to think about it too much.
"Besides," Warren says, "You could do worse."
Martin very carefully does not think of Raul. Instead, he just grins at his brother and says, "Shouldn't you be saying it's the other way around? He could do worse than me?"
"Eh," Warren says. "I've seen you right when you wake up in the morning. He'd be settling."
For that, Martin heads over to the couch, picks up one of the pillows, and throws it at his brother's head.
*
Martin's not looking for a relationship, exactly. He's pretty happy with his life as is, and the effort he puts in towards football, his career, means that he doesn't have all that much free time for anything else.
But--he hears the other lads in the dressing room, sometimes, offhandedly mentioning their wives, their girlfriends. Not in a bragging sort of way, but just because they've got someone in their lives, and it's natural to talk about it. His parents have been married for nearly thirty years, and his brother's been with his girlfriend for over a year now.
Being in a relationship sounds nice. Sounds more than nice, honestly. But Martin doesn't actually see how he'll have that, not with his life the way it is.
Once he'd thought that maybe he could, even in a different way than everyone else. But it hadn't worked out, in the end, and now Martin's just not looking.
*
"Wait a minute," Martin says, resting his mobile on his phone while he reaches for the milk, "why do you want me to come out with you lot again?"
"Because I need backup," Conor wheedles. "Look, Toni and the rest are really set on going out to the club tomorrow night, and I'd like to go too, but--well, I need someone who's going to help me keep everyone in line. And if things get a bit wild, they'll listen to you."
"And they won't listen to you?" Martin asks. "You're their teammate. I'm not."
"Yeah, but--well, you're you," Conor says.
Martin turns that over, a bit surprised by Conor implying he's got influence with the others, and says finally, "All right, I'll come. I'll ask Jay too, but he'll probably be busy with the baby, so--"
"Oh thanks, mate," Conor says, clearly relieved. "Look, it'll be fun, yeah? Lots of music, lots of dancing--"
"All right, I'm sold," Martin says, half-laughing. "If only so I can see you lot making fools of yourself on the dancefloor."
He calls Jay up to see if he wants to come along, but unsurprisingly, Jay refuses. "My club days are over, at least until the little one learns to sleep through the night."
"So it'll just be me and the academy lads then," Martin says. "Can't believe Conor's roped me into playing chaperone."
"Well, it's Conor," Jay says, "he's good at getting people to do what he wants, isn't he? Isn't that one of the tricks of being a captain?"
"Yeah, I suppose so," Martin says with a laugh. "He's always getting me to do what he wants, anyway."
"Yeah, I've noticed that," Jay says, and Martin opens his mouth to ask what that's all about, except that Jay's already moved on to talking about the baby and feedings and things like that, and Martin eventually ends up forgetting to ask what Jay was talking about, with him and Conor.
*
Going out that night with Conor and the rest ends up being a lot stranger than Martin expects it to be. He’s not having a bad time at the club, not at all, but it’s--well, it’s just different than spending time with Jay or his other friends, a different sort of dynamic.
In fact, it’s a bit like how Martin finds himself behaving around the senior members of the squad, like Gerrard or Carra or Pepe, that sort of wide-eyed respect underlying everything, even the banter.
It’s subtle, sure, but it’s there--and once Martin notices it, he can’t really stop noticing.
Conor’s the only one he doesn’t really sense it from, honestly.
So when Martin lightly suggests, upon arriving at the club, that it’s probably a good idea if none of them drink tonight, he’s not totally surprised--although it is still very weird--that everyone follows his suggestion with a minimum of grumbling. Adam Morgan even goes so far as to say it’s a good idea.
Martin can’t help but give Conor a look at this, and Conor leans in to say smugly, over the sound of the music that’s getting louder and louder as they walk in, "I said you’d be a help managing everyone."
True to their words, everyone sticks to water and non-alcoholic drinks all night, Martin included. He considers finding a girl to chat up and dance with, except he's having fun like this too, sitting with Conor in a relatively quiet corner, laughing at the antics of the others.
It's all pretty normal, until Toni Silva shows up with three girls in tow, and gorgeous girls at that, tiny dresses, long legs and shiny long hair that seems to get tossed about a lot, given that there's no breeze in this place.
"Er," Martin says, surprised but not displeased, and just like that, their quiet corner has become a lot more busy. The girls are from Brazil, it turns out, exchange students spending their first year at uni, and seem to get a huge amount of amusement at Morgan and Conor attempting to greet them in Portugeuse, with Silva providing some off-the-cuff tutoring.
One of the girls leans in and says in Martin's ear, "You like to dance?"
Martin's about to say thanks but no, when he reconsiders. People probably wouldn't guess it to look at him, but Martin likes dancing, and he's not half-bad at it either. Hard to be, with a choreographer for an older brother. And the girl--she's beautiful, yes, with long legs that go all the way up to there, but there's something about her smile, friendly instead of flirtatious, that he likes.
"Okay, yeah," Martin agrees, taking her hand as he gets up from his seat. Conor looks over at them, asking, "Wait, where--"
"Be right back," Martin assures him.
The girl--Yaritza, she tells him, and laughs at his attempts to pronounce her name correctly--leads him out onto the dancefloor, and once they're out there, starts to sway to the music, her hips following the beat, and Martin follows her lead.
A few minutes in, Yaritza’s looking at him with surprise and delight, leaning in to half-shout, "You can dance!"
"That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?" Martin asks, grinning.
"No, I mean you can really dance! Do you know how hard it is to find an Englishman that can actually dance?"
Martin tips his head back and laughs, before leaning in to say against her ear, "I should introduce you to my brother, he dances for a living." Then he takes her hand and twirls her in a tight spin, because there’s not much room for them to really move, not with the way this place is packed.
It’s been a long time since Martin’s danced like this, and he’d forgotten how much he’d missed it; it’s a rush, yes, but totally unlike the kind he gets when he steps out onto the field. It’s--it’s fizzier, like champagne bubbles rushing through his blood, traveling down his spine.
Yaritza's picking up on it too, not just swaying back and forth now, but doing showier stuff, her body sort of... rippling against his, just inviting him to join in.
And Martin does, and it's easy as anything, finding the rhythm and moving with her, against her, her slim hands curving around his hips.
Martin loses himself like that, in the music and the lights and the feel of her moving against him, right up until the song changes, shifts over to something more Latin, with a faster pace.
Yaritza leans in and shouts, "You don't know how to samba, do you?"
Martin sends up a quick and devout thanks to Lucas for his impromptu dance lessons in the dressing room. "Actually," he says, grinning, "I do, a little."
Within what feels like no time at all, they've got a little circle of space around them, people backing away to give them room, staring all the while. Martin would be a bit embarrassed at the attention, except he's having far too much fun to care about who's looking.
Yaritza's better than him, that much is obvious, but Martin's a quick study, and he think he's keeping up with her well enough. The key is not to get self-conscious, so Martin lets himself go, laughing at himself all the while, and Yaritza, to be frank, does a lot of the heavy work, making him look better than he really is.
Finally they come to a halt, breathless and laughing, and to Martin's embarrassment, there's a little applause and some catcalling, which only gets louder when Yaritza throws her arms around his neck and kisses him dramatically on the cheek. "You are wonderful," she declares loudly. "You can't be English, not with hips like that."
Martin’s grateful for the lighting that’ll hide the blush on his cheeks, and he’s wondering if now’s a good time to ask for her number, except then another girl, one of Yaritza’s friends, is pushing her way through the crowd to come up to them, talking very quickly in Portuguese, and Yaritza stops smiling and starts to look alarmed.
"Forgive me, I go now," she says urgently to Martin, her English crumbling a little bit. "My friend, she had a bad breakup, she have too much drinks tonight, and now she’s crying a lot."
"No, it’s all right--"
He’s cut off when she leans in and kisses him firmly on the mouth. "Truly," she says now, smiling up at him, "there is no way you are English."
Martin watches her go, grinning to himself, before he makes his way back to where Conor’s still sitting, the others having long gone, to the bar or to the dancefloor or who even knows where. When he collapses into the seat next to Conor, he notices the slightly shell-shocked look on Conor’s face. "You all right there, mate?" he asks, grinning, shaking Conor's shoulder a little bit to snap him out of it.
Conor's staring at him with wide eyes. "I--Kells, just--" and he's almost sputtering now, "--where did you learn to do that?"
"You know my brother’s a choreographer," Martin says, stretching out in his seat. "According to him, it’d have been a disgrace if he let his little brother go off into the world without knowing how to dance in public. That’s a direct quote, by the way." Martin points at Conor’s bottle of water, asking, "Can I have some of that?"
Conor hands it over to him. "Here, take it, I’m not thirsty."
Martin gratefully does, tipping his head back and swallowing about half of the contents in one go. Once he’s finished, he sets it back down on the tiny table in front of them, adding, "So I picked up a few things from Warren, but the samba I was doing with Yaritza back there--that was thanks to Lucas."
"Lucas," Conor repeats, flatly.
"Yeah."
"Lucas Leiva taught you how to dance the samba."
"Taught a bunch of us, actually," Martin explains. "We were goofing off in the dressing room after training one day, he put in his iPod and showed us a few moves. I was the best at it," he adds, proudly. "Although Pepe and Seb weren’t half bad, and Carra and Glen gave it a good go."
Conor puts his head in his hands at that, like the thought of Jamie Carragher learning how to samba is just too much for him. Martin can’t blame him there, it was a pretty funny sight.
Conor finally lifts his head and turns to look at Martin, saying seriously, "I didn’t know you could do that."
Martin’s a bit thrown by the look on Conor’s face, says, "What can I say, I've got hidden depths."
Conor’s still staring at him. "You’ve got--stuff on your mouth. It’s all red and shiny."
Martin touches his lips and finds that some of Yaritza’s lip gloss had rubbed off on his mouth when she’d kissed him. He rubs it away with his hand before asking, "Did I get it all?"
"Yes--no, hang on, there’s a bit left," Conor says, reaching out to get the rest, his thumb firm on the corner of Martin’s mouth.
Martin holds himself still for a while, feeling--well, he’s not sure what, but it feels odd, Conor touching him like this, staring at him in that serious way. It’s not what Martin’s used to from Conor, and he stays quiet for a bit before finally asking, tentative, "Have you got it all, then?"
Conor bilnks, looking startled, and says quickly, his hand falling away, "Yeah. Yeah, I got it."
Weirdly, Martin almost feels sorry.
But then the rest of the group's coming back and Martin turns away, and the moment--whatever it was--fades back into the background.
They head out, eventually, but when they do there's a couple of photographers by the exits. "Keep your heads down, all right," Martin calls out behind him, and he keeps his head down as he walks quickly to his car, Conor right on his heels, both of them ignoring the photographers, who seem to be just taking pictures indiscriminately--until one of them starts calling Martin's name.
Startled, Martin glances up, just once--but that's enough to get a flash straight in his face, which just makes him turn away and walk even faster, getting into his car, Conor slipping into the passenger seat, and driving off as quickly as he can.
"Fuck," Martin finally says, once they're safely off.
"Yeah," Conor agrees, blankly. "That was..." he trails off, and asks, almost plaintive, "That doesn't happen to you a lot now, does it?"
"No, never," Martin says. "I've signed a few autographs at the mall, but that's as far as it's ever gone, it's not like I'm--" He stops, because he was about to say, it's not like I'm famous, except that's not really true. Not anymore, at least.
Weird.
"It'll be all right," he assures Conor now. "Not like we did anything wrong, probably won't even be mentioned in the papers."
He's actually not at all sure of that, but Conor relaxes in his seat, reassured. "Yeah, you're probably right." He grins at Martin, content again, and Martin grins back.
*
By eleven o'clock the next morning, Martin's got a headache and he's already answered his phone thirteen times, never mind all the texts he's gotten.
When the phone rings again, Martin's on his iPad, grimly staring down at the online version of the Liverpool Echo, and he thinks about not answering, but it's Jay's name on the display, so--reluctantly--he picks it up.
"Hello?"
"I think I should have come out with you last night," Jay says, laughing. "Looks like you lot needed another chaperone."
Martin groans. "It wasn't like that--for God's sake, none of us were even drinking! We didn't do anything wrong, it's not our fault the pictures look like--"
"Kells, Kells, hang on," Jay interjects, sounding alarmed now. "I'm not saying you did do anything wrong--"
"Well, tell that to the papers!" Martin says, exasperated. "Or to the press officers at the club, I've already gotten a phone call from them talking about damage control."
The headline from the Echo says, Liverpool's Academy Has A Night Out On The Town. They've got photos of everyone in the group coming out of the club, and the biggest picture of all is the one with Martin leaving, his face flushed and his hair wild, Conor right behind him, and it just--it all looks so sordid, the way it's laid out.
The story's even worse, talking about the girls they were dancing with, some anonymous source talking about how they were "living it up" in the VIP section, how Martin was dancing all night, how--
Martin groans. "God, this is the worst."
"Look, the story isn't that bad," Jay says, which is obviously a lie, Martin's looking at it right now. "You weren't drinking, you didn't get into any actual trouble--so you went to a club and danced. Everyone's done that, it's not a crime."
"The Sun's already picked it up," Martin grumbles.
"This is Liverpool, nobody reads the Sun," Jay retorts. "Look, stop worrying. It'll be fine. It'll blow over in a week, if it even takes that long."
"Yeah," Martin agrees, biting his lip as he looks at the picture of him and Conor. "You're probably right."
And the truth is, Martin knows that Jay's right. He knows that. This'll disappear within a week, if it even takes that long.
But it's the fact that it was out there at all, that this happened in the first place--it stings. Seeing himself portrayed as some kind of... ringleader of mayhem, the idea that he's some wild, stupid kid, it eats at him, he can't help that.
Once he gets off the phone with Jay, Martin wants nothing more than to turn off his stupid phone, hole up on his couch, and grimly try and forget everything that's happened today. But he doesn't turn off the phone, which ends up being a good thing, because the next call he gets is one he doesn't actually want to ignore.
"Hey, Conor."
"Martin, I am so, so sorry--"
"Look, mate--"
"Really, this is all my fault, I swear to God, I didn't think this would happen--"
"Conor." Martin won't lie, he's had a shit morning, absolutely shit. But hearing Conor sound so guilty and apologetic... Martin just doesn't want to take it out on him, that's all. "Conor, it’s all right."
There’s a stretch of silence on the other end, and then Conor is asking, wary, "You know, I was expecting you to be a lot angrier when I finally got you on the phone."
"I’m--I’m not mad. Not at you, anyway." And Martin finds, a little to his surprise, that he really does mean it. "Look, it’ll blow over. We didn't do anything wrong, and the press will get bored with it in a day or two."
"Yeah?" Conor sounds so hopeful at that, so eager to believe it.
"Yeah, of course," Martin says, forcefully. "What about you? How are things on your end?"
Conor groans. "My dad's grounded me, and I've already gotten phone calls from Rodolfo and Pep--they weren't thrilled about the articles, I can tell you that, mate. I told them it was my fault--"
"Unless you called that photographer and told him to wait outside the club, it's not your fault," Martin says, and Conor makes a noise of disagreement. "Look, I'll beat this into your head if I have to--it's not your fault. It's just shit luck, that's all. By next week, everyone'll have forgotten about it."
"Yeah," Conor says, with a sigh, but at least he's starting to sound like he really believes Martin now. "You're probably right."
*
"Hey, Martin, mind stretching with me?"
Martin blinks as Steven Gerrard walks up to him at the start of training. "Oh, um, sure, yeah," he says. He's surprised--Steven usually stretches out with Carra or Glen, sometimes Pepe, and Martin usually stretches out with Jay.
"So," Gerrard says, pushing down on Martin's thigh. "Heard you had a wild night out?"
Martin can feel himself going beet-red in horror. "Um--" he starts, desperately, and thank Christ, Gerrard's grinning down at him.
"Relax, Kelly," he says cheerfully. "We all know the media's full of shit."
Martin lets out a sigh of relief. "I just don't know how it happened," he says a little plaintively, grunting as Gerrard presses down harder. "They made it sound awful, when nothing even happened, it's not like we got into a fight with anyone there, or--um. Um." He cuts himself off as he realizes exactly who he's talking to, and Gerrard's got an eyebrow raised at him now like Martin said that on purpose, instead of his stupid mouth getting him into trouble.
Steven holds his expression for one beat, and then another, until Martin starts to think he should be apologizing here, and then he cracks, grinning down at Martin again and saying, "You have a habit of making stupid jokes, do you?"
"No, I have a habit of speaking before I think," Martin admits. "Sorry, I--"
Gerrard waves a hand. "Forget it. But look, that's what I'm getting at here, there's nothing in this story, but that's not how the media'll spin this. It's okay now, because you're so young--"
"And hardly anyone knows who I am," Martin adds.
"--that too, but later in your career, you don't want that kind of reputation, you know? It'll stick to you worse than you realize."
"Right," Martin says, nodding as best as he can, lying on his back in the grass. "I hear you."
"Good," Gerrard says, and that's the last he says on the matter, even when Skrtel and Pepe are teasing him about it later, asking him to show them some dance moves. Somebody actually puts on some music in the dressing room, after training, and, goaded, Martin does get up on a bench and dance for the team, accompanied by laughter and hooting.
Gerrard claps him on the shoulder as they all leave, but that might not mean anything.
*
Warren shows up at his flat later that evening. Of course, he spots the fruit bouquet before Martin so much as says a word--not that that's all that difficult, it's rather conspicuous, sitting there on Martin's kitchen table. "What the hell is that?"
"It's a fruit bouquet," Martin says.
"I can see that, what the hell is it doing here?" Warren demands, poking at one of the "leaves", carved out of honeydew.
Martin groans, but there's no help for it, so he admits, "Conor sent it to me. As an apology for the whole--thing with the media and all."
Warren's eyes grow almost cartoonishly round at this. "And he thinks, what, the quickest way to your heart is through fruit?"
Martin's about to protest, except that Warren holds up a hand. "Martin. Come on. He sent you fruit."
"It's not like that," Martin says, but despite himself, he glances at the arrangement again.
"Uh huh," Warren says, skeptical. "You know, Martin, I've had to apologize to a few of my mates, but I've never had to send them fruit. Or flowers made of fruit, whatever you call this thing. So be nice and let him down easy."
Martin doesn't say anything, and Warren looks at him, then says slowly, "Unless you don't want to let him down easy."
Martin sighs eventually, and says, "Warren, don't. This doesn't prove anything, and even if it did..." He trails off, and says finally. "Look, it's just complicated."
Warren gently cuffs him on the head. "Don't overthink this, baby brother," he says, indulgent now. "Try and have some fun, yeah?" He pauses, and then adds, "As long as it's not in a nightclub again. We don't need to be giving Mum another heart attack."
Despite himself, Martin snickers reluctantly at this, which was what Warren was after in the first place.
After Warren's gone, Martin calls Conor. "Hey. Got your present."
"Yeah?" Conor says, sounding pleased. "Just saw the site and I thought it'd be funny, you know, sending it to you. Have you eaten any of it?"
"Uh, yeah, had a couple of the strawberries, thanks," Martin says. "How's your day been, how was training?"
"Not too bad, not too bad," Conor says, "Got some ribbing from the lads. You?"
"Oh, the same. I mean, I had to demonstrate my dance moves in the dressing room--" Conor hoots at this, "--and uh, Gerrard talked to me for a bit, but nothing too bad."
"Wait, Steven Gerrard talked to you?" Conor asks, and Martin wondered if he ever sounded like that when talking about Liverpool's Captain Fantastic, that hushed tone of awe.
Oh, who's he kidding--he still sounds like that, sometimes.
"What happened? Did he get on your case about--"
"Nah, nah, it wasn't like that," Martin says. "Just wanted to warn me about the press, how they can get. He does that, sometimes, him and Carra, they... they give me a lot of advice, you know." And that's true, of course, Martin gets advice from nearly everyone--Pepe and Agger and Skrtel and Glen, even though he and Glen are both competing for the same spot on the first-team.
But with Gerrard and Carra--it's just different than it is with any of the senior members of the squad, and Martin's not sure how to explain that, even to Conor.
It's not that Martin doesn't have an idea of what Gerrard and Carragher see when they look at him. He has a pretty good idea, in fact. It's just that it feels almost... arrogant, to say it out loud. Or like he's tempting fate, maybe.
"It's like... they've got plans for me, y'know, Gerrard and Carra? Or--expectations, I guess. Because I'm from Liverpool, and I came through the academy like they did, and they're--" His voice drops on this last part, like he's saying something shameful, even though he's not, it's just a fact, "--getting older, you know."
That's as close as Martin can get to saying, I think Jamie Carragher wants me to become his successor at the club.
"You can do it, though," Conor says, full of confidence. "I've seen you, you're brilliant out there."
Martin can feel himself flushing at Conor's words, which is stupid, it's so stupid, Conor's just being a good friend, just trying to encourage him, the same way that Martin would encourage Jay or Hendo or--
"Thanks, Conor," Martin says, his voice a bit rougher now.
He can practically see Conor on the other end, shrugging, that easy smile on his face. "Just being honest, that's all."
Does Conor always sound like this? Does he always have--have that warmth to his voice? Or is that just with Martin? Is it just Martin that Conor would sent fruit to, that he'd--
Okay. Enough now.
"It'll be your turn soon enough now," Martin assures him. "Then you'll see what I'm talking about. You can have Carra barking at you on the pitch all the time."
Conor laughs. "I'm looking forward to it," he says, and Martin can hear the smile in his voice. "Just have to remember no more 'wild parties', as Pep called it. And after all the fuss this called, I'm actually looking forward to quiet nights in now."
"Yeah," Martin agrees, adding thoughtlessly, "Done enough reckless things since I joined the first team, might be nice to keep a low profile, stay out of trouble."
"Totally," Conor says, but then adds, "Wait. What kind of reckless things?"
Martin pauses, and even though he shouldn't, he has a flashback, to Raul, Raul grinning as he reeled him in for--
Martin forces a smile. "Nothing you need to worry about," he says, lightly, and no matter how hard Conor presses, Martin doesn't say a word.
Some things, Martin can't talk about. Not even with Conor.
*
Martin knows full well that he was an idiot when it came to Raul Meireles. He knows that now, and he doesn’t need anyone else to confirm it for him.
It’s just--Raul was fascinating, at least for Martin, funny and smart, seemingly so happy to be at Liverpool, even with everything that was going wrong with the club then. And those tattoos--Martin could have stared at them for hours.
He’s lucky, really, that nobody noticed him looking at Raul all the time. Well, except for Raul, who’d just grin at him, and then later ask Martin to show him around the city, give him ideas for places to eat, things to see. And Martin had been eager to help Raul settle in, had taken him around to all the sights, and then, one afternoon--Raul had kissed him, right there in his car.
Martin should have stopped him. Instead, he'd kissed Raul back.
He had protested, later, asking about Raul’s family, his wife--to which Raul had laughed and said, "Don’t worry. She won’t mind. In fact, I should introduce you to her, she’ll like you."
Martin had been distracted with the way Raul’s hand was trailing down lower, and lower--but he’d managed to stammer out, "She will?"
"Of course," Raul said, with a shrug. "She likes it when I bring beautiful things home."
"And I’m a beautiful thing, am I?" Martin had asked, laughing, yet he’d flushed at the compliment.
"Sure," Raul said, grinning as he leaned in to kiss Martin again. "Very beautiful."
It had been good, with Raul, and later, with Raul and Ivone. Martin had loved it, in fact--not just being with them, but the sheer relief that he could have this sort of thing and still play football, and have it be all right.
And it had been all right. Until Raul had transferred to Chelsea. One week he was there, the next week--gone, and Ivone and their daughter with him.
Martin’s learned to be careful, since then. He doesn’t--well, frankly, he doesn’t date now, just keeps himself focused on what matters, his friends, his family, his career at Liverpool. It’s just safer that way, and Martin doesn’t mind. Most of the time.
*
Conor ends up coming over later in the week, when they both have a day off from training. Martin’s already got the ProEvo ready by the time he arrives, and they settle down on the couch, getting into a rematch of their last game.
Martin goes into an early 2-0 lead, and he laughs in delight, turns to Conor to crow, but--Conor’s already watching him, and Martin knows that look, it’s the look he had whenever he’d look over at Raul last year and just--oh God. Warren was right. He was actually right about this.
For the record, Martin really hates it when his brother’s right.
Except that Martin can’t…can’t quite bring himself to hate it now.
And Conor’s not brushing it off, he’s not changing the subject or looking away, instead he’s just--meeting Martin’s gaze head-on, looking serious and, and adult in a way Martin hasn’t really seen from him before. "Martin," he says finally. "Just--let me try something, yeah? And don’t hit me."
"I’m not gonna hit you," Martin promises, in a low voice. "I’d never do that to you."
Conor inhales sharply, and then he’s leaning in and it’s--a kiss, Conor’s mouth pressed lightly against his, soft and cool. Martin’s not prepared for it, not prepared for the sharp feeling he gets in his gut, being kissed by someone after all this time, being kissed by Conor.
Conor’s the one to pull back, saying, "I--"
But whatever he’s about to say next, it’s lost when Martin kisses him, cups Conor’s face in his hands and just goes for it, coaxing Conor’s mouth open and licking his way in, until Conor’s clutching at the front of Martin’s shirt, hard enough to tear the fabric.
When they finally stop, both of them are gasping for breath.
Conor’s the first to speak. "Thought you were done with reckless things," he says, staring at Martin, eyes wide.
"Yeah," Martin manages to say after a moment. "Apparently I was lying about that."
He’s not prepared for the way Conor grins at him for that, sharp and giddy as he says, decisive, "Good," before he’s coming back in to kiss Martin again, and God, either he’s a really quick study or he’s just a natural at this, because--wow. Wow.
*
They don’t actually ever finish that rematch, and some time later, Conor gasps out, "Have you ever--ever done this before? With a guy, I mean?"
"Yeah," Martin says distractedly, more focused on Conor's shirt, and how exactly he can get it off Conor. "With a teammate--"
That gets Conor's attention, as his hands stop wandering along Martin's back. "Wait, with who?" he asks, indignant. "Was it Flanno? Or Spearing? Oh, do not tell me it was Jack--look, I will kick their--"
Martin lifts his head and stares. "What? No, it wasn't--and why would it bother you anyway?"
"Because! I called dibs!"
Martin stares into Conor's face, huffy and annoyed, and he knows he should be annoyed right back but he can't help laughing. "You...called dibs? Seriously?"
"Yes!" Conor insists, but his face is sliding from miffed to embarrassed. "Well--it was implied, all right?"
"Implied," Martin repeats. He's grinning like an idiot, he's sure of it, and this is insane, and more than a little ridiculous, but-- "God, you're lucky I like you so much," he says, still laughing a little.
Conor's face gets softer now, and he looks up into Martin's face and says, more seriously, "Yeah. I know."
It makes sense to kiss Conor again, hearing that. And once he starts kissing Conor, well--it makes even more sense, to keep on.
*
Later that week, Martin's at Melwood, about to walk out onto the field and start training, when Steven Gerrard, walking nearby, calls out casually, "Oi, Martin. What've you been up to lately?"
"Oh," Martin says, thinking of Conor dozing in his bed, the two of them muddling through making breakfast together early in the morning. "Nothing much, just staying in. Rather boring, actually."
"Uh huh," Gerrard says, slowly. Martin tries to look as innocent as possible, but the tiny grin on his face is hard to shake. Not that he’s trying all that hard.
"Well, come on then," Gerrard says finally, and they walk out into the morning sun.
notes:
For reference, this is Martin Kelly, and this is Conor Coady.
"It has helped me having people like Stevie and Carra around. They talk to you all the time--to try and test you out...see if you are mentally tough enough to deal with the expectations. It has been a good experience for me." (Martin Kelly, source here.)
"Yes I can [cook]. The problem is it takes me a really long time. If I was cooking a meal for somebody they'd probably go hungry." (Martin Kelly, source here.)
Last season, the club had Conor Coady write up a couple of "diary entries" (I am not making this up) detailing his experiences when he was called up to the first team. (No, seriously, not making this up.) The first one is here, and as the second one was part of a video that's locked on the official site, the writeup is here. (The second one is really cute, though.)
I have no idea whether the Liverpool players actually dance in the dressing room, but given that Jamie Carragher will apparently sing along to Adele without any shame, I don't think it's so much of a stretch. (see previous link).
This blog post does a good (if biased) job of explaining the recent revitalizing of Liverpool's academy, thanks to former manager Rafa Benitez.
"The extent to which the Liverpool Way is being preached to the impressionable youngsters was underlined during one incident which brought laughter from the healthy sized crowd. One Liverpool player was heard to swear at the referee but no sooner had the expletive left his mouth and Borrell was reprimanding him. “We don’t talk like this,” the Spaniard shouted, making it clear that discipline is as important as talent. The lesson was duly taken on board." (Writeup from here.)
If you want to know what the "fruit bouquet" that Conor sent Martin looks like, here are some examples. (The company is American-based, but I'm sure there's a British equivalent. And if not, we can just fudge that bit.)
The incident referred to in Steven Gerrard's talk with Martin is here.
When Martin moves out of his parents' house and gets his own place, he has some grand ideas of striking out on his own, being his own man, learning to be independent and free.
The first week where he has to try and actually cook for himself sets him straight in a hurry. Still, even with his mum continuing to deliver plenty of food in plastic containers every weekend, Martin likes living on his own. He likes his neighbors, having a place to himself, being able to be alone when he wants, being able to invite people over whenever he wants.
One of those people ends up being Conor Coady, oddly enough. Martin's not sure how it became such a regular thing, having Conor over at his flat so often, but he likes it.
"God, this place is boss," Conor says gleefully, stretching out on Martin's couch. "Can't wait to get my own flat."
"Not so much fun when you've got to cook for yourself," Martin says, smiling as he sits next to Conor on the couch.
"Like you cook for yourself," Conor says, laughing. "Besides, not all of us are hopeless in the kitchen."
"Oi, since when do you cook?" Martin asks in disbelief.
"I don't," Conor says, with a shrug. "But I could if I wanted to."
This is so ridiculous that Martin can only gape for a moment, before going sharply, "Right," and pulling a protesting Conor into a headlock, not letting him up until Conor gasps for mercy, laughing all the while.
When Martin finally lets him go, Conor's cheeks are flushed and he's grinning widely at Martin. Martin grins back, because--well. It's just a nice thing, seeing that.
*
Martin's fairly aware that his life doesn't come anywhere close to approaching normal. He tries to keep a low profile, for the most part, and he knows he's nowhere near getting the kind of press attention that some of his teammates get. He can go to the cinema or to the shops without being followed by the paparazzi, even if he is signing more autographs these days. That’s not a bad thing at all, it’s just--different.
He tries to keep in touch with some of his old friends from school, but it’s hard sometimes, relating--some of them are in uni, worried about exams and the current job market; meanwhile, he’s worried about staying in the first team on a regular basis, about making sure he’s impressing the gaffer every week in training.
His friends from school worry about impressing their professors, or their managers at their entry-level jobs. Martin worries about impressing Kenny Dalglish and Fabio Capello.
There’s a difference, is all. Martin works at bridging that gap, sure, but sometimes--it’s just easier talking with people who he doesn’t have that gap with. Like Jay, or Jonjo--or Conor. People who get it, who know what it’s like playing for this club, this manager, wanting so badly to impress, to succeed. To play.
When Conor’s over at Martin’s flat, no matter what they start out talking about--films, the latest episode of Who, the contestants on X Factor--it always comes back to football in the end. Always, and with Conor, it’s like Martin’s looking at an echo of himself, three years ago.
Martin wants to play for Liverpool, and he wants to play for England. He wants it more than anything, and he knows Conor is the exact same way.
When you look at it like that, it makes sense, him spending so much time with Conor these days.
*
"I see what this is really about," Martin says, the third time that Conor comes over and they end up playing ProEvo. "You're just after my video games, that's why you're here so often."
"Yeah, pretty much," Conor agrees with a laugh, and Martin shoves him in the side in retaliation. It's not hard to do; they're sitting pretty close together on the couch. Conor's never been one for personal space, and Martin finds it hard to mind. The result is that their elbows and arms keep brushing each other as they work at the controllers.
After getting beaten, again, Martin goes to the refrigerator for a consolation snack. "Do you want anything?" he calls out. "I've got Coke, juice--there's beer too, but don't tell the gaffer that, eh?"
"Um..." Over in the living room, Martin sees Conor twist about in his seat so he's looking over the back of the couch at Martin. "Juice, I think?"
"All right," Martin says, pulling it out. After a second's consideration, he grabs two glasses--he's not much in the mood for beer, to be honest, and it would feel weird, drinking while Conor abstained.
They settle back into another game, AC Milan against Real Madrid. After a while, Conor says, "Hey, listen--if I'm wearing out my welcome, just say so. I can clear right out."
"Don't be stupid, I like having you around." Martin focuses on the screen, where Ibrahimovic is trying to score on Casillas. "If I wanted you out, I'd tell you."
Conor turns to beam at him. "Good."
Martin smiles back. It's easy to do, with Conor beaming at him like that. The moment lasts for maybe a second or two longer than it should, but it doesn't feel awkward, just--just nice.
Suddenly there's a knock on the door, and Martin blinks. "Maybe it's one of my neighbors," he says, getting up from his seat. "Hang on a second..."
It's not one of his neighbors, it's his brother. Martin stares at him, surprised. "Um, hello, Warren."
Warren holds up a bag. "Mum wanted me to drop off some food for you, she's still convinced you'll starve if left to your own devices," he explains, and then looks past Martin to see Conor still on the couch. "Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you had company."
There's a leading, suggestive note to his voice, and it makes Martin flush, but Conor, thank Christ, doesn't pick up on it. "I'm Conor," he says, waving. "I'm one of Martin's teammates--well, sort of, I'm still on the reserves."
"Nice to meet you," Warren says, grinning broadly. He turns that broad, knowing smile onto Martin, and Martin narrows his eyes at him, thinking as loudly as he can, Do not even start with me, Warren. Do not.
Warren, because he's his brother, picks up on it. And because he's Martin's brother, he rolls his eyes and says, "You want to let me in so I can put this in the kitchen? Not that I want to interrupt your evening," he adds, cheekily, and Martin would bang his head into the wall if he could.
"Actually, I should probably get going," Conor says, getting up. "I hadn't realized how late it was getting, and my parents'll be wondering where I am."
"Oh, okay," Martin says, a bit disappointed. "Rematch?"
"Of course," Conor says, grinning at him as he shrugs into his coat. "Can't have you getting the idea you're better than me."
"You were losing 2-1!"
"I was just about to mount a comeback," Conor says loftily. "It'd be Istanbul all over again." He nods at Warren, friendly. "Nice to meet you."
"Oh, likewise," Warren says, with that smug look that makes Martin want to kick him.
"See you later, Martin," Conor says, patting him on the arm as he leave. Once he's gone, Martin fixes his brother with a look, takes the bag of food, and says, "Don't even start with me."
"What, I haven't said anything," Warren protests as Martin heads into the kitchen. "I haven't said anything at all, not about you, not about the young, fit teenager you had in here that clearly hangs on your every word--"
"Oh my God," Martin groans, shutting the refrigerator door. "Didn't I just tell you not to start? Didn't I? And it's not even like that with Conor, he's just a friend, so don't start on me with the matchmaking."
Warren studies him for a second, seems to decide he's telling the truth, and says, "Well, why not? He's good-looking."
"He's a friend," Martin corrects. "You know, I told you lot I was bi so I could be honest with you, not because I wanted you to pair me off with every single person you saw me with, no matter the gender."
"No, that's just a bonus," Warren says with a laugh. "Besides, if Mum's fussing over you, that means she's not asking me about grandchildren."
"And now I see what your evil plan really is," Martin deadpans, which has Warren laughing at him. "But really, Conor's just--look, half the time, I think he sees me as like, an older brother, you know, a sort of mentor. We're not--well, we're just not."
Warren, thank God, believes him. "Okay. Just--it'd be nice seeing you with someone. For the record."
"Yeah," Martin says. Neither of them say the obvious--that for the sake of Martin's future career, that someone should probably be a girl, or possibly a very understanding boy. Like, a candidate for sainthood, he'd have to be that understanding.
It's not that nice of a thing to think about, so Martin tries not to think about it too much.
"Besides," Warren says, "You could do worse."
Martin very carefully does not think of Raul. Instead, he just grins at his brother and says, "Shouldn't you be saying it's the other way around? He could do worse than me?"
"Eh," Warren says. "I've seen you right when you wake up in the morning. He'd be settling."
For that, Martin heads over to the couch, picks up one of the pillows, and throws it at his brother's head.
*
Martin's not looking for a relationship, exactly. He's pretty happy with his life as is, and the effort he puts in towards football, his career, means that he doesn't have all that much free time for anything else.
But--he hears the other lads in the dressing room, sometimes, offhandedly mentioning their wives, their girlfriends. Not in a bragging sort of way, but just because they've got someone in their lives, and it's natural to talk about it. His parents have been married for nearly thirty years, and his brother's been with his girlfriend for over a year now.
Being in a relationship sounds nice. Sounds more than nice, honestly. But Martin doesn't actually see how he'll have that, not with his life the way it is.
Once he'd thought that maybe he could, even in a different way than everyone else. But it hadn't worked out, in the end, and now Martin's just not looking.
*
"Wait a minute," Martin says, resting his mobile on his phone while he reaches for the milk, "why do you want me to come out with you lot again?"
"Because I need backup," Conor wheedles. "Look, Toni and the rest are really set on going out to the club tomorrow night, and I'd like to go too, but--well, I need someone who's going to help me keep everyone in line. And if things get a bit wild, they'll listen to you."
"And they won't listen to you?" Martin asks. "You're their teammate. I'm not."
"Yeah, but--well, you're you," Conor says.
Martin turns that over, a bit surprised by Conor implying he's got influence with the others, and says finally, "All right, I'll come. I'll ask Jay too, but he'll probably be busy with the baby, so--"
"Oh thanks, mate," Conor says, clearly relieved. "Look, it'll be fun, yeah? Lots of music, lots of dancing--"
"All right, I'm sold," Martin says, half-laughing. "If only so I can see you lot making fools of yourself on the dancefloor."
He calls Jay up to see if he wants to come along, but unsurprisingly, Jay refuses. "My club days are over, at least until the little one learns to sleep through the night."
"So it'll just be me and the academy lads then," Martin says. "Can't believe Conor's roped me into playing chaperone."
"Well, it's Conor," Jay says, "he's good at getting people to do what he wants, isn't he? Isn't that one of the tricks of being a captain?"
"Yeah, I suppose so," Martin says with a laugh. "He's always getting me to do what he wants, anyway."
"Yeah, I've noticed that," Jay says, and Martin opens his mouth to ask what that's all about, except that Jay's already moved on to talking about the baby and feedings and things like that, and Martin eventually ends up forgetting to ask what Jay was talking about, with him and Conor.
*
Going out that night with Conor and the rest ends up being a lot stranger than Martin expects it to be. He’s not having a bad time at the club, not at all, but it’s--well, it’s just different than spending time with Jay or his other friends, a different sort of dynamic.
In fact, it’s a bit like how Martin finds himself behaving around the senior members of the squad, like Gerrard or Carra or Pepe, that sort of wide-eyed respect underlying everything, even the banter.
It’s subtle, sure, but it’s there--and once Martin notices it, he can’t really stop noticing.
Conor’s the only one he doesn’t really sense it from, honestly.
So when Martin lightly suggests, upon arriving at the club, that it’s probably a good idea if none of them drink tonight, he’s not totally surprised--although it is still very weird--that everyone follows his suggestion with a minimum of grumbling. Adam Morgan even goes so far as to say it’s a good idea.
Martin can’t help but give Conor a look at this, and Conor leans in to say smugly, over the sound of the music that’s getting louder and louder as they walk in, "I said you’d be a help managing everyone."
True to their words, everyone sticks to water and non-alcoholic drinks all night, Martin included. He considers finding a girl to chat up and dance with, except he's having fun like this too, sitting with Conor in a relatively quiet corner, laughing at the antics of the others.
It's all pretty normal, until Toni Silva shows up with three girls in tow, and gorgeous girls at that, tiny dresses, long legs and shiny long hair that seems to get tossed about a lot, given that there's no breeze in this place.
"Er," Martin says, surprised but not displeased, and just like that, their quiet corner has become a lot more busy. The girls are from Brazil, it turns out, exchange students spending their first year at uni, and seem to get a huge amount of amusement at Morgan and Conor attempting to greet them in Portugeuse, with Silva providing some off-the-cuff tutoring.
One of the girls leans in and says in Martin's ear, "You like to dance?"
Martin's about to say thanks but no, when he reconsiders. People probably wouldn't guess it to look at him, but Martin likes dancing, and he's not half-bad at it either. Hard to be, with a choreographer for an older brother. And the girl--she's beautiful, yes, with long legs that go all the way up to there, but there's something about her smile, friendly instead of flirtatious, that he likes.
"Okay, yeah," Martin agrees, taking her hand as he gets up from his seat. Conor looks over at them, asking, "Wait, where--"
"Be right back," Martin assures him.
The girl--Yaritza, she tells him, and laughs at his attempts to pronounce her name correctly--leads him out onto the dancefloor, and once they're out there, starts to sway to the music, her hips following the beat, and Martin follows her lead.
A few minutes in, Yaritza’s looking at him with surprise and delight, leaning in to half-shout, "You can dance!"
"That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?" Martin asks, grinning.
"No, I mean you can really dance! Do you know how hard it is to find an Englishman that can actually dance?"
Martin tips his head back and laughs, before leaning in to say against her ear, "I should introduce you to my brother, he dances for a living." Then he takes her hand and twirls her in a tight spin, because there’s not much room for them to really move, not with the way this place is packed.
It’s been a long time since Martin’s danced like this, and he’d forgotten how much he’d missed it; it’s a rush, yes, but totally unlike the kind he gets when he steps out onto the field. It’s--it’s fizzier, like champagne bubbles rushing through his blood, traveling down his spine.
Yaritza's picking up on it too, not just swaying back and forth now, but doing showier stuff, her body sort of... rippling against his, just inviting him to join in.
And Martin does, and it's easy as anything, finding the rhythm and moving with her, against her, her slim hands curving around his hips.
Martin loses himself like that, in the music and the lights and the feel of her moving against him, right up until the song changes, shifts over to something more Latin, with a faster pace.
Yaritza leans in and shouts, "You don't know how to samba, do you?"
Martin sends up a quick and devout thanks to Lucas for his impromptu dance lessons in the dressing room. "Actually," he says, grinning, "I do, a little."
Within what feels like no time at all, they've got a little circle of space around them, people backing away to give them room, staring all the while. Martin would be a bit embarrassed at the attention, except he's having far too much fun to care about who's looking.
Yaritza's better than him, that much is obvious, but Martin's a quick study, and he think he's keeping up with her well enough. The key is not to get self-conscious, so Martin lets himself go, laughing at himself all the while, and Yaritza, to be frank, does a lot of the heavy work, making him look better than he really is.
Finally they come to a halt, breathless and laughing, and to Martin's embarrassment, there's a little applause and some catcalling, which only gets louder when Yaritza throws her arms around his neck and kisses him dramatically on the cheek. "You are wonderful," she declares loudly. "You can't be English, not with hips like that."
Martin’s grateful for the lighting that’ll hide the blush on his cheeks, and he’s wondering if now’s a good time to ask for her number, except then another girl, one of Yaritza’s friends, is pushing her way through the crowd to come up to them, talking very quickly in Portuguese, and Yaritza stops smiling and starts to look alarmed.
"Forgive me, I go now," she says urgently to Martin, her English crumbling a little bit. "My friend, she had a bad breakup, she have too much drinks tonight, and now she’s crying a lot."
"No, it’s all right--"
He’s cut off when she leans in and kisses him firmly on the mouth. "Truly," she says now, smiling up at him, "there is no way you are English."
Martin watches her go, grinning to himself, before he makes his way back to where Conor’s still sitting, the others having long gone, to the bar or to the dancefloor or who even knows where. When he collapses into the seat next to Conor, he notices the slightly shell-shocked look on Conor’s face. "You all right there, mate?" he asks, grinning, shaking Conor's shoulder a little bit to snap him out of it.
Conor's staring at him with wide eyes. "I--Kells, just--" and he's almost sputtering now, "--where did you learn to do that?"
"You know my brother’s a choreographer," Martin says, stretching out in his seat. "According to him, it’d have been a disgrace if he let his little brother go off into the world without knowing how to dance in public. That’s a direct quote, by the way." Martin points at Conor’s bottle of water, asking, "Can I have some of that?"
Conor hands it over to him. "Here, take it, I’m not thirsty."
Martin gratefully does, tipping his head back and swallowing about half of the contents in one go. Once he’s finished, he sets it back down on the tiny table in front of them, adding, "So I picked up a few things from Warren, but the samba I was doing with Yaritza back there--that was thanks to Lucas."
"Lucas," Conor repeats, flatly.
"Yeah."
"Lucas Leiva taught you how to dance the samba."
"Taught a bunch of us, actually," Martin explains. "We were goofing off in the dressing room after training one day, he put in his iPod and showed us a few moves. I was the best at it," he adds, proudly. "Although Pepe and Seb weren’t half bad, and Carra and Glen gave it a good go."
Conor puts his head in his hands at that, like the thought of Jamie Carragher learning how to samba is just too much for him. Martin can’t blame him there, it was a pretty funny sight.
Conor finally lifts his head and turns to look at Martin, saying seriously, "I didn’t know you could do that."
Martin’s a bit thrown by the look on Conor’s face, says, "What can I say, I've got hidden depths."
Conor’s still staring at him. "You’ve got--stuff on your mouth. It’s all red and shiny."
Martin touches his lips and finds that some of Yaritza’s lip gloss had rubbed off on his mouth when she’d kissed him. He rubs it away with his hand before asking, "Did I get it all?"
"Yes--no, hang on, there’s a bit left," Conor says, reaching out to get the rest, his thumb firm on the corner of Martin’s mouth.
Martin holds himself still for a while, feeling--well, he’s not sure what, but it feels odd, Conor touching him like this, staring at him in that serious way. It’s not what Martin’s used to from Conor, and he stays quiet for a bit before finally asking, tentative, "Have you got it all, then?"
Conor bilnks, looking startled, and says quickly, his hand falling away, "Yeah. Yeah, I got it."
Weirdly, Martin almost feels sorry.
But then the rest of the group's coming back and Martin turns away, and the moment--whatever it was--fades back into the background.
They head out, eventually, but when they do there's a couple of photographers by the exits. "Keep your heads down, all right," Martin calls out behind him, and he keeps his head down as he walks quickly to his car, Conor right on his heels, both of them ignoring the photographers, who seem to be just taking pictures indiscriminately--until one of them starts calling Martin's name.
Startled, Martin glances up, just once--but that's enough to get a flash straight in his face, which just makes him turn away and walk even faster, getting into his car, Conor slipping into the passenger seat, and driving off as quickly as he can.
"Fuck," Martin finally says, once they're safely off.
"Yeah," Conor agrees, blankly. "That was..." he trails off, and asks, almost plaintive, "That doesn't happen to you a lot now, does it?"
"No, never," Martin says. "I've signed a few autographs at the mall, but that's as far as it's ever gone, it's not like I'm--" He stops, because he was about to say, it's not like I'm famous, except that's not really true. Not anymore, at least.
Weird.
"It'll be all right," he assures Conor now. "Not like we did anything wrong, probably won't even be mentioned in the papers."
He's actually not at all sure of that, but Conor relaxes in his seat, reassured. "Yeah, you're probably right." He grins at Martin, content again, and Martin grins back.
*
By eleven o'clock the next morning, Martin's got a headache and he's already answered his phone thirteen times, never mind all the texts he's gotten.
When the phone rings again, Martin's on his iPad, grimly staring down at the online version of the Liverpool Echo, and he thinks about not answering, but it's Jay's name on the display, so--reluctantly--he picks it up.
"Hello?"
"I think I should have come out with you last night," Jay says, laughing. "Looks like you lot needed another chaperone."
Martin groans. "It wasn't like that--for God's sake, none of us were even drinking! We didn't do anything wrong, it's not our fault the pictures look like--"
"Kells, Kells, hang on," Jay interjects, sounding alarmed now. "I'm not saying you did do anything wrong--"
"Well, tell that to the papers!" Martin says, exasperated. "Or to the press officers at the club, I've already gotten a phone call from them talking about damage control."
The headline from the Echo says, Liverpool's Academy Has A Night Out On The Town. They've got photos of everyone in the group coming out of the club, and the biggest picture of all is the one with Martin leaving, his face flushed and his hair wild, Conor right behind him, and it just--it all looks so sordid, the way it's laid out.
The story's even worse, talking about the girls they were dancing with, some anonymous source talking about how they were "living it up" in the VIP section, how Martin was dancing all night, how--
Martin groans. "God, this is the worst."
"Look, the story isn't that bad," Jay says, which is obviously a lie, Martin's looking at it right now. "You weren't drinking, you didn't get into any actual trouble--so you went to a club and danced. Everyone's done that, it's not a crime."
"The Sun's already picked it up," Martin grumbles.
"This is Liverpool, nobody reads the Sun," Jay retorts. "Look, stop worrying. It'll be fine. It'll blow over in a week, if it even takes that long."
"Yeah," Martin agrees, biting his lip as he looks at the picture of him and Conor. "You're probably right."
And the truth is, Martin knows that Jay's right. He knows that. This'll disappear within a week, if it even takes that long.
But it's the fact that it was out there at all, that this happened in the first place--it stings. Seeing himself portrayed as some kind of... ringleader of mayhem, the idea that he's some wild, stupid kid, it eats at him, he can't help that.
Once he gets off the phone with Jay, Martin wants nothing more than to turn off his stupid phone, hole up on his couch, and grimly try and forget everything that's happened today. But he doesn't turn off the phone, which ends up being a good thing, because the next call he gets is one he doesn't actually want to ignore.
"Hey, Conor."
"Martin, I am so, so sorry--"
"Look, mate--"
"Really, this is all my fault, I swear to God, I didn't think this would happen--"
"Conor." Martin won't lie, he's had a shit morning, absolutely shit. But hearing Conor sound so guilty and apologetic... Martin just doesn't want to take it out on him, that's all. "Conor, it’s all right."
There’s a stretch of silence on the other end, and then Conor is asking, wary, "You know, I was expecting you to be a lot angrier when I finally got you on the phone."
"I’m--I’m not mad. Not at you, anyway." And Martin finds, a little to his surprise, that he really does mean it. "Look, it’ll blow over. We didn't do anything wrong, and the press will get bored with it in a day or two."
"Yeah?" Conor sounds so hopeful at that, so eager to believe it.
"Yeah, of course," Martin says, forcefully. "What about you? How are things on your end?"
Conor groans. "My dad's grounded me, and I've already gotten phone calls from Rodolfo and Pep--they weren't thrilled about the articles, I can tell you that, mate. I told them it was my fault--"
"Unless you called that photographer and told him to wait outside the club, it's not your fault," Martin says, and Conor makes a noise of disagreement. "Look, I'll beat this into your head if I have to--it's not your fault. It's just shit luck, that's all. By next week, everyone'll have forgotten about it."
"Yeah," Conor says, with a sigh, but at least he's starting to sound like he really believes Martin now. "You're probably right."
*
"Hey, Martin, mind stretching with me?"
Martin blinks as Steven Gerrard walks up to him at the start of training. "Oh, um, sure, yeah," he says. He's surprised--Steven usually stretches out with Carra or Glen, sometimes Pepe, and Martin usually stretches out with Jay.
"So," Gerrard says, pushing down on Martin's thigh. "Heard you had a wild night out?"
Martin can feel himself going beet-red in horror. "Um--" he starts, desperately, and thank Christ, Gerrard's grinning down at him.
"Relax, Kelly," he says cheerfully. "We all know the media's full of shit."
Martin lets out a sigh of relief. "I just don't know how it happened," he says a little plaintively, grunting as Gerrard presses down harder. "They made it sound awful, when nothing even happened, it's not like we got into a fight with anyone there, or--um. Um." He cuts himself off as he realizes exactly who he's talking to, and Gerrard's got an eyebrow raised at him now like Martin said that on purpose, instead of his stupid mouth getting him into trouble.
Steven holds his expression for one beat, and then another, until Martin starts to think he should be apologizing here, and then he cracks, grinning down at Martin again and saying, "You have a habit of making stupid jokes, do you?"
"No, I have a habit of speaking before I think," Martin admits. "Sorry, I--"
Gerrard waves a hand. "Forget it. But look, that's what I'm getting at here, there's nothing in this story, but that's not how the media'll spin this. It's okay now, because you're so young--"
"And hardly anyone knows who I am," Martin adds.
"--that too, but later in your career, you don't want that kind of reputation, you know? It'll stick to you worse than you realize."
"Right," Martin says, nodding as best as he can, lying on his back in the grass. "I hear you."
"Good," Gerrard says, and that's the last he says on the matter, even when Skrtel and Pepe are teasing him about it later, asking him to show them some dance moves. Somebody actually puts on some music in the dressing room, after training, and, goaded, Martin does get up on a bench and dance for the team, accompanied by laughter and hooting.
Gerrard claps him on the shoulder as they all leave, but that might not mean anything.
*
Warren shows up at his flat later that evening. Of course, he spots the fruit bouquet before Martin so much as says a word--not that that's all that difficult, it's rather conspicuous, sitting there on Martin's kitchen table. "What the hell is that?"
"It's a fruit bouquet," Martin says.
"I can see that, what the hell is it doing here?" Warren demands, poking at one of the "leaves", carved out of honeydew.
Martin groans, but there's no help for it, so he admits, "Conor sent it to me. As an apology for the whole--thing with the media and all."
Warren's eyes grow almost cartoonishly round at this. "And he thinks, what, the quickest way to your heart is through fruit?"
Martin's about to protest, except that Warren holds up a hand. "Martin. Come on. He sent you fruit."
"It's not like that," Martin says, but despite himself, he glances at the arrangement again.
"Uh huh," Warren says, skeptical. "You know, Martin, I've had to apologize to a few of my mates, but I've never had to send them fruit. Or flowers made of fruit, whatever you call this thing. So be nice and let him down easy."
Martin doesn't say anything, and Warren looks at him, then says slowly, "Unless you don't want to let him down easy."
Martin sighs eventually, and says, "Warren, don't. This doesn't prove anything, and even if it did..." He trails off, and says finally. "Look, it's just complicated."
Warren gently cuffs him on the head. "Don't overthink this, baby brother," he says, indulgent now. "Try and have some fun, yeah?" He pauses, and then adds, "As long as it's not in a nightclub again. We don't need to be giving Mum another heart attack."
Despite himself, Martin snickers reluctantly at this, which was what Warren was after in the first place.
After Warren's gone, Martin calls Conor. "Hey. Got your present."
"Yeah?" Conor says, sounding pleased. "Just saw the site and I thought it'd be funny, you know, sending it to you. Have you eaten any of it?"
"Uh, yeah, had a couple of the strawberries, thanks," Martin says. "How's your day been, how was training?"
"Not too bad, not too bad," Conor says, "Got some ribbing from the lads. You?"
"Oh, the same. I mean, I had to demonstrate my dance moves in the dressing room--" Conor hoots at this, "--and uh, Gerrard talked to me for a bit, but nothing too bad."
"Wait, Steven Gerrard talked to you?" Conor asks, and Martin wondered if he ever sounded like that when talking about Liverpool's Captain Fantastic, that hushed tone of awe.
Oh, who's he kidding--he still sounds like that, sometimes.
"What happened? Did he get on your case about--"
"Nah, nah, it wasn't like that," Martin says. "Just wanted to warn me about the press, how they can get. He does that, sometimes, him and Carra, they... they give me a lot of advice, you know." And that's true, of course, Martin gets advice from nearly everyone--Pepe and Agger and Skrtel and Glen, even though he and Glen are both competing for the same spot on the first-team.
But with Gerrard and Carra--it's just different than it is with any of the senior members of the squad, and Martin's not sure how to explain that, even to Conor.
It's not that Martin doesn't have an idea of what Gerrard and Carragher see when they look at him. He has a pretty good idea, in fact. It's just that it feels almost... arrogant, to say it out loud. Or like he's tempting fate, maybe.
"It's like... they've got plans for me, y'know, Gerrard and Carra? Or--expectations, I guess. Because I'm from Liverpool, and I came through the academy like they did, and they're--" His voice drops on this last part, like he's saying something shameful, even though he's not, it's just a fact, "--getting older, you know."
That's as close as Martin can get to saying, I think Jamie Carragher wants me to become his successor at the club.
"You can do it, though," Conor says, full of confidence. "I've seen you, you're brilliant out there."
Martin can feel himself flushing at Conor's words, which is stupid, it's so stupid, Conor's just being a good friend, just trying to encourage him, the same way that Martin would encourage Jay or Hendo or--
"Thanks, Conor," Martin says, his voice a bit rougher now.
He can practically see Conor on the other end, shrugging, that easy smile on his face. "Just being honest, that's all."
Does Conor always sound like this? Does he always have--have that warmth to his voice? Or is that just with Martin? Is it just Martin that Conor would sent fruit to, that he'd--
Okay. Enough now.
"It'll be your turn soon enough now," Martin assures him. "Then you'll see what I'm talking about. You can have Carra barking at you on the pitch all the time."
Conor laughs. "I'm looking forward to it," he says, and Martin can hear the smile in his voice. "Just have to remember no more 'wild parties', as Pep called it. And after all the fuss this called, I'm actually looking forward to quiet nights in now."
"Yeah," Martin agrees, adding thoughtlessly, "Done enough reckless things since I joined the first team, might be nice to keep a low profile, stay out of trouble."
"Totally," Conor says, but then adds, "Wait. What kind of reckless things?"
Martin pauses, and even though he shouldn't, he has a flashback, to Raul, Raul grinning as he reeled him in for--
Martin forces a smile. "Nothing you need to worry about," he says, lightly, and no matter how hard Conor presses, Martin doesn't say a word.
Some things, Martin can't talk about. Not even with Conor.
*
Martin knows full well that he was an idiot when it came to Raul Meireles. He knows that now, and he doesn’t need anyone else to confirm it for him.
It’s just--Raul was fascinating, at least for Martin, funny and smart, seemingly so happy to be at Liverpool, even with everything that was going wrong with the club then. And those tattoos--Martin could have stared at them for hours.
He’s lucky, really, that nobody noticed him looking at Raul all the time. Well, except for Raul, who’d just grin at him, and then later ask Martin to show him around the city, give him ideas for places to eat, things to see. And Martin had been eager to help Raul settle in, had taken him around to all the sights, and then, one afternoon--Raul had kissed him, right there in his car.
Martin should have stopped him. Instead, he'd kissed Raul back.
He had protested, later, asking about Raul’s family, his wife--to which Raul had laughed and said, "Don’t worry. She won’t mind. In fact, I should introduce you to her, she’ll like you."
Martin had been distracted with the way Raul’s hand was trailing down lower, and lower--but he’d managed to stammer out, "She will?"
"Of course," Raul said, with a shrug. "She likes it when I bring beautiful things home."
"And I’m a beautiful thing, am I?" Martin had asked, laughing, yet he’d flushed at the compliment.
"Sure," Raul said, grinning as he leaned in to kiss Martin again. "Very beautiful."
It had been good, with Raul, and later, with Raul and Ivone. Martin had loved it, in fact--not just being with them, but the sheer relief that he could have this sort of thing and still play football, and have it be all right.
And it had been all right. Until Raul had transferred to Chelsea. One week he was there, the next week--gone, and Ivone and their daughter with him.
Martin’s learned to be careful, since then. He doesn’t--well, frankly, he doesn’t date now, just keeps himself focused on what matters, his friends, his family, his career at Liverpool. It’s just safer that way, and Martin doesn’t mind. Most of the time.
*
Conor ends up coming over later in the week, when they both have a day off from training. Martin’s already got the ProEvo ready by the time he arrives, and they settle down on the couch, getting into a rematch of their last game.
Martin goes into an early 2-0 lead, and he laughs in delight, turns to Conor to crow, but--Conor’s already watching him, and Martin knows that look, it’s the look he had whenever he’d look over at Raul last year and just--oh God. Warren was right. He was actually right about this.
For the record, Martin really hates it when his brother’s right.
Except that Martin can’t…can’t quite bring himself to hate it now.
And Conor’s not brushing it off, he’s not changing the subject or looking away, instead he’s just--meeting Martin’s gaze head-on, looking serious and, and adult in a way Martin hasn’t really seen from him before. "Martin," he says finally. "Just--let me try something, yeah? And don’t hit me."
"I’m not gonna hit you," Martin promises, in a low voice. "I’d never do that to you."
Conor inhales sharply, and then he’s leaning in and it’s--a kiss, Conor’s mouth pressed lightly against his, soft and cool. Martin’s not prepared for it, not prepared for the sharp feeling he gets in his gut, being kissed by someone after all this time, being kissed by Conor.
Conor’s the one to pull back, saying, "I--"
But whatever he’s about to say next, it’s lost when Martin kisses him, cups Conor’s face in his hands and just goes for it, coaxing Conor’s mouth open and licking his way in, until Conor’s clutching at the front of Martin’s shirt, hard enough to tear the fabric.
When they finally stop, both of them are gasping for breath.
Conor’s the first to speak. "Thought you were done with reckless things," he says, staring at Martin, eyes wide.
"Yeah," Martin manages to say after a moment. "Apparently I was lying about that."
He’s not prepared for the way Conor grins at him for that, sharp and giddy as he says, decisive, "Good," before he’s coming back in to kiss Martin again, and God, either he’s a really quick study or he’s just a natural at this, because--wow. Wow.
*
They don’t actually ever finish that rematch, and some time later, Conor gasps out, "Have you ever--ever done this before? With a guy, I mean?"
"Yeah," Martin says distractedly, more focused on Conor's shirt, and how exactly he can get it off Conor. "With a teammate--"
That gets Conor's attention, as his hands stop wandering along Martin's back. "Wait, with who?" he asks, indignant. "Was it Flanno? Or Spearing? Oh, do not tell me it was Jack--look, I will kick their--"
Martin lifts his head and stares. "What? No, it wasn't--and why would it bother you anyway?"
"Because! I called dibs!"
Martin stares into Conor's face, huffy and annoyed, and he knows he should be annoyed right back but he can't help laughing. "You...called dibs? Seriously?"
"Yes!" Conor insists, but his face is sliding from miffed to embarrassed. "Well--it was implied, all right?"
"Implied," Martin repeats. He's grinning like an idiot, he's sure of it, and this is insane, and more than a little ridiculous, but-- "God, you're lucky I like you so much," he says, still laughing a little.
Conor's face gets softer now, and he looks up into Martin's face and says, more seriously, "Yeah. I know."
It makes sense to kiss Conor again, hearing that. And once he starts kissing Conor, well--it makes even more sense, to keep on.
*
Later that week, Martin's at Melwood, about to walk out onto the field and start training, when Steven Gerrard, walking nearby, calls out casually, "Oi, Martin. What've you been up to lately?"
"Oh," Martin says, thinking of Conor dozing in his bed, the two of them muddling through making breakfast together early in the morning. "Nothing much, just staying in. Rather boring, actually."
"Uh huh," Gerrard says, slowly. Martin tries to look as innocent as possible, but the tiny grin on his face is hard to shake. Not that he’s trying all that hard.
"Well, come on then," Gerrard says finally, and they walk out into the morning sun.
notes:
For reference, this is Martin Kelly, and this is Conor Coady.
"It has helped me having people like Stevie and Carra around. They talk to you all the time--to try and test you out...see if you are mentally tough enough to deal with the expectations. It has been a good experience for me." (Martin Kelly, source here.)
"Yes I can [cook]. The problem is it takes me a really long time. If I was cooking a meal for somebody they'd probably go hungry." (Martin Kelly, source here.)
Last season, the club had Conor Coady write up a couple of "diary entries" (I am not making this up) detailing his experiences when he was called up to the first team. (No, seriously, not making this up.) The first one is here, and as the second one was part of a video that's locked on the official site, the writeup is here. (The second one is really cute, though.)
I have no idea whether the Liverpool players actually dance in the dressing room, but given that Jamie Carragher will apparently sing along to Adele without any shame, I don't think it's so much of a stretch. (see previous link).
This blog post does a good (if biased) job of explaining the recent revitalizing of Liverpool's academy, thanks to former manager Rafa Benitez.
"The extent to which the Liverpool Way is being preached to the impressionable youngsters was underlined during one incident which brought laughter from the healthy sized crowd. One Liverpool player was heard to swear at the referee but no sooner had the expletive left his mouth and Borrell was reprimanding him. “We don’t talk like this,” the Spaniard shouted, making it clear that discipline is as important as talent. The lesson was duly taken on board." (Writeup from here.)
If you want to know what the "fruit bouquet" that Conor sent Martin looks like, here are some examples. (The company is American-based, but I'm sure there's a British equivalent. And if not, we can just fudge that bit.)
The incident referred to in Steven Gerrard's talk with Martin is here.