Después
Raúl Gonzalez/Fernando Morientes, PG13. 31 October 2007, Valencia-Real.
They drive along the coast, the man of second chances and the angel of Madrid.
The radio recounts headlines softly but before it gets to the match of the night, it’s shut off.
Fernando goes first. “You played well.”
Under his own, Raúl’s fingers are chapped and he misses the exit turn.
On the beach, they sit side by side, wrapped in makeshift blankets, not touching yet sharing one space, the way only old friends or lovers do.
There’s no light where they are; the water’s roar is soft in their ears but invisible.
“Every time you celebrated I had to remind myself I no longer have the right to celebrate alongside you.”
“Whose fault is that?” The sentence is accusatory but the tone is light, a grin playing on the edge of his lips as he wrestles with a wine bottle.
Fernando smiles, his first real smile that night. “But then that second goal just pissed me off.”
Raúl laughs, and it’s sharp and youthful, a sound that belies the wrinkles around his eyes. They toast to that.
They listen to the lapping waves, sipping the cheap, bitter red-purchased in haste at a service station-trying to warm up.
“What about you?” Raúl’s voice is dry. “There. Flanked by fucking Davids. In the wrong jersey. On the wrong side of the field-”
“Don’t.”
The wind shifts, spraying them with mist and they shiver.
“Do you think we’ll get called back?”
“You? Yes. Me-” The sentence drifts into the sea.
“I wanted you to score tonight, you know.”
“I know.”
A hand reaches out to press against bare skin and silence falls once more that night.
The king of Spain, he kisses without ceremony. A wine glass, half full, spills blood on the sand by their legs.
They drive along the coast, the man of second chances and the angel of Madrid.
The radio recounts headlines softly but before it gets to the match of the night, it’s shut off.
Fernando goes first. “You played well.”
Under his own, Raúl’s fingers are chapped and he misses the exit turn.
On the beach, they sit side by side, wrapped in makeshift blankets, not touching yet sharing one space, the way only old friends or lovers do.
There’s no light where they are; the water’s roar is soft in their ears but invisible.
“Every time you celebrated I had to remind myself I no longer have the right to celebrate alongside you.”
“Whose fault is that?” The sentence is accusatory but the tone is light, a grin playing on the edge of his lips as he wrestles with a wine bottle.
Fernando smiles, his first real smile that night. “But then that second goal just pissed me off.”
Raúl laughs, and it’s sharp and youthful, a sound that belies the wrinkles around his eyes. They toast to that.
They listen to the lapping waves, sipping the cheap, bitter red-purchased in haste at a service station-trying to warm up.
“What about you?” Raúl’s voice is dry. “There. Flanked by fucking Davids. In the wrong jersey. On the wrong side of the field-”
“Don’t.”
The wind shifts, spraying them with mist and they shiver.
“Do you think we’ll get called back?”
“You? Yes. Me-” The sentence drifts into the sea.
“I wanted you to score tonight, you know.”
“I know.”
A hand reaches out to press against bare skin and silence falls once more that night.
The king of Spain, he kisses without ceremony. A wine glass, half full, spills blood on the sand by their legs.