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He's running so fast his lungs are aching. They feel like a giant is squeezing them in its fist. The whole stadium is a blur, even the sounds from the crowd a distorted streak of noise. He throws his hand up when a bright, verdant stretch of pitch opens up in front of him.
"Leo!" he shouts. He hears the pafoomph! of a left foot like a magic wand striking the ball perfectly. He sees the ball come down, catches it on his toe in full stride, and looks up to see the blue and red streak barreling past defenders on his right.
"Jordi!" he hears. He sees the pale raised hand and cuts the ball back instantly.
Everything stops. Except the keeper, who dives. He won't make it. Jordi has seen this a million times.
And then the stands erupt in a chant he's heard his whole life.
"Messi! Messi! Messi!"
Thousands of people bow to him, scream his name into the night sky.
The ball is still spinning in the goal, the keeper screaming at his center half, asking how he missed the run. Not just any run, but that run in particular. The one by that guy. The one guy they'd known to watch out for. "But it's Messi!" the defender shouts back, and it's a pretty good excuse when he puts it that way, Jordi thinks.
Jordi is aware of all his teammates running towards him, but he only sees one of them. He focuses on that bright smile with that single, uneven tooth.
Then Leo is launching himself into Jordi's arms, shouting out "Vamos!"
Jordi catches him, laughs against his wide chest, stumbles a little under his weight — always a little surprising for such a small man. Maybe it's because Leo is mostly just made of muscle, tattoos, and confidence. Those must weigh more, Jordi thinks.
Leo slides down his body back to the pitch, and then the two of them are engulfed in a familiar group hug. It breaks up at last with a few lingering slaps on the ass and back. Masche gives him a big squeeze around the shoulders while Busi gives Luis a high five. Then they're jogging back to position, leaving Leo and Jordi alone for just a brief moment. Just long enough for a harried center back to grab the ball and run it back to the center circle, desperate to get the game started again, to have a chance to score against the great Barcelona.
Jordi and Leo smile at each other, a smile that says without words how surprised they are that this move has worked once more. They hug again and Jordi kisses Leo's neck. The fingers digging into his back feel strong.
This makes it all worthwhile, Jordi realizes. The lung-bursting runs up and down the pitch. The hours and hours and hours practicing his first touch so he can take a ball down better than anyone else. This is why he does it, he thinks. This .
The press keep talking about it. They treat it like it's something new . Jordi scoffs at that. He's known it all along. He's known if for years: he has a connection with Lionel Messi, the best football player in the world. Only now that the Troublemaker is gone, everyone can see it.
Jordi feels a little guilty for his thoughts. He'd liked Neymar at first. He really had. Isn't it funny how things can change , he thinks.
Jordi feels a little smug about it all, like he has held a secret so close to his heart that no one else could have known it was there. But things have changed and Ney is gone, and that secret has rattled free. Perhaps it flew through the air with that perfect cutback to Leo into the eighteen-yard box. It was there on display as Leo rocketed the ball into the back of the net, beyond the outstretched arm of the keeper. And there it had settled, bright and warm from Jordi keeping it inside him for so long. Golden and glowing from his attentions.
Now everyone has seen it, this secret, this connection he has with Leo. How they look for each other on the pitch and, more importantly, how they always find each other.
He's buzzing in the dressing room after the 5-0 thrashing of Celta in the Copa. He keeps finding Leo and hugging him. They're of a height, so they press together perfectly, matching each to each. The memory of his foot connecting with the ball, the bulging of the net, is all still fresh for him. He feels like he could run another ninety minutes.
How Leo got the ball to him is just something only Leo knows. Jordi had wanted to score a goal, to get in on the action, and Leo had made it possible. The thought of that makes Jordi feel like he's the King of Barcelona, if only for today. Leo, of course, will be wanting the title back.
"You found me. How did you find me?" Jordi jokes.
"I owed you one!" Leo says with a goofy smile on his face, his arm still around Jordi, a perfect, welcome weight. Jordi doesn't mention that Leo's idea of giving a ball to him to score is completely unlike anybody else's. If anybody else had tried that pass, it would have bounced through and out for a goal kick. But there's no point in bringing it up — Leo has no idea he's extraordinary.
"Good thing you got those goals today, Leo," Geri is saying. He's long and lanky in the doorway, a hint of cruelty in his eyes, as always. "You two keep doing that, people are going to figure it out. The goals will dry up. We'll be in trouble."
Jordi shrugs. He's too high on this to let Geri bring him down. "They know it's coming already," Jordi argues. "They have to find a way to stop it."
He can feel Leo's eyes on him but can't figure out what his expression means. It's not a smile. It's not a frown. It's Leo, inscrutable as ever. Jordi is about to ask him "What?"
But then Leo is pulled away for more hugs and congratulations — it's Gomes and Busi who are both so big they seem to tower over Leo as they enfold him in their arms. Busi pats Leo on the back hard enough that the sound bounces around the damp locker room. Gomes kisses Leo on the neck and cheek over and over. Then he wanders off again — takes Geri and Busi with him — and for a brief moment, it's just Jordi and Leo again and things are good. This is what Jordi wants. The two of them, sharing the moment they had created. Together.
"You could score more," Leo says.
"I like helping the team," Jordi answers, but he's glowing at Leo's words. He's about to say something — he doesn't know what, exactly, but something , but then Luis pops up and the moment passes.
Luis drapes himself all over Leo and doesn't leave his side for the rest of the celebration. The two whisper and giggle to each other and Luis' hand touches here and there on Leo because Luis has no concept of personal space and Leo doesn't mind.
Jordi looks away. There's a lot to see all around him, anyway. The whole locker room is alive with excitement, everyone dreaming of triumphs yet to come.
Jordi gets that. Feels like something similar has him tonight. Energy and belief.
He drives home with electricity in his veins from the goal and the assists, but when he catches his reflection in the rear-view mirror he is surprised to see that he's frowning.
For the rest of the night, he keeps catching his reflection — in the window, in a mirror in the hall — and he's frowning every time. He keeps thinking of Luis with his hand on Leo's knee, of Ivan stooping down to kiss his cheek slowly.
It's nothing new.
Everyone is a little possessive of Leo. Jordi has never let it bother him, of course. He's studied it, tried to understand it. But, no, he's never let it bother him. Only, today is different.
Today, there's a vague feeling of unrest settled deep in his ribs and he can't tell if it's emptiness, or something unknown as heavy as a stone.
The next day comes and Jordi still feels uneasy. In the dressing room, Leo holds court like a king, sits on his bench, legs splayed and posture lazy. Luis sits right beside him, passing his mate tea back and forth. They sip from the same cup.
Before, Ney used to practically sit on top of Leo. Yes, well. But that was before .
Geri leans against a locker and does most of the talking, even though everyone is looking at Leo. When Leo laughs, they laugh; when he makes a comment, asks a question, makes any sound at all, they all listen. It should be hard for Leo to be heard — he speaks in a mumbling whisper — but the whole locker room gets quiet for him.
Andres has always said that everything is easier when Leo is happy. So, no, this deference is nothing Leo asked for. It's something they give him in hopes that Leo will be happier for it.
Everything is easier when Leo is happy. Most of them have witnessed the sudden, sharp bursts of his temper. Jordi doesn't ever want to see it again. He hopes it's never directed at him ever again, too.
Jordi gets stripped and observes the scene, not really participating or joking around as usual. He's known Leo long enough to know that he sweats when he's nervous, and that being paid attention to makes him nervous. There's some of it there now as everyone is laser-focused on him.
But Leo is complicated, too, Jordi thinks. And some part of Leo does want Luis to stare at him like he's water in a desert; loves it that Marc will make time to come by and greet him, something the stoic keeper doesn't do for anyone else but Rafinha. Leo likes that Denis follows him around like a puppy and that even Geri does what he says.
Leo is always looking for a way to belong.
Jordi has a theory that the reason Leo likes scoring goals so much is that he needs an excuse to hug and be hugged. He likes human contact, he's just not very good at initiating it. He's too shy and awkward for affection to be easy. But he's very good at football, and it's gotten him all the things he's ever wanted.
More than anything, Leo wants to be just like everyone else.
He's still frowning at the tactical meeting for La Real Sociedad away. It's the damn Anoeta and he can't even be bothered to think about the curse, how Barca struggle there. How Barca have lost at Anoeta in the league for ten years.
He sits behind Leo, Luis, and Geri, drumming his pen on the table as they whisper at each other when the staff members aren't looking. He doesn't feel ignored. Not exactly. Those three are inseparable. Last season Ney would have shoved himself into the same space somehow. A season before that and Dani would have been right there, too, dancing in his seat and generally causing chaos and not paying attention.
They're all nice to him, Jordi reasons. They value him. But somehow, he's not a part of that circle and has never known how to force his way into it.
Geri drops his head onto the table with an exaggerated exhale of breath. "Can't we just sacrifice a pig or something? Then perhaps we will win at Anoeta? We do this every season. Every season we lose. I vote for a sacrifice. Voodoo. Anybody else with me? Hmmm?"
Ivan rolls his eyes. Andres says nothing, but gives a look to Masche, who immediately scolds Geri. He doesn't yell, but it works. Jordi has no idea how Masche does it, but he's grateful. He's also grateful that Andres, somehow, is the one with Masche under his thumb.
Geri gets quiet and Jordi lets his mind wander.
What would happen if he moved his seat — perhaps right next to Leo? If he made conversation? If he brought up some childhood memory that neither Luis nor Gomes knew? Something special just between the two of them? Leo would laugh with him about it. Talk to him, and ignore everyone else.
Jordi imagines that, someday soon, Leo will accept what Jordi already knows: one day Luis will leave the club. One day Rakitic and Umtiti will transfer away just like Neymar. But Jordi and Leo have been here from the beginning. They'll be here — together — until the end.
He stays where he's sitting. He always does.
On the pitch, of course, it's different. Especially now that Ney is gone. Now, Jordi can fill up all the spaces Ney used to, can be all the places Leo needs him to be. On the pitch, Leo can't ignore him. On the pitch, Leo needs him.
At the recovery session, Leo looks up, sees him, and angles to ball to him through six defenders over forty yards. Jordi hears Geri curse at the perfection of the pass. Jordi has seen it all before, knew it was going to happen the minute he made the run.
They have a connection.
When they were kids, Jordi and Leo were both too small.
"Too small," all the coaches and physios said, looking them over with concern. It had made Jordi want to scream and snarl. For Leo, the diagnosis was worse, because the bigger kids wanted to kick him. He was quiet and he was strange. But with a football at his feet, he turned into some superhuman monster. His skill, his demeanor, all of it invited violence from his rivals. Leo retaliated by humiliating them even more. He evaded them, made them crash into each other, and fall all over their own feet.
But he was too small. One day, one of the bigger kids would kick him just so , and that would be the end of his career. Leo refused to let fear slow him down. They called him short and frail, yet he kept out-classing everyone like he was possessed.
Jordi retaliated with sass. He had a mouth; he had an attitude problem. And if his mouth got him in trouble, it didn't matter because they couldn't catch him to kick him.
Only…
Jordi was sent away. He ended up at Valencia where his small size was said not to matter so much.
"They play...different football there. You will be fine," said one coach with a sneer in his voice.
Jordi wondered sometimes if his attitude — not his size — was to blame. He was the same height as Leo, after all.
The same height, yes. But, unlike Leo, Jordi remembered the players who went in hard on him, who caught him on the neck and barged him off the ball. While Leo just got back up and scored hat-tricks, Jordi ranted and screamed. Jordi bided his time, and then he kicked back.
Was this why they sent him away?
But Leo, of course, was allowed to stay. Or, rather, he wasn't really allowed to leave as rival teams sent their scouts and money men to try to pry him away. They were all rebuked firmly. His contract became ironclad.
Sometimes, in the tunnel before Valencia and Barca played, Jordi would look over at Leo standing alone, away from everyone — lonely from being so far from his family and friends, from being so different — and it was clear he wanted to go. The club held him so tightly he couldn't wiggle loose.
They'd chat after the game about nothing much at all.
"How are you?"
"Good, good," Leo would say.
"Really?"
"Oh, yes," he would answer. He always looked at Jordi with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It bothered Jordi because he knew they should have more to say to each other — shared memories of childhood, or rejection, of joy and camaraderie. They'd had each other growing up, hadn't they?
Leo worked his way through the levels to the first team where he became the talisman. Jordi watched his progress from afar and missed Barcelona so much it gave him nightmares. So he fought — he fought so hard they couldn't ignore him, ran so fast up and down the wings of the Mestalla that his lungs burned. Yes, he was small. But he was fast and smart, too. They'd regret sending him away. He'd make them regret it.
Even he was surprised when his plan worked.
Like an old girlfriend calling up asking for another chance, Barcelona sent a representative to Valencia to talk to him. They stood on the training pitch and stared out at the groundskeepers painting the lines.
"Don't you miss Barcelona?" the old man asked, rubbing his chin in thought. "It is a great city. You must miss it. Don't you miss your friends? You grew up together, no? Leo, Geri. They all would love to play with you again."
"Leo?" asked Jordi. His heart did some funny little clench at the name.
"Yes, yes. We asked him and he said he misses you. He likes you. Come back. We are building something great. You could be part of it."
In the end, it wasn't even a difficult decision.
It was different coming home to Barcelona versus visiting with Valencia for away games. There was no pre-match tension in his shoulders, just ease and certainty. This was his prize for not giving up. For out-running everyone. For fighting like a madman for a team that hadn't been in his heart at first, but that had a place in it now. He had real affection for Valencia; for the city, the fans, and the club. The rest of his heart, he had to admit, was filled up with Catalonia.
He already had a locker with his name and number emblazoned on it in the beautiful and well-maintained locker room. It made him feel like he was floating on air. A member of the first team. It was all he'd ever wanted.
He walked onto the pristine grass of the Camp Nou, took a deep breath. It was surreal being back. Even more surreal was that the first thing he saw was Leo Messi alone near a corner flag, juggling a ball, and it felt as if nothing had changed at all while he'd been gone. Leo was no taller, no broader, no less pale. They'd played against each other, of course. Been rivals over the long seasons he was away, but this was different. Leo felt like proof that his homecoming was real and permanent. Jordi would never let them send him away again. He'd made up his mind.
"Hey! Leo!" he shouted. Leo looked up, smiled immediately, and shuffled over with the ball under one skinny, pale arm.
"Hey, how are you?"
"Good, you?" Jordi answered, cupping the back of Leo's stringy hair as they hugged. It was too long, draped around his face in an unflattering way. He slouched terribly, seemed to be trying to disappear. They were already calling him the Messiah. He smelled like sweat and grass and made Jordi's mind flood with memories.
They pulled apart and Leo stared at his feet as he spoke.
"Oh, good, good," he said. He kept patting Jordi on the back, then he just let his hand rest on Jordi's shoulder, though his bicep was tense the whole time, not at ease at all. The casual touching was a habit he'd picked up from Ronaldinho. Leo was awkward at it, but he copied everything Dinho did, including overly-affectionate touching. It was almost as if Leo figured it would become natural and comfortable for him if he just kept at it.
His hand was hot on Jordi's shoulder, but Jordi didn't ask him to move it. So he stood there and exchanged small talk with a guy the papers were calling "Better than El Diego."
Yet, it was all so bland, really, the things Leo talked about: Playstation and boots; food and music. Jordi realized that he didn't have a real frame of reference for what Leo talked about from day to day because Leo hadn't actually spoken much when they were kids. And now that he did talk, it was about the most mundane things.
It seemed as if Dinho had helped Leo come out of his shell. The surprise for Jordi was that Leo hadn't been hiding some egomaniac under all the blushes and softly spoken words. The shy, awkward kid hadn't changed at all, he just talked a little more.
At that moment, with Leo's hand burning a hole through his shirt, sweaty and heavy, Jordi understood that the best player on earth, the very reason he'd come back to Barcelona, was so normal he was almost dull.
They joined a few staff members on the pitch and kicked the ball around. It was a quiet afternoon, no reason for either of them to still be training when training was officially over. But Leo shrugged and said he had nothing to do when he went home, anyway, so he didn't mind training.
All of Leo's supernatural skill was still there as they kicked the ball back and forth. Leo didn't even seem that interested, but he took the ball down with soft, assured touches, and then sent it back with pinpoint perfection wherever he aimed. He juggled the ball almost aimlessly, didn't seem to care that he made it look easy. Suddenly he said, "Hey, watch this."
He quickly launched the ball straight up into the air, let it come down, and then on the volley, smashed it with his boot laces. It zoomed straight as an arrow into a small training net over forty yards away. The ball made the net bulge with such force, Jordi imagined it could just keep going, burn through the strings and never be found again.
Leo hadn't even looked at the net before taking the shot. The trainers all clapped. One of them jogged up and gave Leo a high five. He ducked his head and laughed like a child. From beneath his unflattering haircut, he peeked at Jordi, who was holding his head in his hands with his mouth hanging open.
"Wanna try?" Leo asked. A trainer threw a new ball at him and he plucked it from the air easily.
"Ah, yes," Jordi said. He felt like he'd been tricked by a magician.
Leo the man, it seemed, wasn't very special at all. Leo the footballer, however, was so special he made impossible things look normal.
"What am I doing here?" Jordi said softly to himself, still gaping at Leo.
A trainer laughed and slapped him on the back. "Ah, this is normal. We thought you were used to it? He was always like this, wasn't he?"
"I...think he's gotten better," Jordi admitted.
"Oh, yes, yes," the trainer agreed. "But we say that every day. Tomorrow, he'll probably do it blindfolded."
The trainer didn't smile and Jordi realized he probably wasn't even joking. He caught the ball when Leo threw it to him, juggled it a little, launched it into the air, and tried to hit the target on the volley. It whizzed wide and bobbled to a stop.
"Oh, not bad. Try again," said Leo, throwing him another ball.
Masche tells everyone to put their cameras away after the win at Anoeta. He never yells, but he is always very clear with his tone.
"We aren't going to celebrate every win like this," he scolds. "We are Barcelona. We don't have to brag."
Jordi is disappointed. He has in his mouth a taste like rotten fruit from all the years of being embarrassed by this crap team at this crap stadium with their crap fans. He wants to post pictures everywhere to show everyone that this is their year and no curse can stop them from winning everything.
But then Leo is agreeing. "They're small," he says with a shrug of his big shoulders. "We showed everyone today that they are small. We don't need a picture to prove it."
As if Masche hadn't already been enough to stop the gloating group photo, Leo is more than enough. All the phones are put away and the celebration becomes more subdued. Not a single picture of the locker room celebrations are posted on Instagram, and Leo hadn't even raised his voice.
They joke and laugh in the shower, singing loudly the dirtier versions of Barca songs.
"Salute the champions, you bastards in Madrid!" Jordi cheers, grabs Leo — all wet and soapy — and spins him around like he had at Leo's wedding when they had been drunk and warm and unaware that the whole world was about to shake and fall apart around them. He'd plucked Leo right out of Antonella's arms, put his hands on his waist and twirled him like he was the bride and Jordi the proud husband.
He'd seen Kun do the same; seen Neymar do worse by folding Leo in arms and swaying with him. But Jordi had decided that it was his turn to dance with Leo. His turn at last.
He dances with him again now, in the shower with all the boys calling out to them.
"Hey, hey, get a room!" shouts Geri.
Leo is red already from the heat of the shower, but Jordi can tell some of it is a blush of embarrassment.
He ducks under Jordi's arm and away, but he's smiling and the sight of that crooked, bright smile makes Jordi's heart ache in his chest. It's that same familiar clench from back then, looking at the groundskeepers in Valencia. Leo gives him a playful shove and then slides back under the shower.
"You're going down to the second division!" he joins in when Geri starts up another bawdy chant.
Jordi leaves with everyone else feeling refreshed and hopeful. And back in Barcelona, tired from the trip, even watching Luis climb into Leo's car doesn't take away the joy he feels. Leo doesn't wave at him as he drives away. He never does, but Jordi isn't bothered.
Fresh in his mind is how Leo looked only at him in the shower, spinning around on the wet tile, with their arms around each other.
On the plane to London, Leo plays a game on a tablet with Luis. He doesn't talk much to anyone else. Jordi understands the whole Latin connection the two have. Leo had it with Dani and Ney, too. But what Jordi can't understand is why Leo puts up with Luis otherwise. Their personalities couldn't be any more different. Luis is loud and cruel and arrogant. His confidence is almost a sickness it's so all-consuming. Jordi believes, wholeheartedly, that if Luis had to kill someone to score a goal, he'd do it without hesitation. In fact, Jordi has no proof that Luis hasn't, at some point, killed someone to score a goal.
Knowing Liverpool, Jordi wouldn't put it past them to have covered up a murder or two.
Jordi watches Leo during the warm-up. He hadn't been here for the famous Stamford Bridge match, Andres waving his shirt in the air wildly, flinging himself into Leo's arms. Even still, he can feel the age of the stadium, the history pressing down on him from the stands.
Even with the pressure of Champions League football, warm up is the same as always: Leo doesn't talk much. He goes through his routine just listening to Luis and Geri who are loud enough to hear even from where Jordi is, stretching beside Sergi and Ivan. Sometimes Leo will comment or smile, but it's rare, like rain in the desert. He's like Andres, Jordi notes.
It's hard to tell who has had a bigger impact on Leo: Andres with his stoicism and humility, or Ronaldinho with his big smile, his joy for life. Leo seems wedged between the two places — wanting both to speak softly, to live quietly, and also to dance and sing and scream. He usually needs a drink of two to make the singing and dancing happen, to let his friends and teammates twirl him around the dance floor. He burns bright at those times and Jordi feels like he can see who Leo could be if he let himself be free.
But it's the two quiet men, Leo and Andres, who get them the away goal against Chelsea. It's history repeating as they hug after the goal. Jordi feels like he's part of something now, can always tell his children he was there that day, to see these two combine to break hearts in London. The Chelsea fans are jeering them all around, and Jordi can't even hear them over the sound of Leo screaming, "Vamos!" and Andres screaming it right back.
He gets a front row seat once again to the Jekyll and Hyde of Leo Messi. He'd been quiet from kick-off. Hadn't even spoken in the locker room at halftime. Now he's screaming his throat raw, hugging everyone. He hugs Jordi hard enough Jordi feels like he can't breathe. But he does breathe, buries his face in Leo's neck and squeezes back.
Leo talks more on the plane back to Barcelona, invites Jordi to come play the game with him and Luis. Luis scoots over in his seat to make room for Jordi, leans over him, pointing at the screen to explain the rules in his gravel-soft voice.
"This move, it is illegal, see? But this is allowed. Most points wins."
Jordi nods. He feels lulled a little by the buzz of the plane, the laughter of his team all around him.
"Ah, and Luis cheats," Leo mumbles and this causes a loud protest from Luis that Jordi doesn't buy at all. There's playful shoving and Geri is hollering at them from the front of the plane that Luis always cheats, so why is anyone surprised?
Leo doesn't blink much as they play. He has the same focused look on his face he gets on the pitch during a match, cold and calculating. He's ruthless, and cunning, and a sore loser, though he rarely loses. Jordi doesn't mind being on the receiving end of a beating right now. He's enjoying this.
Maybe he's been just like Leo all along, wanting to belong, but not knowing how. He feels secure, somehow, like everything has been building up to this moment. Hadn't Ney been sitting here just a year ago, playing this game with Leo and Luis and shouting loudly that he wasn't cheating and that Leo was cruel for not easing up sometimes? Hadn't Ney been draped over Leo, reaching over him to make his move, Leo smiling childishly at it all?
And now Ney is gone and Leo's shoulder is brushing Jordi's as they lean into the aisle over the tablet that Sergi is holding.
"Oh, good move," Leo compliments him without looking at him, still not blinking. He takes a drink of Luis' tea absentmindedly, hands it back to him, and then Jordi stops breathing. Leo turns his head, and looks at him. The smile reaches his eyes.
Everything is so far away from that day at the Camp Nou, watching Leo whip balls into space with impossible accuracy. Leo has aged. He's not that shy boy staring at his shoes as he talks. Lines crinkle around his dark brown eyes when he smiles. His beard has grey in it. And Jordi has aged, too. He no longer thinks Leo is only extraordinary on the pitch, running at defenders with a ball at his feet. He knows better now. He must have been a fool to think it before.
But nothing's really so different either. Jordi feels a little overwhelmed trying to reason it all out. Maybe it's just as simple as neither one of them being boys anymore.
"Have you played this before?" Leo asks him. Jordi has won. Isn't sure how.
"Ah, no. First time."
"I see. You learn quickly. Let's play again."
Sergi starts a new game, and Jordi isn't crazy, he's sure it happens: Leo leans, ever so slightly, closer to him.
"This time, I will win," Luis tells him with his chest puffed out.
"By cheating?" he jokes and when Leo laughs, his breath ghosts across Jordi's ear, soft as a lover's touch.
When Neymar comes to town to visit — again , Jordi thinks with a roll of his eyes — he's truly not pleased to see him. Leo, however, either decides to have a party for him on his own, or gets bullied into having a party for him. Jordi isn't sure which is true. He's seen Leo cave to Neymar in the past. And Ney just expects to have his own way, anyway. He's still selfish , Jordi thinks.
Jordi and Ney hadn't kept in touch. Why would they? And while Luis and Leo still talk to him so frequently it's like he never left, Jordi had been quite happy never to see him again. Ney's still in their group chat, but Jordi just ignores him most of the time. It's easier.
Ney had taken up a lot of space. On and off the pitch.
Jordi remembers the controversy, when cameras caught him during a match, shouting at Ney to "Stop being so selfish!" The fallout had been enormous. The papers had talked about the crisis in the dressing room. They hadn't been completely wrong, had they?
It had become clear at that point that Neymar had felt too big for the club, too big to be second fiddle to Leo. Some fans had whistled him and he had seethed for days. He saw them adore Leo, bow to him and chant his name even when he did something basic, like track back to put in a tackle. But Neymar could run after players all day, defend on one end and run back to create chances at the other, and it never made a difference. Somehow, they didn't love him. He cursed and screamed about it in the locker room. He threw water bottles and demanded to know why .
Why didn't the Camp Nou faithful love him like they loved Leo? Jordi had looked at him that day — the day of Neymar's terrible meltdown — and felt disgust bubble up in his throat. Neymar's eyes and been sharp with anger, his jaw rigid, like some wild part of him had been unleashed. Jordi had turned away to the faces of his teammates and seen his same feeling mirrored back. Even Ivan, who was usually as calm and neutral as Switzerland, had looked exasperated.
Masche, of course, had been the one to put an end to it, but the tension had never dissipated. Ney hadn't been one of them after that moment.
Jordi thinks now that it had been the beginning of the end. Leo had gotten married that summer; Neymar had negotiated a move away to PSG in secret during the reception; and the whole club had fallen apart. Jordi doesn't know why they're celebrating having him in town now. It rubs him the wrong way. What kind of man plots and schemes something this big at his best friend's wedding? Jordi had several choice words for a man like that.
The party is at Leo's house. Nobody has security like Leo — nowhere near as good — and he has acres of space, having purchased all the surrounding houses which stand empty, ready to be used by visiting guests as needed.
"I didn't like the noise," Leo had explained matter-of-factly when Dani had pressed him on the truth of the tabloid story one day. "My neighbors were loud."
The story, it turned out, was true. On a Saturday morning after he'd finally had enough, Leo had sent his lawyers over with explicit instructions: the former homeowners could name their price, so long as they went away immediately. What Leo was left with was an enormous estate of beautiful, empty houses and silence. The silence was all he had wanted, he reiterated.
Even Luis, who lives closest to Leo, still has to walk past three mansions just to be on Leo's property. Getting to the door is another matter entirely.
So what better place for a party than Leo's enormous estate? His kids are visiting family, the wives and girlfriends all decide to have a girls night out, and so it's just the guys hanging out and cutting loose. There's beer and wine, but Masche is on patrol and they all know they can't drink too much.
It's Ney who suggests FIFA, and so the controllers appear and teams are selected. Luis and Ney end up on one team with Busi and Geri. Jordi is on a team with Leo, Denis, and Ivan. And god, but they're winning. Ivan's not very good, but Leo is phenomenal at this game. Jordi just plays like he plays in real life and passes the ball to Messi and Denis does just about the same. The strategy seems to work. The little video game Messi gets the ball on the edge of the area, dribbles around two defenders, rolls the ball onto his left foot and takes the shot. The keeper dives and tumbles and the video game fans erupt with cheers.
"Oh, we win!" Ivan screams. Ney shoves him and calls him a name.
"You play so badly!" he criticizes. "You don't know the controls!"
"But we won!" Ivan counters. "Champions! Champions!" he chants. Denis and Jordi join him and jump around, arms swinging. What Jordi enjoys most is the smile on Ney's face. It's the one he wears when he's pretending to be happy, not the one he wears when he's genuinely happy. Jordi doesn't know why, but he can always tell the difference. So he sings louder, "Champions! Champions!"
Neymar's smile could crack his face into shards.
Leo looks on and laughs, then clearly gets bored with the silliness and slips away to the kitchen. Jordi follows and the two of them nibble on snacks and idly talk about football.
It's one of the things Leo will always talk about. He dodges personal questions like they're daggers, but football is a safe, comfortable topic for him.
As they talk, Leo's gaze drifts back to Ney on the couch, vainly trying to find people interested in playing another round for a rematch. When there are no takers, he calls into the kitchen, "Leo, Leo! Hey! Come back. We need another person!"
Leo doesn't answer, just waves his hand, as if swatting away a fly. Ney gives up and Leo looks back at Jordi.
"It's different now," he says.
It's such a strange thing for Leo to say that Jordi doesn't know how to respond at first. Finally he says, "Yes. Well. We've all moved on."
Jordi worries that he's overstepped — Leo loves Ney, everyone knows that — but Leo shakes his head in agreement.
"He hasn't," is all he says. Then they're silent for a moment. Leo reverts to type momentarily, stares at his shoes, then seems to remember himself and meets Jordi's eyes. There's sadness and resignation and Jordi doesn't know what else in his eyes.
They change subjects then. Talk about restaurants and Leo's kids. People drift in from time to time, grab a beer or a handful of chips. Eventually Ney comes by and wedges himself between Jordi and Leo, drapes an arm over Leo's shoulder and leans into him. He talks about the nightlife in Paris in a voice that teeters between squeaky and shrill. Leo listens, asks a question from time to time, but otherwise doesn't much seem to care.
Neymar puts his arms on Leo's shoulder, then leans his head on his arms. A blade of grass couldn't have fit between their bodies.
Jordi grabs a grape and eats it with more aggression than is strictly necessary.
Ney whispers something to Leo, covers his mouth like it's a match and the cameras are recording.
Jordi grabs another beer. He grabs another after that.
Throughout the night, Ney finds ways to touch Leo, to hang onto him, to poke him in the ribs when he's laughing, his white teeth flashing.
Something about Ney makes Jordi feel like he has some beast inside him, scratching at his skin just below the surface. He doesn't like seeing Ney drape himself all over Leo. Doesn't like how he acts as if he has some claim to him.
Jordi has another beer. Maybe three. He's not sure. He feels pretty lucky because somehow his drunkenness slips past Masche's radar. It might be because Masche spends part of the night in the corner on the phone to his wife, too busy being a lovesick fool to notice Jordi kind of wilting like a flower in the fall.
It gets quite late.
Jordi is just steady enough to be aware of people leaving. All of them are fine to drive; all of them had let Masche lord over them and limit how much they drank. Jordi is gloomy enough to think really unkind things about every last one of them.
He loses himself for a minute, sees the edges of his vision go blurry like a camera out of focus. When they sharpen again, Neymar has his arms around Leo, this time he is cupping the back of his head, his fingers buried in the strands of his hair.
"You'll come to dinner?" he is asking, right against Leo's ear. They're standing in the front door, their embrace blocking people trying to leave.
"Always with the hugging!" Geri is complaining. "Where is Luis, isn't he supposed to be in this? The famous MSN always hugging! Blocking the door!"
Neymar breaks the hug long enough to shove Geri and then darts away to hide behind Leo when Geri lunges at him. Jordi has to bite his tongue to keep from saying what he wants to say, how Ney always hides behind Leo. Luis pops up suddenly, gets Neymar in a headlock and drags him away. Through it all, Leo has this serene expression on his face, as if he's so used to these two clowns that their antics can't reach him anymore.
He closes the door with a very soft exhale of relief. The house is eerily quiet now, just the fading sounds of cars driving the long path back out of Leo's estate. Leo rubs at the back of his head, seems a little lost.
Then he looks over at Jordi, who is sitting on the arm of the sofa, feeling like his feet are in concrete.
"Ah, you're still here. Look at you!" he says and comes just in time to put a steady hand on Jordi's shoulder.
"How many did you have?" Leo asks.
"I dunno. More than...more?"
Leo's hand is the only thing keeping Jordi upright. Or maybe Leo just has the world on his shoulders, like the media says he has the team on his shoulders, holding them up when they slip. Jordi's mind is all over the place.
Leo glances at the clock.
"It's late. But...do you want to sober up and try to go home later?"
"No," Jordi says. Going home sounds awful. He knows that his frown will be back, haunting him in his reflection all over his house.
"Okay. You can stay here," Leo says. "Sleep it off."
Leo says people have to crash here all the time, that he has plenty of rooms Jordi can use. A whole house he can use if he wants. The idea of trying to make it to one of the adjacent mansions on legs made of cooked spaghetti is not a pleasant one. Jordi is kind of slipping sideways on the couch, feeling all at once giddy and miserable. He keeps remembering Neymar holding Leo, Neymar's leg brushing against Leo's on the couch.
"Here is good," Jordi manages. "Wanna stay here." His stomach lurches from side to side.
"Fine. Fine. Here, give me your arm." There's some awkward fumbling, but then Leo has him. Leo is holding him. Jordi enjoys this more than is appropriate. He knows that, but still indulges in the sensations.
Leo's very sober and that's infuriating. Since he doesn't have to drive anywhere, he could have had the common decency to get as wasted as Jordi. But, no! He's rock solid, helping Jordi to a bedroom down the hall.
"My dad stays here sometimes," he explains. "He likes the view out the window."
There's nothing but dark and shadows out the window now, and it's all kind of wavering before Jordi's eyes, but Leo keeps him steady, helps him stumble to the bed. He leans against a bedpost and considers Leo.
His beard is clean and short, but his hair flops over his forehead. It's too long and it shines in the sparse light there is. His t-shirt is rumpled, his jeans distressed by fashion, not by actual wear and tear.
He has dimples that show when he smiles just so . Jordi's heart is racing against itself, faster and faster, like it's speeding closer to Leo.
Jordi wobbles towards him. "Leo..." he says, but whatever he was going to add gets lodged in his throat when Leo's hands come to his shoulders to hold him steady.
"You really are wasted," Leo says. "I can help with your shoes."
But Jordi doesn't want to think about shoes. He taps Leo on the shoulder to get his attention a few times when Leo tries to make him sit down. He's not really in control of his hand so it flops around a bit before settling. Leo's shoulder is strong and warm against his palm.
He leaves his hand there and thinks of Leo shuffling over to meet him all those years ago, staring at his shoes and talking about nonsense. It's all connected threads in his mind, this moment and that one, him and Leo, the goals, the hugs; dancing together in the shower; dancing together at Leo's wedding.
What does he think about Leo Messi?
Well.
He's a ridiculous, tiny man with nothing to say, who lets Neymar touch him all the time; lets Neymar boss things in his house and ruin his wedding. He doesn't make eye-contact during conversations and he mumbles about nonsense.
"Nonsense," Jordi slurs.
"No, really. Here, sit down. I'll get the light once you aren't about to fall over. Then we can take your shoes off."
Jordi shakes his head. Leo isn't listening to him.
"You talk about nonsense," Jordi tries again.
"Okay," Leo agrees with an appeasing smile, and there are the dimples.
Jordi feels his palm touch Leo's cheek, isn't aware that he must have been responsible for the motion. He must have made his hand lift; must have made his thumb brush Leo's ear; made his fingers curve around his jaw. He feels like a puppet, just being pulled and jerked into these positions by an unseen puppet master. Leo's beard is scratchy on his palm. Jordi can just make out uncertainty in Leo's eyes, but it's too dark to know for sure that uncertainty is what it is. He's too drunk to figure out why Leo doesn't slap his hand away.
Jordi is glad he doesn't, whatever the reason. He's sure he can feel it — their connection — flowing from his fingertips to Leo's cool, pale skin.
"It's real," Jordi says. He's aware that he's not making sense, but he doesn't know how to fix it. Leo raises an eyebrow at him, a very pointed question of "Huh?" from him, but only to someone who has known him since he was a kid.
And there's no good explanation, so Jordi stops trying.
He's never kissed a man. And never a friend. Never a teammate. There's a lot to focus on since his senses are dull and slow from alcohol. Leo tastes like the chocolate he snuck when Masche wasn't looking. He's a sloppy kisser, once he decides to kiss Jordi back. Jordi kind of likes it, how Leo doesn't seem to know what to do with his lips or his tongue.
Jordi figures he has little chance of teaching Leo anything new. He has two kids and another on the way; if he doesn't know how to kiss by now, it's probably too late. Instead, he enjoys the abandon of it, the heat and the moisture, the wet thickness of Leo's tongue moving messily against his.
Leo knows what he likes to do with his hands, however. They drop to Jordi's ass, squeeze, and pull him closer. They're both getting hard and they align just right. The coaches had said they were too small to play, hadn't they? But they'd been wrong.
Leo's hands are strong, just like all of him, and he's massaging Jordi's ass, digging his fingers in hard. Jordi's hands stay on Leo's face, holding him close for more kisses.
They break for air, rest their foreheads together. The soft strands of Leo's hair tickles along Jordi's eyebrows.
"Good," Jordi states.
Leo doesn't say anything, which isn't really surprising. Jordi supposes he can talk enough for both of them.
"Can you stay with me?" he asks.
Their eyes have adjusted now, so Leo looks around the room as if considering the possibility of spending the night with a friend he's just kissed. If he thinks it's strange that his dad sleeps here sometimes and he's about to sleep with Jordi in the same bed, he doesn't say.
"Uh, yeah," Leo says after a moment of thinking. "I won't go to get Anto until around lunch time. You want me to sleep here?"
"Yes," Jordi says then adds, "please," just in case he sounded rude.
Leo kicks off his shoes, helps Jordi settle onto the edge of the bed, and then does go to get the light. It makes Jordi's eyes smart and he hisses just once. Leo smiles and says "Sorry" very softly.
Then he is pulling Jordi's shoes off and setting them very neatly beside his own. He shuffles back to the switch, plunges the room back into darkness with a flick of his hand.
They both start stripping off their jeans at the edge of the bed. Leo wears these expensive boxer briefs and Jordi is wearing a pair of briefs that feel a little tight after kissing Leo. They've seen each other naked every week since they were kids. It's not unusual seeing Leo in much less than this, but it's thrilling right now in the dark to be partially nude with Jordi's mouth still tingling from the kiss.
It's a high bed and they're neither one of them tall, so there's an awkward bit of stumbling and knocking into each other as they climb onto the blankets. Finally they're on their sides face to face. Jordi looks at Leo, lifts a hand, and gently touches his cheek, lets his thumb ghost over his high cheekbone. It's the one that was broken when he was a teenager. Leo says it never hurt very much, but Leo's tolerance for pain is very high.
All the tattoos, all the broken bones. He's always acted like they were never very much pain to him at all. He's never been normal, Jordi thinks.
Leo doesn't touch Jordi's cheek in return. Instead, he cups his neck, a warm, comforting presence. He leans in, kisses Jordi again, and this time it's certain and confident. Jordi feels a little thrill. He'd judged him too quickly. Leo can kiss just fine.
Just fine. More than fine.
Jordi pulls back, strokes Leo's beard a few times. It prompts Leo to ask, "Should I shave it?"
Jordi shakes his head. "No. Yes. Doesn't matter. You're always you."
If Leo is confused by the drunken answer, he doesn't say. "Can you sleep?" he asks instead.
"Yeah," Jordi says. "You?"
"Yeah," Leo mumbles.
It's familiar, Leo mumbling, Leo being shy. It makes Jordi smile. "Goodnight," he says.
If Leo says it back, Jordi is already asleep and doesn't hear it, dreaming of the grass of the Camp Nou. Of Leo by the corner flag, waving at him, face clean-shaven, and hair too long in the breeze.