Chapter Text
“Chippendale dancers? Are you fucking kidding me?” Pipita is laughing so hard, that his eyes are practically bulging out of his skull. He slaps Karim’s shoulder in his uncontainable delight, narrowly knocking the Frenchman's beer from his hand.
“Okay, so we didn’t exactly cover ourselves in glory.” Karim laughs too. “But we were infiltrating a fucking gang. My dignity was the least of my concern.”
“Jesus Christ.” The Argentine sighs happily, wiping away a stray tear. “You could’ve called me up or something. I would’ve told Pablo to take it easy.”
Pablo is Pipita’s cousin from Argentina, currently residing in Italy on a phony student’s visa. Being a bouncer is one of his many occupations, along with drug dealing, debt collecting, scaremongering for hire, and other forms of shady businesses that flirt quite intimately with the boundaries of legality. Tattooed on his neck in large cursive is the name of Saint Anthony the Abbot, the patron saint of gravediggers, whom he prays to after a particularly sinful deed—or rumor has it, at least. He did not give Karim or Isco too hard of a time at the casino, but the Frenchman finds little reason to doubt the Argentine’s infamy.
“Well, how was I supposed to know that your stripper network expanded all the way to Italy?” Karim half-snorts. “Besides, would you have helped us, actually, if we told you we’re breaking into Casino Milan?”
“It’s possible that I would’ve ratted you out.” Pipita concedes with a wayward grin. “Milan is probably one of our biggest venues, thanks to Ricky.”
“Yeah.” Karim sighs. “They’re one of our biggest sponsors now. Also thanks to Ricky.”
Karim offers to buy the next round, which Pipita shrugs off. All drinks are on the house tonight, the Argentine offers, since this is his strip club, and he can do whatever he wants.
They joke, chat, and reminisce for hours, like old war buddies finally reunited. And Karim supposes that they do share a similar bond, in a way, having fought together on the battlefield that is football. It’s probably a tad melodramatic to make such comparisons, but Karim is on his third beer, so he is allowed to reach into his normally constipated emotions. He has missed Pipita since the Argentine left Madrid, and this Pipita is uncannily similar to his friend of four year—outspoken, guileless, and marginally obnoxious. The only noticeable difference is the impressively proliferating network of male strippers that the Argentine is currently directing.
“I’m still working on a name for my club,” Pipita muses, swirling his drink. “I want something poetic and metaphoric, like Rocket to Uranus, or something. The rocket representing dick, and Uranus—well, you know.”
“Uh—yeah,” is Karim’s only reaction.
“What do you think?” Pipita looks at the Frenchman with such earnest expectation, that Karim feels obliged to contribute something akin to a valid opinion.
“I dunno.” Karim scratches the short hairs at his neck. “It sounds more like a brothel than a strip club.”
“Well, you get what you pay for, that’s the motto of my business.” The Argentine winks. “And speaking of business, I didn’t realize Real Madrid is looking to expand finally, partnering with Milan, and all.”
“It wasn’t exactly intentional,” the Frenchman truthfully admits.
“I’m always open to doing business with an old friend.” Pipita’s grin is casual and hopeful at the same time. Karim snorts into his drink.
“Oh, don’t be an asshole,” the Argentine whines. “The last time I checked, Real Madrid isn’t exactly out of the relegation zone yet.”
Karim shrugs because it’s true. He supposes that more sponsorship would indeed benefit the humble club, although he doubts that Pipita’s investment would be anything substantial, considering the Argentine is still setting the foundations for his own enterprise.
“We might not be as reputable as Milan,” Pipita avidly insists, “But our business has been booming since day one. We have our crowd of faithfuls, and El Chori is going to be a star!”
At the back of the strip bar is the bedazzling center stage, and Karim chances a look only to find Raul Albiol’s unwaxed, leather-clad body sliding down a silver pole. The Callejón twins are offering admirable terpsichorean support on either side of the gangly Spaniard.
“Oh, Christ in Heaven,” the Frenchman gasps, horrified.
“I know right?” Pipita nudges him on the shoulder. “A star, I tell you. The brightest of the bright!”
"God damn it." Karim could barely tear his eyes away from the atrocity, ruefully noting that he now has one more memory to suppress.
“Anyway, you have tough schedule coming up, don’t you?” Pipita eventually changes the topic. “Atlético away, Malaga at home, and Barcelona away. What’re you thoughts on El Clásico?”
“El Clásico?” The Frenchman blinks at his friend, caught out.
Pipita mirrors his confusion briefly, before slowly breaking into his usual obnoxious cackle. “Oh, Isco warned me about your memory loss issues. Jesus, it must suck. Do you get handicap parking at least?”
“El Clásico…is a thing?” Karim realizes how stupid he must sound, but it has escaped his mind completely until now—the prospect of facing Barcelona in a fierce clash anticipated by all of Spain. Do people still care, now that Real Madrid is at the bottom of the table?
“El Clásico has been going on for a century, at least,” Pipita explains, “Real Madrid and Barcelona battling to escape the relegation zone. El Clásico de los necios—it’s meant to be ironic.”
Karim sighs, of course.
“It’s kind of like watching hobos fight with rusty, hobo knives,” the Argentine muses, scratching at his heavy stubble. “Intense, unpleasant, but you can’t bring yourself to look away. Barca’s had the upper hand for the past five years, but you really seem to have turned a sinking ship around, if that’s even possible.”
"Uh, yeah." Karim is unsure of how to respond. He should really be better at receiving compliments, particularly backhanded ones, at this point in his life.
“We’re all incredibly thrilled.” Pipita’s smile is genuine, at least. “Everyone I know is betting their life savings on you guys. Don’t let us down.”
~~
Ricky smiles behind the stack of letters on top of the dining table, while Karim pours milk into his bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. Cristiano is hovering in the general vicinity of their kitchen, discernibly thrilled but mildly daunted to have his former lover in his life again. Their interactions are still a bit stiff and awkward, with Ricky prone to emotional switches and Cristiano almost pathetically afraid of slipping up or driving the Brazilian away with his usual ungainly blunders. The fact that Ricky chooses to spend more time in their apartment instead of his own somehow completely escapes the insecure Portuguese, but Karim refrains from stating the obvious, opting to let Cristiano mend his own fences.
“Dear Karim,” Ricky reads aloud, all smiles as he pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “My name is Lily, and I am six years old. I have a cat that is orange with stripes. I named him Karim. Karim likes to sleep all day and eat everyone’s food, but one time we had a mouse, and he caught the mouse, so everyone was proud of him for a day. I am throwing Karim a birthday party next Tuesday. You should come if you are not busy. Lost of love from your biggest fan, Lily.”
Ricky sighs contently, placing the crayon etched paper atop the pile of other letters he deems important enough for the Real Madrid players to return personally. It’s almost as tall as the pile of hate mail, which everyone ought to ignore.
Karim chews thoughtfully at his Cheerios, as the Brazilian picks out another envelope. While Ricky has agreed to return to Madrid, he made no promise of returning to football. Instead, he spends his days lounging in their living room, cooking healthy meals, and paddling through their letters and paperwork that has been untouched for months. Karim doesn’t want to admit it, but he is somewhat desperate for Ricky to return to the pitch, so that they can actually make multiple substitutions per match. Marcelo is already negotiating with the board to resign the Brazilian playmaker. All that is left is to actually convince Ricky.
“Ugh.” Ricky blows out air contemptuously, tossing the next letter aside after only a fleeting glance.
“What’s wrong with that one?” Isco asks, joining the table with his bowl of Cocoa Rice Krispies.
“I usually ignore everything from Hristo Stoichkov,” Ricky says, “That man is so full of bitterness and unfair criticism, as if he can’t spare anything but downright contempt for Real Madrid. It’s like—come on, guy—go outside, smell a flower, pet a dog, lighten up, and do something productive with your time.” The Brazilian contemplates briefly, before pocketing the letter for himself. “Maybe I should write that to him.”
Isco edges a little closer to Ricky, peering curiously at the next piece of mail. The Brazilian is a lot more pleasant now that he has stopped trying to be an asshole, and the Frenchman enjoys his company considerably, seeing as Ricky is one of the few quasi-sane people in this crazy, upside-down world—even if he still maintain strong ties to an organized crime family in Italy.
“Oh, and here’s one for Cristiano!” The Brazilian lets out a delighted, little laugh, and the Portuguese turns to him immediately, the way only a hopeless lover can. Ricky straightens in his seat, clearing his throat before reading the letter aloud. “Dear Cristiano, I think you are the best striker ever! I aspire to be just like you and score goals for Real Madrid one day. I think you look very handsome with your new haircut. It really compliments your already handsome face. If you are ever in Monaco, give me a call at 377-591-0472 so we can chat over brunch or something. Yours truly, James Rodríguez.”
Ricky frowns a little at the end, shifting his eyes to Cristiano as if initiating a challenge. “Would you like to respond to this? He seems very smitten with you and your new look.”
“I—” The Portuguese touches his hair bashfully. “Karim did it for me—I don’t know—what do you think, though?”
“I think it looks good,” Ricky responds, straight-faced. Isco and Karim both chew meaningfully at their cereal, pretending not to listen.
“I only care about what you think,” Cristiano says, and Ricky rewards him with a smile, as if the Portuguese had passed a test. He quickly moves on to another envelope, however.
“Oh, this is strange.” The Brazilian pinches his brows together, after taking a moment to scan the content of the letter.
“Is it another hate mail?” Isco asks as he spoons up sugary, chocolate milk.
“No, not exactly,” Ricky explains. “This guy—it’s weird. He says a lot of awful things, like our defense is shit, and our midfielders are frightened babies when it comes to keeping possession. He wishes that our attackers would get kicked in the crotch every time they drift offside, so they wouldn’t pass their terrible sense of timing to future generations. Oh, and clean sheets are important. What’s the point of winning if you can’t even keep a clean sheet? Also, Karim, your face is too void of passion. Learn another emotion besides flaccid indifference, if you want to be a good captain.”
“Well, that’s unnecessarily harsh.” Isco frowns.
“Yeah, but—” Ricky chews pensively at the cap of his pen. “—This guy cares. He might be cynical and abrasive and rude, but he cares so much, beneath it all. He tries to hide it, though—poorly. It’s very conflicting, as if he hates and loves the team at the same time.”
“Sounds like any BBC commentator when the England national team is playing,” Sergio says as he saunters to the fridge, catching only the latter part of the conversation.
“Who’s it from?” Karim asks.
“No full name. Just the initials I.C.F.” Ricky checks the back of the letter in case he has missed any vital information. “You think it’s someone important?”
~~
“Yeah, I got your call. Is something the matter?”
“No, not at all. We’re very pleased actually. Five consecutive wins—it’s unheard of in your club’s history.”
“Thank you.”
“Your club was on the brink of bankruptcy, before we poured in our investment. I hope you’re not so pea-brained to have forgotten already.”
“No, I didn’t forget.”
“Wonderful! And now is a good time, perhaps, for your organization to return a favor to ours.”
“What is it?”
“We need you to lose against Barcelona.”
~~
“What’s the matter with you?” The Spaniard says with a touch of concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, or something.”
Karim laughs, his breath nervous and shaky, and his voice unusually high. “I don’t know if I fucked up just now, but—we’re all about to get fucked up. Majorly.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Bwin wants us to throw our next match.” The Frenchman swallows, his back covered in a glaze of nervous sweat.
“They what?” Isco exclaims, eyes widening. “Why?”
“Because we’re doing well—inconceivably well. Everyone’s betting on us to win El Clásico, and if we lose, Bwin will make millions, even billions.”
“So it’s all about money?” The Spaniard sounds disillusioned, devastated.
“I consider myself morally ambiguous at times, I know that, but there’s no way—I’d never—”
“Lose on purpose, betray our fans like that.” Isco wrings his hands uselessly. “That’s insane. I can’t believe they would make us do that!”
“I told them no.” Karim commences with the nervous pacing. “I pissed off some powerful people in there. I don’t know what’s going to happen now—to the club, our team. We just lost our main sponsor.”
“Jesus Christ, fuck them!” Isco rises to his feet. “We’ll figure something out. Find other sponsors.”
“Like who?” Karim doesn’t mean to yell, but it’s hard to contain his anger, frustration, and fear, when the ground has been pulled so suddenly from underneath their feet. “Riccardo Montolivo? Higuaín and his coalition of strippers? Can you imagine having Casino Milan written on your shirt? Or better yet, Rocket to Uranus?”
“Maybe you should sit down.” Isco reaches for his arm, only for the Frenchman to shrug away.
“Fuck—this is so fucked up! I don’t know. Should I have just—listened to them?”
“No!” Isco reacts without sparing a moment's hesitation. “Of course not! You did the right thing.”
“But now, the whole club is—”
“No, Karim, shut up and listen to me.” The Spaniard finally manages to get a hold of Karim’s wrists, urging the Frenchman still. “I don’t know how much of it you really remember, but before your freak head injury, we were a shit team. We were so shit, that we were actually paid because of it, so people can watch us struggle, and point and laugh. And when they finally got tired of us, we thought we were done for, until you got your weird epiphany and turned us into actual contenders. We were nobody. We barely had our dignity. And now that we’re finally—somebody, we’re not about to give up the single most important thing.”
“Our dignity,” Karim repeats, and Isco nods.
“The team will understand. Even Xabi. We can figure something out together.”
“Okay,” Karim says, releasing the breath he had unknowingly held. “Okay, you’re right. Let’s go back and talk it over with the others. Maybe they have ideas to share too.”
Isco mutedly agrees, before joining Karim in their long journey home. Marcelo’s car is in the shop, so the two teammates had traveled to Bwin’s headquarters by bus. They have a mile to walk before reaching the stop, which gives them plenty of time to think and strategize over the unfortunate turn of events. Karim is so engrossed in his discussion with Isco, that he doesn’t notice the black, decidedly nondescript vehicle tailing them until they are a block away from their destination. He divulges just that to Isco, once they are forced to wait at a pedestrian crosswalk.
“You sure they’re really following us?” Isco whispers anxiously to the Frenchman.
“Since we left the place,” Karim insists, “I didn’t think much of it at first, but—there’s no way it’s a coincidence. We’ve been walking for twenty minutes, almost.”
“What do we do?”
Karim looks both ways down the street, only to see a double decker bus, moseying along. They could cross now, if they want to, even without the walk signal.
The Frenchman nudges the Spaniard onto the crosswalk, keeping a solid hand on the smaller male’s back. “Once the bus passes behind us, make a run for it. We should get a few seconds start. And once we reach the next intersection, we split up.”
“Split up?” Isco hesitates, his voice shaky with a different sort of worry.
“They can’t follow us both, so whoever manages to lose them can call the police.” The Frenchman licks at his drying lips. “And in all fairness, it’s probably me, who’s gonna end up caught.”
“Yeah, I don’t doubt that.” Isco rolls his eyes. “Will you be okay?”
Karim chances a look over his shoulder to the passing bus that momentarily conceals them from their trackers. There really isn’t any time to argue about this.
“I don’t know.” The Frenchman answers honestly, before pushing Isco, urging him forward. “Run!”