Chapter Text
Nobody had thought much of it when Sergio had called them all together for a team gathering. Meetings between the players were regularly scheduled. Granted, it was usually their coach or one of his assistants who would take the lead. But when Sergio walked over to the door and shoved it shut, members of the managerial staff were conspicuously absent.
Marcelo glanced around. There were two rows of chairs placed opposite each other. One of them had already been occupied when he had sauntered into the room. He had spotted Sergio and Casemiro exchanging notes over some sheet of paper the Spaniard had been gripping tightly. Its crumpled state had obviously served as a source of discontent from Casemiro. Their squabbling had been carefully ignored by Rapha and Karim talking quietly to each other, their French litany being drowned out by Dani who had been noisily devouring an apple, crunching away next to the silent and unmoving figure of Keylor.
Mildly disturbed at the scene but not quite interested enough to raise any questions, Marcelo had plopped down on an empty chair next to Toni who had graced him with a shy smile before resuming his stare-off with the floor. The rest had trailed in after the Brazilian in short succession, with Lucas and Nacho following behind Isco and Marco. Gareth was the last to slip inside, shaking his head about something Luka had said before steering towards the remaining free seats. That was when Sergio looked up, taken a visible head count, frowned, and counted the free chairs. When that number had, after a while, amounted to exactly zero, he had sprung up and made off towards the door. And here they were, Marcelo thought dimly, tapping his wrist with an absent finger. He found himself wishing for a watch, because the way their captain puffed up suggested the start of a rather long and self-important announcement.
“People” Sergio began, clapping his hands together. “We´re here because-…”
“Hang on” Nacho interrupted him anxiously, “is this about that meeting the coach promised us last week? I don´t have a pen on me and I wanted to take notes-…”
“Oh yeah, me too. I still don´t get how that whole Nations League thing´s supposed to work anyway-…” Marco added, ducking when Sergio stared him down.
“This is not about the Nations League. Whatever that is. No, this is about a matter that I´ve been ignoring for far too long. I´ll be-… what?”
Lucas had raised a hesitant hand. “How long is this gonna take? Only I´ve got an appointment with my barber at four-…”
“You´re staying as long as it takes” bellowed his captain, huffing when Keylor took his shoulder in a stabilising grip. “I´ve-… we´ve prepared a couple of talking points. Don´t get your hopes up, though, talking is only the first step.”
“Dude.” Marcelo threw up his hands. “Could you be more specific? Right now would be a good time.”
“I will have silence, thank you very much.” Sergio glared at him in order to restore submission from his vice-captain, and Marcelo settled back down with a roll of his eyes that might as well have acquainted him with the back of his head.
“You-…” Sergio´s gaze swivelled over the row of his colleagues in front of him, accusation weighing heavy on his address, “… are a disgrace.”
“Uh, Sergio-…” Karim tried to butt in, but Sergio was undeterred.
“A bunch of spineless, snivelling babies is what you are.”
“Are you, um, would you-…” The captain brushed him off, and Karim gave up, sinking sullenly into his seat.
“You´re the saddest excuse for a group of sickening cowards that´s ever dared to crawl into my sight. You wouldn´t steal candy from a toddler if it had hit you over the head with its saliva-coated lollipop. Twice!”
“Are you saying you would-…” Marcelo began, only to be cut off ruthlessly by his friend once more.
“It´s a fucking metaphor, man.”
“Sergio” Luka spoke up, “not that I don´t appreciate the vote of confidence, but what´s the idea here, exactly?”
“The idea”, Sergio spat, “is that you´re all too soft for your own good. Don´t think I didn´t hear you apologise to that Villareal player last week. For fuck´s sake, you helped him up, too!” This was spoken with a particularly disgusted sort of reverence, like the kind you used to refer to an electrocuted handyman´s crispy back or an especially persistent stepmother.
“I did knock him over, if you recall-…”
Sergio´s outraged finger sped towards Gareth who was owlishly blinking at its receiving end. “And you! Why, I distinctly remember you getting up after that very same player fouled you just outside the penalty box!”
“… So…”
“So” the Spaniard imitated him condescendingly, “that could´ve been our road to even greater success! Heck, I could´ve scored from that position, let alone Toni! Didn´t you see him aching for the opportunity?"
“Hang on” the German protested weakly, “I didn´t-…”
“That´s right. You didn´t.” Sergio had worked himself up to the point of spittle coating the floor between the row of chairs in a spray pattern of furious expulsion. “You didn´t even manage to stay down after that tackle from What´s-his-name. They were allowed to play on and we nearly conceded a goal.”
“Alright, I think we get it…”
“Do you? Do you get it? Because what I don´t get is, Marco, why you went into that challenge with Who-the-fuck-cares and he got past you! No stepping on his shoe laces, no elbow in his guts, not even a good old hook behind the knee, you just had to let him get the better of you!”
“Alright, Sese, very good. I´ll take over.” Casemiro wedged himself between the seething man and the wide-eyed recipients of his righteous rant. They slumped in relief when Sergio stepped down, only to jolt back upright when the Brazilian roared: “Right! You may be a pathetic bunch of losers, but we´ll get you in shape!”
“Is it too late to remember that I left my oven on?” Marcelo whispered towards Toni who coughed to mask his snort, gulping when Casemiro´s attention leapt at him.
“What? Anything you wanna say, fraco?”
Toni quickly shook his head, and Casemiro frowned in a decidedly disappointed way.
“You just failed the first test, man. Okay, that´s it, we´ll start you off with a short Theory of Thrashings, followed by a discourse on Ranting at the Referee, Dani´s gonna set you up with the basics of Fouls ain´t Felonies, and if we don´t get results by then we´ll cover Playing for Time afterwards.”
With a flourish, Casemiro gestured to the side where, hitherto unnoticed by his teammates, a blackboard proudly displayed the curriculum in huge chalky letters. Someone had, in scraggly handwriting that looked suspiciously like Sergio´s, added a cheery rhyme beneath.
Yellow card – Smashing start!
Once you´re set: Don´t get red.
Marcelo closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh.
“Now! What do we do if the ref pats his pocket for a card? Nacho?” Sergio was aflame, gesticulating as he interrupted his lecture for an interrogatory round.
The young player twitched as he was dragged from his listless daze, twisting his hands in despair. “Could… could you repeat that?”
“… Toni?”
“What?”
“Same question.”
“Uh. Reach up for the skies in outrage.”
“That´s right. How´d you know?”
“You said it about a minute ago.”
“I did? I mean, I did. Yeah! That way, you-… yes, Toni?”
“That way, the referee will think twice before penalising us again because he can never be completely sure of his decisions on the pitch. A very interesting explanation, I thought.”
“… Correct” the Spaniard admitted grudgingly. “You are a good listener, Kroos. You´re also a damned suck-up. We´ll work on that.” Toni, who had begun to preen, deflated again in a heap of gel-combed straw-scalped misery.
Isco´s frown did not go unnoticed. Sergio´s eyes swooped down on the unexpected participant, and Marcelo watched his digit stab the air repeatedly.
“Yes! You, stubbly!”
“Isn´t that a way to get punished even more?” The group held their collective breath as Isco formulated his criticism of Sergio´s instructions. “If there´s one thing refs hate it´s overt complaining. We really shouldn´t act angry if a card´s already on its way-…”
“Lemme tell you something, bendy legs.” Sergio stepped in front of him, looming over his Spanish compatriot. “I´ve been in this business for a long time, and I´ve had a lot of time to work this out. Besides, out of the two of us, who would you say is the resident expert on cards, huh? Huh? I thought so.”
Bulldozed by Sergio´s unwavering confidence and not quite able to work out the flaws in his argumentation, Isco snapped his mouth shut.
“Alright. Gareth!”
“Yes!”
“You´re running towards the goal, but the enemy tackles you. How do you react?”
“… I… I might… um-…”
“Louder, man! I can´t hear you over your stuttering!”
“I m-might, I mean, I will stay down, holding my ankle and rolling around in agony!”
“Exactly! Not real agony, obviously, that would defeat the purpose of this exercise. The point is, if it doesn´t get you a free kick, you´re free to get a kick in yourself.”
Keylor cleared his throat, and Sergio amended, “as long as you don´t seriously injure anybody. Don´t go overboard! Minor injuries are fine though-… okay, okay, jeez, Keylor. No injuries. Speaking of which… who´s up for the practical part?”
The usual public grounds were out of the question. It was all too accessible for any unsuspecting media personnel stumbling upon what Marcelo had despondently begun to think of as their Cheat Charade, and even Sergio was unwilling to risk that kind of publicity leaking out. Bereft of other options, they retreated into the exercise department of their training facility.
Casemiro delegated the tasks of clearing the area and hauling forward some cushions of questionable provenance with relish. When he was finally satisfied with their set-up, he stepped up and gestured towards Rapha who joined him with his usual implacable expression.
“Alright, you lot better pay attention. Right temple! Left temple! Nasal bone, always a good spot. Here´s the larynx, this is where the oesophagus is most vulnerable and this-…” Casemiro droned on, indicating the mentioned physiognomic features on Raphaël whose face remained the epitome of serenity. Marcelo´s quick look around revealed that Nacho was dozing off again, Marco and Isco were engaged in a vicious thumb war behind their backs and Lucas was cheering them on silently. Gareth was actually paying attention, as was Luka, although he was watching the display with a displeased squint over folded arms. Only Toni managed to look mildly fascinated.
“-… aaand toes! Can´t forget about them, hurts like a bitch if even one of them gets squashed. Okay! Who´d like to volunteer?”
The group froze in unison, and silence swept through the great hall in a deafening roar.
Luka shifted next to Marcelo, and the Brazilian´s arm shot out to discourage his friend from what he already saw coming, but Luka swerved around the approaching hand.
“For what?” he asked, staring at Casemiro when the man brightened up.
“I´m glad you asked. Step forward, dude, we don´t have all day. Actually, we do, but let´s not be finicky.”
The Croatian took up the spot in front of Raphaël warily, eyeing Casemiro who was standing beside the tall Frenchman.
“Repeat to me what you remember.” Casemiro watched like a hawk as Luka haltingly pointed towards several target spots on Rapha´s immovable figure. “Alright, forget about the rest for now. What´s this one?”
“Solar plexus.”
“Yes. Now-… Rapha, do you mind-… right. Now, point to the same spot, but on me.”
Luka jabbed a finger into his chest, prompting Casemiro to huff in surprise. “There.”
“Great. Now hit me.”
“… What.”
Marcelo rubbed at his ears and then his eyes for good measure when his compatriot repeated the request.
“I´m not going to hit you” Luka insisted, stepping back when Casemiro scowled at him.
“Too bad, wimp. We´ll toughen you up whether you want it or not. Now, this? This is for getting you used to physical challenges.” When Luka shook his head, Casemiro snapped his fingers. “Come on. You don´t have to cripple me or anything. How about a good shove for starters, hm?”
“Actually, can I-…” Nacho began, but Isco shushed him, eyes fixated on the entertaining display of Casemiro trying to convince somebody to lay a hand on him.
“That´s not-…” Luka began, but Casemiro jerked forward, and Luka´s hands shot up reflexively to push the midfielder away. The instant his fingers came into contact with Casemiro´s chest the man crumpled up, grasping at his ribs with a pitiful groan. Luka stared at his writhing colleague, hands frozen in an awkward stretch in front of him, before realisation struck. His kick found its mark this time, and even Casemiro would have found his ensuing grunt hard to fake.
The Brazilian pushed himself off Luka´s angry foot, finishing a flawless three-part roll and springing up, miraculously intact.
“Everybody got that?” he asked, smugly passing Sergio who was nodding at him with approval on his way to the blackboard. While the others were distracted, Dani had pasted a poster over its smooth green surface. It was divided into two sections, one of which was crowned with a picture of a twinkly-toothed Sergio grinning into the camera with a raised thumb. The other half bore the likeness of – Marcelo felt a flash of indignation – his national teammate Neymar in mid-roll.
He turned to give Sergio a good earful, just about catching the man wiping a proud tear from his eye.
“Guys” Dani called out, “you better write this down-…”
“On what?” Nacho mumbled sulkily.
“…-because this is important. What Casemiro just demonstrated is alright in some situations. It´ll get you a whistle in most cases. Current estimations range between seventy and eighty percent – shout-out to Sergio for his meticulous statistical compilations – but you cannot, I repeat, cannot go down every time. For further demonstrations of why this is a bad idea, I will show you this video, starring this guy-…” He pointed towards the twisted man next to Sergio´s beaming face on the blackboard. “We´ll watch it together and compare notes afterwards, and then comes the fun part.” His smile gained a diabolical edge.
“Implementation.”