One Week
Domingo – Sunday – Söndag
“What do you think I should do?”
”Do you want me to answer that as…what?” Emma asked from her place on top of the kitchen counter as she watched Fernando pacing around in front of her. “Your wife, the mother of your child, your friend, the fan…?” she trailed off slowly, her eyes never leaving him.
“I don’t know,” he sighed annoyed, rubbing his hands over his face before running them through his unruly brown hair.
“I can’t tell you what to do, hun,” she told him sympathetically. Her own feelings were all over the place at the moment, but she knew that no matter how much it would hurt, she was going to have to suppress at least half of them right now.
“I just wish…” he trailed off softly, looking out through the large windows overlooking the amazing garden that for the season looked glum and uninviting.
Sighing softly, Emma lifted herself off the counter and quickly padded across the large room; wrapping the tall man she called her husband into a close hug, urging him to turn around and bury his face in her shoulder. “I can’t tell you what to do,” she repeated honestly. “But you have to do what feels best for you,” she told him. “I’ll stand by you no matter what you chose,” she assured him, closing her eyes for a moment as she breathed in his scent, letting it wash over her and calm her like it always did.
“You came here to Liverpool to win titles,” she reminded him of what he’d said when the club first bought him years earlier, gently running her fingers through his short hair. “You left your club to come here to win the league and the Champions and…” she trailed off softly. “And clearly that’s not happening right now,” she said reluctantly, the fan-girl inside of her practically screaming in pain as she did. “I know that people are saying you're a traitor if you leave, that…that you’re only doing it for the money or whatever, but…” she was having trouble suppressing her own alliances to give him honest advice but to her, maybe not to others, but to her football wasn't everything. She knew that one day the sport wasn't going to be number one for them anymore and then she was still going to be married to Fernando, she was still going to be the mother of his child and they most likely wouldn’t even be living in England any longer...
“It actually pains me to say this,” she said honestly, feeling him smile into her bare shoulder as she did. “But…you’ve started this process and you can stop it anytime you want to, but there was a reason for you starting it in the first place,” she reminded him. “You're not a born and breed Red,” she said seriously. “You may love the club now, but your heart is Atleti through and through and a lot of people aren’t going to care about that, but you want to win and not to be morbid here, but you aren’t getting any younger,” she laughed slightly, feeling him pinch her in the side at the jab at his age. “Putting my alliances aside, maybe Chelsea is where you can win all those trophies,” she sighed softly.
“You’ll stick by me whatever I choose?” he asked her softly, sounding almost like a lost child.
“Don’t ever expect me to wear the blue,” she stated frankly as she pulled back from him and pressed her lips against his, silencing the laugh she knew was about to escape him.
She really didn’t want to sit in the stands at the Bridge, surrounded by fans in blue shirts and she would never ever wear one – that actually pained her to even think about – but she was his wife…and at least it wasn't Manchester…
”Do you want me to answer that as…what?” Emma asked from her place on top of the kitchen counter as she watched Fernando pacing around in front of her. “Your wife, the mother of your child, your friend, the fan…?” she trailed off slowly, her eyes never leaving him.
“I don’t know,” he sighed annoyed, rubbing his hands over his face before running them through his unruly brown hair.
“I can’t tell you what to do, hun,” she told him sympathetically. Her own feelings were all over the place at the moment, but she knew that no matter how much it would hurt, she was going to have to suppress at least half of them right now.
“I just wish…” he trailed off softly, looking out through the large windows overlooking the amazing garden that for the season looked glum and uninviting.
Sighing softly, Emma lifted herself off the counter and quickly padded across the large room; wrapping the tall man she called her husband into a close hug, urging him to turn around and bury his face in her shoulder. “I can’t tell you what to do,” she repeated honestly. “But you have to do what feels best for you,” she told him. “I’ll stand by you no matter what you chose,” she assured him, closing her eyes for a moment as she breathed in his scent, letting it wash over her and calm her like it always did.
“You came here to Liverpool to win titles,” she reminded him of what he’d said when the club first bought him years earlier, gently running her fingers through his short hair. “You left your club to come here to win the league and the Champions and…” she trailed off softly. “And clearly that’s not happening right now,” she said reluctantly, the fan-girl inside of her practically screaming in pain as she did. “I know that people are saying you're a traitor if you leave, that…that you’re only doing it for the money or whatever, but…” she was having trouble suppressing her own alliances to give him honest advice but to her, maybe not to others, but to her football wasn't everything. She knew that one day the sport wasn't going to be number one for them anymore and then she was still going to be married to Fernando, she was still going to be the mother of his child and they most likely wouldn’t even be living in England any longer...
“It actually pains me to say this,” she said honestly, feeling him smile into her bare shoulder as she did. “But…you’ve started this process and you can stop it anytime you want to, but there was a reason for you starting it in the first place,” she reminded him. “You're not a born and breed Red,” she said seriously. “You may love the club now, but your heart is Atleti through and through and a lot of people aren’t going to care about that, but you want to win and not to be morbid here, but you aren’t getting any younger,” she laughed slightly, feeling him pinch her in the side at the jab at his age. “Putting my alliances aside, maybe Chelsea is where you can win all those trophies,” she sighed softly.
“You’ll stick by me whatever I choose?” he asked her softly, sounding almost like a lost child.
“Don’t ever expect me to wear the blue,” she stated frankly as she pulled back from him and pressed her lips against his, silencing the laugh she knew was about to escape him.
She really didn’t want to sit in the stands at the Bridge, surrounded by fans in blue shirts and she would never ever wear one – that actually pained her to even think about – but she was his wife…and at least it wasn't Manchester…