Chapter Text
Cristiano Ronaldo can jump a height of six feet.
Karim has never been keen on keeping records of the Portuguese’s physical prowess, but he supposes this tidbit is a given, considering Karim is six feet tall, and Cristiano had leapt high enough to knee him in the head.
There really isn’t any point in playing it down; it hurt a lot. The Frenchman saw black and white spots behind his eyelids, as the perfectly clipped pitch of the Bernabéu came crashing towards him. Cris then landing on him didn’t help either.
Karim supposes it’s his own fault for getting in Cristiano’s way, knowing the Portuguese striker would be attacking the far post with reckless, single-minded abandon. But Karim wanted to score too, and he had every right to go for Marcelo’s cross, even if no one ever seems to remember that he’s the center striker. Oh, the woes of playing in the city of kings.
Cris feels pretty lousy for the collision and coddles Karim in his clingy, awkward way, until the Frenchman musters the strength to rise to his feet. The Portuguese continues to fuss over him in apology as they return up field for the goal kick.
Karim can still see tiny, dancing circles every time he blinks, but he doesn’t mention it to anyone throughout the remainder of the match.
~~
Morata, Dani, and the other young Spaniards are making plenty of noise in the dressing room—laughing, and cheering, and making plans to go out in celebration of Jesé’s goal. Everyone has forgotten about Karim’s contribution by this point, but the Frenchman doesn't mind.
He’s a striker, he scores goals. It’s expected of him to score, so it’s no surprise that he did. His stats are impressive for any top-class forward, but it’s hard to shine in a sea of stars. And Karim has accepted that a long time ago, ever since arriving to Madrid at the tender age of 21 and already shadowed by the likes of Cristiano Ronaldo and Kaká—who were new to Madrid just like him but have accomplished so much more in their time.
The Spanish people are overwhelming and passionate, just like their breathless, hot summers. They laugh and cry, sing and shout, love and hate with such vibrancy and freedom that Karim feels like an iceman in comparison—rigid, awkward, lacking in life. He gets his fair share of criticism from the media and the fans when they mistake his quietness for detachment, his caution to lack of concern. But Karim is never one to feign anything beyond what he is, lays out in the open all of his strengths and weaknesses. His teammates like him well enough, but he has never been popular or standout.
Sergio elevates the volume to his flamenco music and promptly begins to sing badly. Karim presses his head against his locker, feeling like shit. Cristiano probably gave him a concussion, so a trip to physio seems imminent.
“Hey man, you okay?” Karim feels a nudge at his knee and opens his eyes to find Isco, freshly showered and clad only in a towel—his large brown eyes shining and filled with concern. Karim wonders why he isn’t frolicking with the rest of the young, new signings.
“Headache,” he mumbles offhandedly, maneuvering to slip his arms through the T-shirt around his neck. He had stopped dressing halfway through, apparently.
“From the collision today?” Isco asks, sitting down beside him, even though his locker is nowhere near. Karim wishes he hadn’t—not that he dislikes Isco—but right now, any sort of sound is grating to his fragile eggshell skull.
“Yeah,” he says, rising to his feet to pull on his jeans. “Gonna go see physio after.”
“I think I’ll come with you.” Isco gets up as well. “I think I picked up an ankle knock.”
Karim tries to remember if Isco even played at all today, before finding it too exhausting. His belt falls on the floor, so he bends down to retrieve it and regrets his decision immediately when his stomach begins to churn, the bitter taste of bile rising to his tongue. His knees buckle as the room around him spins, and Karim grabs onto the closest thing reachable—which happens to be Isco’s towel—in a desperate attempt to regain his balance.
“Ah, Karim, what the hell!” Isco shrieks, and it’s the last thing the Frenchman hears before everything fades to black.