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El Capitán de Los Blancos Sergio Ramos let the door of his locker close with a shut, not even flinching anymore as it reverberated around the room. He flung the shoes over his shoulder by the laces and paused in a half-turn, offered whatever was bothering him a little time (and mind you, there was a lot going on in the head of Sergio Ramos) and kept walking. If there was one pointless thing to do as a footballer it was overthinking. It's not a movie, it's not a book — whatever's happened has happened because it was football.
And just this comparison to books and movies, or better say not-reality, made him think more about what made him pause back there. This was exactly what he was doing right now: overthinking. But there was no harm in the current thoughts since no one could or would ever give him an eloquent explanation for them, as it stands.
Vanja Bosnić in Julen Lopetegui's stead. Sergio was far from a sexist, but having a woman manage a men's team was provocative in itself, to say the least. He didn't know if he should be worried about her as a woman on her own, or them as a team being a target of the new type of bullying. Whatever the case, he agreed with Luka; that woman scared the filling out of his donut. He was sure that, if she were his wife, Sergio wouldn't dare lift a finger without her permission.
But who was he to be judgemental.
He was just glad Lopetegui was a fair distance away from Valdebebas, as he should be
(hospitalized. Institutionalized. Loco. Non compos mentis)
and now Real Madrid has their renewed chance. The road to victory didn't matter, as long as it was sealed. Open chances were all that mattered to them as a team.
Oh, there was so much that Sergio Ramos García didn't know.
If he did, he maybe wouldn't have thought all that.
Or he would've ended up as Lopetegui's roommate.
Isco hated fall for more than just unpredictability of the new season's start. He didn't even mind the collective summer mood drop; man learns to deal with it better the older he is. But there was always this gust of cold front at some point between September and October that no meteorology department could predict, and if anyone knew the worst weak spot of the dribble-loving Spaniard, it was cold. He was subservient to the chills like a branch to the ruthless Croatian north wind (how did Lukita call it again... 'bura'?). It was holding him in absolute necessity of the long sleeves, capable of creeping into his bones before he even crossed the doorstep, and the fact was driving him insane just like the blind guy was agitated at the fact that he was deprived of one sense.
The entire team mocking him for wearing gloves, extra leggings, and a beanie under 15 degrees was completely unfair. And today was one of those days.
„Hello, Mr. Alarcon."
Isco jumped like having been shoved a poker up his ass away from the source of a juvenile voice whose owner didn't seem particularly impressed. He stared at the young boy sipping on a plastic cup's straw like he was an abomination, hands drawn to himself as if dreading the infection. Ah. Lukita's boy... erm... what was it...
„Uh... Ivano, right?"
„Much more original than Isco Jr., don't you think?"
Isco gibbered a mouthful of incomprehensible syllables, but the small boy waved off his hand like he was the one dismissing an insult.
„Don't worry. It's just a matter of taste. He'll get used to it", he shrugged.
Isco just stared. After what he heard (and saw) happened in Sevilla, he was surprised to see one of Modrić kids on the training campgrounds. He was sure he wasn't the only one feeling more than a little freaked out in their vicinity.
He was still supposed to rest, but the medic pros insisted he was okay with training in order to avoid full-body atrophy, just not real-ass games. The stitches weren't safe to get removed yet and every additional strain meant more risk for his health. Though he had to admit, he did miss juggling the ball among his feet. But he was called on the phone. And, oddly, not by Lopetegui.
„You're cold."
It sounded like a question, but it certainly wasn't. Galvanized back to reality, Isco regarded the young intruder again, who managed to get him flabbergasted yet again when he bluntly dropped the cup on the floor; despite the cold, whatever beverage inside now splattered over the grass was still steaming by some unspoken miracle. Then, without further hesitation, leaving the Spaniard shell-shocked yet again, Ivano stepped up to wrap his arms around his slim waist firmly. Kept in place in his new prison, Isco could only lean away as much.
„What- what are you doing?"
„I'm warming you up."
„That's... nice of you. Why?"
„You are cold, aren't you?"
„I... suppose?"
„Then you're welcome."
Isco marveled at how something this small could just shut down any possibility for a further conversing thread. He was about to reprimand the spawn of the maestro and tell him thank you, but no thank you, I heard enough stories about your oddly-perspicacious little self to be mildly concerned when— oh. Oh.
The Spaniard's eyes nearly disappeared to the back of his skull as something only felt in one particular climax similarly tickled the tips of his nerves and made his spine tremble; it initiated susurration at the pit of his stomach that kept bubbling up his abdomen and down his hips and then into his limbs. As it kept spreading, Isco realized, with unconcealed pleasure, that it was indeed warmth. A real, unbelievable, peculiarly corporeal warmth. It plundered at the cold that still threatened to nibble him to the bone and not-so-politely told it to sod off. It was a bliss he hadn't counted on today but had no hesitation to welcome it with open arms. Just as his subliminal unawareness made his arms lift up automatically to embrace the child back, Ivano stepped back just as abruptly as he had dove in and stood there as if he had just walked over.
„There we go. All better", he said like a particularly passive architect admiring his fifty meters tall tower of cards. Leaving Isco blinking rapidly at another loss of words, and leaving the mess on the grass behind him, too, Ivano proceeded past him more casually than any boy his age should. The words that were meant to come up the midfielder's throat were stopped by a realization that even though Modrić's eldest child had left, the same warmth still prevailed in unchanged quantity.
„Don't worry about him", said another, higher-pitched voice. ˮHe's always like that."
What is with these kids and catching him off guard? Isco rounded again and spotted the remaining two Modrić kids with the toddler's chubby little hand in Ema's left. While Ema was dressed properly, in a thicker vest and pants, he hadn't noticed Ivano being as meticulous. Sofia was sporting adorable little shoes that were tiny enough to fit on a single palm and a small Real Madrid zip-up hoodie. Truly daddy's biggest supporter. She was prying Isco open with her curious gaze, wobbling a little on her still-insecure feet.
„What do you mean?" Regarding Ivano's astutely insulting his son, or general weirdness?
„Better be careful, Mr. Isco", Ema dodged the question while slowly proceeding, Sofia following in short, skippy strides. When the older girl passed him by, she patted his hip twice, one that sported the post-operation stitches. ˮWarm up well before doing anything. You don't want to pull something out there. Daddy always says so."
Isco only stood there in front of the compound like an ultimate dumbass and wonder where had all his cognitive brain cells walked off to. And while he did, replaying the scenes in his head over and over, he came to realize that the dull, pulsating pain under his side which he always felt post-op, was now completely gone. All of a sudden, no warning. No cause. No game. Dumbfounded, he jumped on his right foot a couple of times and did a few quick squats, only to have it confirmed.
He realized something else as well: on impulse, he bent over to collect Ivano's cup which he'd carelessly left when his hands found nothing but empty air. Ground, that is.
Flabbergasted, he comically looked at where his fingers were grabbing at only to find it true. There was nothing on the grass, the only evidence of his mind not playing games being drink stains. He looked over at the girls. Was Ema holding that plastic cup before?
Isco rubbed his eyes. For a second he considered running away screaming and never coming back, but remembered there were duties to be done and that this team won't save itself. He wouldn't be of particular use anywhere else, especially from behind the bars of a loony bin, so he shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, repressed everything that's happened in the past five minutes to the deepest depths of his brain and ran over to Asensio who was already warming up. In the meantime, he noticed how any movement he did was way easier to perform than this morning.
Gareth tried not to choke on his own breath while he jogged on, speculating what brought him to where he was now and which steps could be taken in favor of its further avoidance. Having Luka run by his side somewhat consoled him, even as he had to squint at the way they all ran for an hour nonstop already and hyperventilating like fish on dry, and he was just barely getting sweaty.
It was a known fact for African-Americans to have a tougher metabolism, but when Marcelo joined the former-Tottenham duo, his sweat-factory worked just as diligently as Gareth's, not to mention the respiratory system.
„Tell me something- and be honest with me", he panted over Gareth who was impersonating the taller candle in the middle. ˮIs she making you do this every day? 'cause I'll admit all my faults to you right now, dude."
Luka didn't take his eyes off the ground before him. ˮBelieve me, what she's doing to me out of all your ranges can't even be half comprehensible to your fuzzy head, and pray it stays that way."
I can hear you, you know.
Sorry, draga.
A sharp whistle from the center of the field. ˮCome on, ladies, move it!"
Gareth had to admit, among all oddities he's faced in shorter time he would've liked, casting a quick glance in the voice's direction, that Vanja Bosnić looked her own kind of menacing. Expressed among the shadows of the morning sun (whose idea was for the training to be rescheduled half in the morning and half in the afternoon?!), her stance alone looked far more qualified and dedicated than their former short-lasting coach did. One hand on her hip, the other holding the whistle, she was squinting at the trainees just in case someone decides to skulk, a professional bun holding her hair in the air.
When the laps were officially over and the whistle filled the terrain, the guys let out an almost simultaneous moan of relief and Karim and Ceballos fell on the floor. Carvajal leaned on Thibaut who nearly fell over himself, even as he was one-third taller than the Spaniard. Most of them leaned over on their knees, trying to survive and remember how breathing felt like. Only Vinicius seemed pumped enough to run a dozen more laps, earning himself a couple of envious sideway glances.
From the benches aside, Ivano and Ema clapped half-enthused, and Sofia followed with a bit more clumsiness involved.
The entire sight made Vanja shake her head, a tad of remorse in her hazel eyes. ˮSome shape you claim to have. Sofia can outstrip you for ten circles and she's in diapers."
„With all due respect, ma'am", Marcelo politely raised a hand, even as he personally knew her more than well, ˮit's a really rare occasion where we train this early in the morning."
Vanja carefully calculated her next step. ˮOkay, do you think it makes any difference?"
„Well... yes."
„So having a decent training at 7 a.m. is more difficult than playing a real game at 10 p.m.?“
„Well... no, not really, but...“ Marcelo hesitated.
„You either agree, or you just admitted you're not a morning person.“
„Um...“
„There you go“, she turned to the whole team, majestic like alpha wolf's mate when he's not around. ˮWhatever you did with Lopetegui is none of my business. If you think you are capable football players, you'll gain a new habit pretty quickly. The sooner you make yourself adjust to the new regime, the easier it will be for you. I say ''make yourself'' because no one is going to do it for you, the least of all, me. I'm just here to re-direct you. If you wanna start scoring, if you wanna start giving impressions that you actually give a shit about what you do, you will suffer a bit first."
„That was low", Sese grumbled.
A whistle. ˮFifty push-ups, Sergio."
„But—"
„Did I stutter?"
There was a moment of intense eye-battle at which culmination Sergio visibly flinched, then got to do as he was told without question, and while most were left bedazzled at this alarmingly quick agreement from their captain's side, Luka was the only one looking awkward when the rest of them got to stretching.
Ljubavi... do you think you got a bit way into it?
Do you want a round too, Luka?
„Should we give her a hand?" Ema asked watching as the stretching exercises were drawing to a close.
Ivano nibbled on the straw. Their mama yelled at the players some more and provided them with another dose of motivational comparisons (ˮYou have a stick up your ass, Marco? Then move it!" ˮDo you need a guide dog to keep you walking, Dani?") before separating them in two groups for El Rondo drill with other assistant coaches.
„Nah, she's fine. She and papa got this."
„Then why did we have to go to Mr. Lopetegui's house? Mama could've made him change his mind way faster than everything we had to do. And erase his memory."
„It was only practical", Ivano concluded. ˮIf she did it, she would've been busted. 'Sides, who's gonna believe three kids with superpowers?"
Ema quirked a smile. ˮI love the way your mind works, brother."
„Got it from mama, I guess."
After a while the drill eventually wrapped up and papa and his teammates ran to the benches to fetch neon vests for whichever team will be the opposing one. However, Ceballos proved to be a bit defiant; while the rest jogged back to the middle, he was dragging his feet. He could use a little shove. Mama didn't even have to ask. Ivano's eyes gave an odd shine, and he held out his fore and middle finger together. Out of them emerged a small, but bright flame and shot out in the direction of Ceballos' butt. It was just a pinch, practically harmless, but the midfielder yelped nevertheless and gripped his behind, his feet carrying him forth past all the other players.
Ivano leaned back in his seat, munching on the straw again. ˮThen again", he speculated while Ema played with an empty cup, levitating it around its axis, ˮno harm in more motivation."
„D'you think mama would let us do the coaching one time?" she asked.
The only brother of the siblings looked at her quizzically. ˮWe can ask her. And then we have to come up with the plan", Ivano smirked, poking his temple with the unchewed end of the green straw. ˮOperation 'Blackening The Whites' on the roll."
„They're gonna be begging to get mama back", Ema agreed, smiling wickedly.
„Well, after Sevilla, I wouldn't be surprised if they just headed for the hills the moment we walk in with a whistle. Even Rapha maybe." He looked down to his left. ˮWhat do you think, squirt?"
„Papa go nyooom!"
„Right you are."
Sofia was in that age where no people could resist her. Literally.
Nacho happened to be the one caught in the crossfire.
He managed to dig out some of the leftover energy even as the training was done, and Keylor had to carry Ceballos off the pitch on his back. He looked around and spotted Luka near one goal, bent over in waist and talking to Ivano. Vanja was over near the benches with Ema, stuffing something in her rucksack. Ema looked sideways, to where her brother was preparing to shoot, at least seventy meters away. It could've just been Nacho's swung, exhausted mind, but when Ivano launched the ball, and it flew in a nice curve, inevitable in its trajectory to shake the net, on the other side of the pitch Ema made a barely visible hand gesture at the same time.
Nacho blinked as the ball stripped down its pants and showed the net its butt with a tattoo ''Jesus is coming, look busy'' on display and, led by some invisible force, curved only just enough to brush the right frame and fly harmlessly past it. While Nacho's mind fumbled with the ancient scrolls of common sense to justify what he just saw, Ivano turned to where his sister was standing with an outraged and seemingly insulted look on his face. ˮHey!"
Rather than bellowing back at this unrelated unfairness, Ema shrugged, apologetical. And rather than reprimanding his son of false accusations, Luka crossed his arms and shook his head at his middle child in mild displeasure as well as amusement.
It made Nacho wonder how many of ''accidentally missed balls'' into Croatian nets were there on the World Cup.
Wanting a sight that made more sense, Nacho turned away to the other goal where he spotted Varane and about seven times smaller figure, passing the ball. He smiled at the sight, and the inner part of him who insisted on justified enjoyment time made him run over faster than his tired body could complain.
The occasions where Raphaël grinned from ear to ear weren't infrequent but were still bizarre to see, and Nacho didn't have to overthink himself to know the reason. Or, rather, see it.
Rapha was mindful to give her as light balls as possible, but Sofia nevertheless kept returning it with fearless determination. It would harmlessly roll on the ground and get stopped by the Frenchman's secure foot. If he'd shoot it a tad too far, the toddler wouldn't hesitate to chase after it, take it in her chubby hands and run back to throw it to the defender. Why is it that the world always gets to see bad news instead of this beauty?
„Having fun?" Nacho asked upon approaching.
„More than you", Varane chuckled in return.
The youngest Modrić marveled at the intruder. ˮ'Acho!"
This was something the Spaniard would remember for a long time. He grinned, high-tenning the blonde while dipping into a crouch.
„Look at you, beautiful", he said, taking a gentle hold of her hands and shaking them up and down slightly. ˮAnybody told you you have daddy's eyes?"
„And an accurate leg", Varane chuckled, amused. ˮYou should see her shoot. She could illegally sign up for any club in the world and beat all the guys there in the bat of an eyelash."
Nacho gasped theatrically, making the toddler giggle. ˮHear that, princess? Ain't that a compliment to swoon at? Now, I'm not a man who's easily convinced, so you're gonna have to prove him right. Hey, you wanna do a penalty on uncle Rapha's goal?"
Rapha snorted but didn't protest when Sofia clapped enthusiastically and he retreated backward under the goal frame. Nacho rolled the ball over in the meantime close enough that he could spit into the net, but it was only expected. What they surely couldn't expect was what happened next, and if Luka or Vanja, or Ivano and Ema were there they would warn them to place the ball at least on the other side of the pitch if they valued their lives. Or they wouldn't, considering they'd surely only get snorts of disbelief and 'yeah, right'-s.
„Right, ready?" Nacho backed away to have a broader view over what he presumed would be the obvious scene.
Raphaël lifted his arms and pursed his lips mock-confidently. ˮAlright, kid. Give me your best shot. Shoot as hard as you can."
'Literally' was 'amen' for the kids. Sofia took a two-step run-up on her tiny feet and kicked the ball. Instead of rolling over the grass where Varane would spread his legs in just the convenient moment for the ball to go through them and drop to the ground in defeat, his little theatre show was long behind schedule.
The ball met the defender's forehead at the speed of 156 km/h, an information he was better off not knowing. Had it been his nose, he would've lost it in his skull. Now Raphaël barely mustered a proper 'ugh!' before sprawling on the ground motionless. All under the matter of a second.
Nacho stiffened. The sounds of a joyous toddler filled his ears but weren't registered while he stared at the unconscious defender. There was a bulge already rising where the ball had hit him, and he would presumably gain a new, hideous nickname come tomorrow. The only thing moving seemed to (thankfully) be his lungs.
Nacho looked around, realizing Ivano and his father were dueling on the other side and besides them and Vanja and Ema chatting, there was no one else. Of course there was nobody there. Not even the media. Something bumped into his shins and he looked down. Sofia had her chubby arms wrapped as far as they could go around Nacho's legs, head tipped back, and her eyes spoke the unspoken. Nacho automatically picked her up and held her out an elbow's length like a stray lab experiment. He looked around again.
„Um... nobody saw this", he concluded.
Sofia giggled again, then got the bright idea to hook her thumbs in the corners of Nacho's mouth and stretch them upward. The Spaniard's frown didn't look well with the fake smile, but it only made the toddler laugh more, so in the end, Nacho's clement nature broke the surface and made him grin along widely. He brought her close and dipped his head forward before he could stop himself, rubbing his nose against the baby's.
In the spirit of the game, she reached out to squeeze it, so Nacho suffered a substantial amount of pain and cried out to underline it. While his eyes teared up a little under the neural defense and he tried to remember any information that said toddlers possessed an unconscious amount of latent strength, Sofia patted his sore spot, this time with gentle fingers.
„'Acho owie?" she asked in a voice so soft that Nacho nearly teared up again.
He gulped, watching those huge eyes, Luka's eyes. He mustered a nod. ˮYes. Nacho owie."
„Well, I'm happy to see someone's receiving therapy after this armageddon", a familiar voice joined them and Sofia turned her head with a smile of recognition, Nacho instantly forgotten. ˮPapa!"
„Bucka moja mala", Luka grinned, and the Spaniard surrendered over the fervently-reaching-out kid. ˮThank you for being such a considerate babysitter, Nacho. 'Fraid you're not getting a payout this time around, though."
Fernandez only remembered to smile awkwardly, rubbing his chin while observing his fallen comrade. ˮRapha even bigger owie", he mumbled.
„What was that?" Luka asked.
„Nothing."
„What's up with him?" the Croat nodded at Rapha, a bit alarmed.
Nacho blinked, noted he'd been doing it awfully lot lately and rubbed his nose. ˮHe- uh... fell asleep."
„On the grass?"
„Yeah, why, you never slept on the grass? Time you lived, dude!"
Sofia waved at the unconscious Frenchman. ˮ'Afa sleep."
Luka squinted. First at her, then at the downed Raphaël, then at Nacho.
„Hold up. What's going on, man?"
Nacho mouthed, then considered. ˮYou know, I could ask you the same thing, Lukita. I know toddlers aren't capable of launching the ball with more power than even Cristiano's thighs can produce."
Luka pouted and if Nacho's eyes served him right, looked uncomfortable for a split second, but the glimmer was already gone.
„Rubbish. How can a toddler possibly kick an accurate ball, Nacho? That's impossible."
He stood his ground for a few moments. Then the Spaniard found himself actually buying it quicker than he liked, and he looked back at Rapha who didn't have any intention of moving, diving into the same kind of brainstorming Varane cracked his skull open with after Sevilla. Sofia played with her papa's necklace.
„You wanna crash after the shower?" Luka asked after a prolonged silence.
Nacho shrugged. ˮSure."
They left with the toddler preaching in gibberish among them. Rapha only gained back consciousness when the night had fallen and since nobody checked if anybody had left behind, they locked him in, so the poor Frenchman had to sleep in the compound foyer where they found him half-slid off of one of the couches in the morning.