Keep Cool, Stay Tough

Real Madrid lost. Cristiano managed to score one to equalize late in the first half, but with the arrival of the second half, it was all Barcelona all the time, and then Jérémy Mathieu scored a heart stopping header that sealed three points for Barcelona, making them leap frog to number one with Madrid trailing behind by four points.

The week following the match was an International Break, and I was back to school with too much neglected work to keep up with the national teams. I got back to Madrid a day after everyone else, because Carlota was adamant about having one last sleepover before I had to go. I had expected Martha to say no, that’s why I had agreed, but imagine my horrified surprise when Martha answered:

“Why, that sounds lovely! I’ll see you in Madrid on Monday morning.”

Even then when I looked over towards the house it remained as still and as empty as the first night I had shown up. I refused t o dawdle over it, and I did as Cristiano advised, I kept cool, and forced on an impassive attitude towards the situation. By the time I was back, all the players had gone to play for their respective countries.

My early afternoon class was actually a very welcome distraction from my own tumultuous personal affairs. It didn’t help matters that Carlota spent a decent chunk of our time together talking about how Cesc wasn’t doing so great this time around in London. I couldn’t help thinking about the chick he had discovered last time, and certainly it was only a matter of time until he found another girl to
fill that special void.

And frankly I didn’t care.

That surprised me, it continuously surprised me that I had yet to feel even the slightest inclination that I wanted to talk to him, to hear how he was doing, and complain about how terribly I was doing, but I was fine. In fact I was fantastic, and I had Mina and even a little bit Cristiano to thank for that.

“To what do I owe this surprising honor?”

“I told you I was coming,” He pointed out.

“And yet I’m still surprised,” I pressed.

“I was with Martha all morning; she was telling me how great you’ve been doing and what an asset you’ve been to her since you got to Madrid. I’m really impressed kid,” He laid on the compliments so heavily as if I didn’t catch on to what he was trying to do.

I sucked in a deep breath and gave a flat smile, the sarcasm easily detected in my tone, “I live to keep you proud, Pop.”

We walked along the shaded side court yard where only a handful of students were rushing to their next class.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been keeping in touch. That was entirely on my shoulders to bug you with phone calls, texts, emails, tweets, posts, facetime…” He trailed off, apparently at a loss for any other social-networking variation. I cracked a half smile as he listed all of the social networking terminology he could think of.

“You’ve been keeping in touch with Cesc and Thiago just fine I heard,” He brought up.
Martha must have told him about that. I wondered what else she had mentioned during their talk.
“They’ve been keeping in touch with me,” I amended, “I have been far too busy to play catch up unless someone is being highly demanding.”

“I thought you wanted space,” He defended.

I stopped walking to glare up at him disbelievingly, “More space than what you’ve given me? More space than the space between Madrid and Barcelona? No I think I’m good on the space front. I still cannot believe I do everything in my power to get to Barcelona to spend a few days with you guys…it was Joie’s idea wasn’t it?”

“I promise you it wasn’t.”

“Of course you’re going to paint her out to be a total angel,” I snapped.

“You two are both my angels.”

“I need coffee,” I stated, my tone flat.

“Then let’s get coffee.”

The university cafeteria had a small café across from it, and just as we walked in a pair of students were getting up to go. I sat him down at the table and grabbed coffee and cheese and ham sandwiches for the pair of us.

“What did you end up doing?” He asked just as I delivered the food and drink to the table.

“When?”

I thought he meant in terms of the food and table.

“When you got to Barcelona and saw we weren’t there? Did you stay at the house anyway because it really didn’t seem like you even came inside?”

Of course that’s not what he meant.

“Carlota volunteered her room when I saw her, but I went back to the hotel instead where the team would be staying, and I was really lucky apparently because the rooms we had gotten weren’t going to be available until Friday, but the girl barely managed to find me something,” I fibbed as I unwrapped my sandwich.

“I really am sorry,” His tone sounded sincere.

“I don’t want you to be sorry; I don’t need you to be sorry. All I want is to just to be kept in the loop, dad. That’s not asking for too much, is it? So if you decide you need a break, or if Uncle James really wasn’t feeling good, then as someone still part of this family, I think I deserve to know,” I was actually quite proud of myself for keeping cool and acting like a mature adult.

“Okay. I hear you, I understand, and it’s not going to happen again. I am going to blow up your phone with so many details on a day-to-day basis; you are going to think you’re still in Barcelona.
You have no idea how detailed your father can get, believe me.”

“Good.”

“Good?” He repeated, unimpressed.

“FAN-TAS-TIC.” I emphasized.

“Fantastic.” He repeated with a smile.

He didn’t look so old today.

***

After my dad had dinner back at Martha’s, we dropped him at the train station. I felt better, and it wasn’t just because my dad had actually shown up, of course that had been wonderful, and I hadn’t been exaggerating when I told him I was surprised he had come. No, I was more excited about my lack of clinginess towards Cesc. It had been awhile since I had woke him up at four in the morning.
The week slipped past us in a blink of an eye after Monday’s surprise visit had wrapped up. This was mostly because I was still playing catch up with class work and my father’s incessant onslaught of informational updates on the ‘haps’ (his wording) in Barcelona kept me constantly preoccupied as I tried to outdo with my own updates. It really did almost feel like I was back there. He really had not been exaggerating about his ability to write in great detail.

Those two days alone with Cristiano in Barcelona kept coming up in my thoughts no matter how much I tried to keep focused on my running, or even on my research paper. Random, tiny moments that had seemed completely inconsequential as they were happening were bringing small smiles to my face sporadically throughout the week.

I accepted early on that I probably should not be expecting us to pick up where we left off once we got back to Madrid, of course not, that was ridiculous, he was going to revert back to the Cristiano I had been acquainted with initially; that overly judgmental, overly gelled, overly dressed football player that I made a habit to avoid every day.

There was nothing wrong with thinking about those two days anyway. I was just thinking, remembering. I wasn’t planning anything for the future because it felt completely futile. So imagine my complete surprise when once the International week had wrapped up, the players were all on their way back, and I get a text message from an unfamiliar number saying:
‘We need to talk.’

He was adamant about not having anyone know about this covert meeting. This made me uneasy. It was that feeling of déjà vu all over again. All I could handle was the type of easy friendship we had struck up in Barcelona. And I guess as long as I kept myself honest, and made my intentions for being friends consistently clear then everything else would work itself out. Ultimately it was his choice whether he took the friendship route or not.

That didn’t stop me from being hopeful that he would take the friendship route.

Most of the non-Spanish players were allowed leave until Friday. Of course Cristiano just so happened to be one of those players. We decided to try to avoid each other during Saturday’s brief training and just have dinner and ‘the talk’ after Sunday’s home match against Granada.

In a word, Saturday was awkward. We kept making weird, inconsistent eye contact. He tried to ask about my dad where everyone was listening in, and I really didn’t want to go into details so I came off as curt and probably a little bit rude. He didn’t press further, and I tried to say we’d talk on Sunday night without actually saying the words, but I really doubt it came off that way.

Somehow, Sunday finally crawled along. I woke up, and the air around me felt charged by some kind of misguided excitement. I dressed in tight black jeans, and a tight white top with a satin black bow on the back. Red tends to look great on me, but just as I was grabbing my red cardigan, it occurred to me that I was going to the Bernabéu, and I should try not to be so conspicuous. I opted for a navy blue blazer instead.

He scored five times that afternoon.

Cristiano Ronaldo scored five goals in front of his adoring hordes of fans on Sunday. I had expected him to make it a point of making up for losing his last two matches (the Clásico and the second national match), but he just made an absolute mockery of Granada who were just barely struggling along anyway.

I sent him a text towards the end of the match that I had no problem if the team wanted to do something all together. We could move ‘the talk’ to a later date. He could just spend the rest of his day celebrating, because honestly after two consecutive losses something like what I had just witnessed was certainly worth celebrating. I was already waiting for a very grateful and apologetic, ‘really, are you sure you really wouldn’t mind because Sergio was planning on…’

My imaginary text got cut short when he texted back with, ‘No, I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.’ And so I sat down at a booth in a tiny, inconspicuous café twenty minutes later, ordered iced-tea for me, and a perrier with lime for him.

“You can say congratulations without being a traitor; your team is leading the rest of us by four points,” He greeted with an incongruous smile that made me giggle. I knew he was going to be sitting on pins and needles until Barca’s game wrapped.

“Shut up, I know you’re checking their score right now, and I know it’s still tied,” I snapped back with only a slight touch of nervousness to my voice.

He started cackling, completely gleeful, “They’re really running out of time.”

“Someone’s going to pull a goal out of somewhere,” I assured, even though I was nervous as fuck to see Barcelona squander points so soon and especially with Real Madrid feeling all high and mighty with their spectacle earlier today.

“They’ll get three points,” I repeated when he not so subtlety left his phone on the table where it clearly displayed the current score line.

“So five goals, huh? Bit over the top, no?”

His grin stretched and dominated all of his features as he shook his head and laughed; I shook my head, covering my face with my hand hiding my own smile. I just could not get myself to compliment him on his achievement.

“It was very necessary for my mental health actually,” He answered.

“Ah, certainly seems like it did trick,” I commented.

“What happened after I saw you looking all stressed out last Sunday? I couldn’t find you after the game ended.” He asked.

“Your little mantra did the trick, I mean aided with a couple of bottles of beer, and some friends from Barcelona, I calmed down enough to actually enjoy the game. I mean I really enjoyed the game,” I emphasized as he flinched at some missed chance he was remembering.

“My dad came to visit me on Monday,” I added, “We talked, and I calmed down.”

“So why wasn’t he in Barcelona last week?”

“Apparently my Uncle James, Martha’s oldest brother, is sick, and they were in Berlin taking appointments with some doctors over there, but Martha had no idea, so I still kind of feel like I’m missing something,” I explained.

“Missing what?” He asked.

I shrugged, “I’m really not sure, and I’m hungry, where is the waiter?”

Cristiano glanced up and caught someone’s attention and we finally ordered our meal.

“I’ve been thinking, and whatever this is,” He waved his hand between us, “is doing something good for me, and I might be wrong, but I think it’s doing something good for you too.”

“It is, but that’s as long as it stays like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ok, believe me, I know what I’m about to ask you is the most horrendously cliché thing that can ever come out of my mouth, but I just need it out there and agreed to so that we can both walk into this thing properly and with eyes and ears open.”

“Alright, shoot, what is it?”

“No declarations of love, we keep it purely platonic,” I pressed, “I need that assurance that that’s all it’s going to be.”

He laughed.

He honestly wouldn’t stop laughing for a good five minutes.

Tears were streaming down his eyes; big fat tears were just dripping down as he cackled.
My face remained deadpan. That only made him laugh harder.

“Do you know the type of girls I date? Did you forget who my ex-girlfriend is?”

“I hate you.” I simply answered, “But see, it’s good, now I know you won’t fall in love with me.”

“Ok, but I need you to say it too.”

“I’ve told you already,” I sighed.

“Just let me hear it one final time,” He pressed.

“I do not date footballers,” I huffed, “My ex-boyfriend was a footballer and he turned me off to the whole lot of you.”

“Perfect, then you won’t get jealous when I start dating again.”

“Oh god, I’ll welcome it, if it makes you any more bearable.”

He scoffed, “I’m very bearable.”

“Says you,” I scoffed back.

“I’ve got my list narrowed down quite a bit, just so you know, I’m closing in on your ex,” Cristiano announced.

“No you’re not.”

“Why not?”

“Because you still don’t know me well enough to know out of all of the footballers around whom I would choose to date.”

“You’re not that great a mystery.”

I rolled my eyes, “Fine, give me the names.”

“No.”

“Why not? You’re so confident in your assessments after all.”

“Because I’m in the process of narrowing down still, I’m not there yet. Maybe when I’m there I’ll give you names just to gauge your reaction.”

“So much effort, wow, why?”

“I like challenges,” He stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I should have guessed.”

Once we got that bizarre conversation out of the way, everything casually fell into place the way it had in Barcelona. There was never a lull in the conversation. We actually made vague plans to visit Portugal, his old neighborhood to be precise and to eat at the place he really liked when he was a teenager.

“There’s actually something else, and this you might not actually be okay with it, and I guess I could get past it, but really, if we could not flaunt this in front of the team, because really, they have a one-track mind, and no matter how many times I tell them we’re just friends they’re going to assume and ask stupid questions, and if we could just not tell them?”

I had never heard Cristiano speak that quickly before.

“Sure, I don’t care either way to be honest, they’re more your friends than my friends.”

“They’re my teammates,” He corrected.

“Mates is right there in the word,” I pointed out.

“So? They’re co-workers, and I don’t need co-workers making stupid comments when I’m trying to work.”

“Fine, I really don’t care whether your co-workers know everything or nothing; it just might be awkward sometimes,” I insisted.

He chuckled, “Like on Saturday?”

“Exactly like Saturday.”

“We’ll figure something out about that eventually. Probably.”

“Probably.”

Jeremy Mathieu managed to bring on the magic once again. Barcelona would return home with their precious points intact. Cristiano was practically howling with the disappointment while I couldn’t quite get myself to stop smiling.

“Can I just ask you something?” I ventured.

He had his car parked a block away from Martha’s house, per my request, and was still muttering something about Barcelona’s last minute goal.

“Sure.”

“Why did you help me out back in Barcelona? You could have easily just kept on walking and I wouldn’t have even known you were in town,” I asked.

He grew quiet as if he was mulling over the answer that he wanted to give. Eventually he shrugged and said, “I don’t screw up often, but when I do, I would like to make up for it if I can.”

“I’ll probably regret admitting this, but you weren’t wrong, and I really shouldn’t have gotten that confrontational with you that day,” I bit down on my lower lip, cringing at the memory.

“Maybe, but still, it wasn’t my place to talk about you like that.”

I clapped my hands together, “Well, it’s over with now, you said some things, and I said some things, and it doesn’t matter anymore.”

I held out my hand, “Friends?”

Cristiano smiled and shook my hand, “Friends.”