It's A Game, But Who's Keeping Score?

“Rebecca,” Steve said sternly, finally stepping in between me and Fernando. “That’s taking it too far.”

“Too far? He brought my personal life into this, where he has no business,” I demanded.

“Rebecca, you need to drop it.”

I ground my teeth together in frustration, there was so much more I wanted to say to Fernando, so much that I was holding in. I looked around the room and everyone was looking at me like I was crazy, like I had been the one to start the argument. I bit my lip hard, tasting blood soon after.

In a matter of minutes, I had turned my team against me; maybe I didn’t belong in the Premiership.

The ride back to Liverpool was brutal, from the front of the bus I could hear everyone whispering, most likely about me and my anger issues. This just made me turn my Ipod louder, hoping to drown out the voices. Pepe and Xabi didn’t speak to me during the car ride back to the house, either because of the loss or Fernando.

Probably the latter.

The practice the next day was not something I looked forward to, I was exhausted and tired of the silent treatment I was receiving from my house-mates. As I walked to the dressing room, one of Rafa’s secretaries called me into his office, saying he had matters to discuss with me.

As I sat in his office, the picture of him and Fernando taunted me, showing me that Fernando would always belong in Liverpool. And that I was just a temporary solution.

“Rebecca, my dear Rebecca. You’ve gotten yourself into a heap of trouble,” Rafa said sombrely, sitting down at his desk, neatly folding his hands on top.

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Rafa quickly silenced me.

“I’m quite aware of your argument with Fernando, that’s not what I’m concerned about. It’s the physical confrontation you initiated.”

“He provoked me!” I said, jumping out of my chair.

“Had you not been a girl, he would have hit you back.”

“I don’t care! I would have liked it better for him to hit me back, than abuse me with words.”

“Rebecca, I’m sorry to say that because of this you’ve been suspended from practice and our Champion’s League match against Chelsea.”

“What?!”

“You will still be able to attend the game and we won’t tell the press that you’re suspended. Just that it’s a precautionary measure for your knees,” Rafa said, avoiding my persistent stare.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” I said, sitting back down, letting my head fall into my hands. “What punishment is Fernando getting?”

“He has been dealt with.”

“You didn’t give him anything!” I demanded, “Because he’s the poster boy of Liverpool that can do no wrong. Well, guess what? He did something wrong, he fucking messed with my heart!”

“Rebecca, I think it would be best for you if you headed back home. I have a practice to run, please use these days off to relax. Pepe or Xabi will tell you what time to be at the stadium on Wednesday.”

And with that, Rafa left me in his office, while he ran the practice I should be at. Eventually, one of the secretaries came in and asked if I wanted a cab to pick me up. I simply nodded, as I still pondered my punishment. This was bad.

As I walked out to the parking lot to meet the cab, I could see the team at practice. They were laughing, joking around and having a good time. Maybe I was the bad apple. Fernando ran by and I could see the purple bruise along his chin. I smiled at my handiwork.

The cab came soon and took me back home. Thankfully the cab driver minded his own business and didn’t bother to ask why he was driving one of the players away from the field.

The house seemed too big and too empty for me so I quickly made a cup of hot chocolate, grabbed a box of cookies and snuggled into my bed as old Disney movies played. Loneliness won me over and I finally called the person I had been waiting to talk to.

“Hola?” a very groggy voice answered.

“Rammy, it’s eleven. How can you still be asleep?”

“Coach gave us the day off, thought I might catch up on some sleep. But since you’re calling, that can wait.”

“I punched Fernando,” I whispered.

“What’s that? I can’t hear you,” Sergio joked.

“I punched Fernando!” I practically yelled.

“Oh, that’s why you’re calling. I already knew that,” he said, fighting back a yawn.

“What? How do you already know? Does the media know?” I frantically asked.

“No, no. Don’t worry, Fernando called me pretty much right after it happened. But that would have made a great story.”

“Not funny. And because of that punch, I’m now suspended from practice the game against Chelsea. While Fernando gets nothing.”

“Bec, you did punch him.”

“He provoked me!”

“Still, you did punch him. I’m actually surprised it took you this long to deck him. I thought back in Madrid before Euro you were going to knock him out cold.”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working.”

“Oh, you know you totally just smiled,” Sergio said, not being able to contain his laughter.

“Go back to sleep Rammy,” I said before ending the call. My Disney movies called me back to them and I obliged.

The next two says flew by which surprised me because I thought they would have gone super slow. It was drizzling a bit outside, but I still decided to go out for a run. Once again I let my feet take me where I let them and I found myself outside Fernando’s house again.

I watched from behind the same bush as he helped Olalla out of the car, a baby bump clearly visible. He grabbed the shopping bags out of the trunk that clearly held baby supplies and supported Olalla into the house. As he went to close the front door, he looked almost directly at me and then disappeared.

“Crap,” I muttered to myself. “He’s probably going to run to Rafa and tell him that I’m stalking him and I should be removed from the team.”

“I’m quite flattered that you’re stalking me,” a voice whispered from behind me.

I nearly jumped ten feet in the air. Turning around, I clutched my chest, “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?

“Are you trying to ruin my life?”

I huffed in response and then asked, “Do you know what you’re having?” in reference to the baby.

“A baby girl.”

“How sweet.”

“Olalla and I are very excited.”

“I imagine,” I said, rolling my eyes. “How’s your jaw?”

Fernando reached up to his jaw, rubbing a hand lightly over it, “Just bruised, nothing I can’t handle.”

The pleasant conversation was driving me crazy and I desperately wanted to tell Fernando that Olalla was a lying, gold-digging bitch that wanted me deported back to Canada. But the look on Fernando’s face when he talked about the baby stopped me.

I could feel the hot tears streaming down my face as I pushed off the ground; running back to my house, away from Fernando’s protesting shouts.