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Iker thinks of home and it's Sara. Sara with her long legs and dreamy eyes and brown hair, singing a song to Martin on her lap. Sara with her finicky make up routine and the creams she dabs on her cheekbones with the tips of her fingers, and her careful regard at her own face in the mirror. Sara and her smile, her throaty voice and no nonsense attitude when she's working. Her private laugh, loud and endearingly obnoxious, the way she giggled at his nervous jokes when they first met. Sara, and how she always bought apples from a street vendor instead of the supermarket, because he'd once said they tasted fresher, like condensed memories from childhood.
-
Iker thinks of home and it's- the Bernabeu, of course. It's saying to his firstborn son, Martin, this is my home. Its 24 years with the crest on his chest like a second heart, the crown above the letters that spelled out every dream he's ever had. Real Madrid. The crown he feels like a weight and a blessing by turns, although always, always a privilege. Kings of Europe. It's giving every thing he has and a few he never knew he had, giving too much, giving not enough, every time he hits the ground curled around the ball, chest aching. It's the name they gave him and the price they've put on his head. San Iker.
It's also the years spent in doubt, the cold bench and the misunderstandings. It's the cold, insidious thought that went against everything he was, reminder of his mortality like a dripping tap he can't turn off. You are not good enough, any longer.
-
Iker thinks of home because he's 34, and thats not really old for a goalkeeper, just ask Gigi, who's still playing at 37 and possibly always will, who still sees Iker as the tousle haired kid he was 10 years ago. Iker thinks of home and how he's never left home to grow up but rather grew up in to one, a home bigger than he'd ever thought. He's 34 today and he's standing across the street from the Bernabeu, thinking that he should start counting his blessings now, while he still had them.
He texts Sergio, in the end. It is the beginning of summer and the trees are lush and dappled, some sort of glory in the way they flanked together like a line of green soldiers guarding the entrance to the stadium. Iker feels a breeze on his face and the trees all sigh and shake their leaves above him. 34. A number that made very little sense to him, still. He gets two messages in a row, one from Sergio which said on my way, one from Sara which was just a picture of Martin with a party hat on.
Iker smiles.
-
“Iker?” Sergio says, “Why did you want to meet?”
Iker shrugs his shoulders. They're sitting on the curb together, looking at the Bernabeu. The leaves threw dappled shade on Sergio's face.
A pause, and Iker says, “I realised I have to leave, sometime. Sometime soon.” And looks at Sergio, wry and self deprecatingly like, can you believe it, I've just made the connection. Sergio only frowns at Iker, and says, “I thought you were staying till your contract ran out. 2 years more.”
Iker shrugs again. He doesn't explain the weight because Sergio felt it as well as anyone, both the armband and the crest, the expectations of ten million people and the condemnation of a few hundred who whistled and booed his name like he was the worst sort of traitor.
Sergio says, “Iker.” Iker turns to look at him. It's strange how in all his thoughts of home he's never thought of this, although it was always there. It runs like a current through all his memories. Sergio runs like a current through his memories, underneath everything he remembers and loves.
“Sergio.” Iker says, imitating his tone and starting to smile, hoping it jostles the uneasy expression off Sergio's face.
Sergio puts a hand to Iker's jaw, serious. He says, “Stop thinking, Iker. Let's go home, friend.”
Iker looks at him, the face he's known so long and so well it could be his own, and he shakes his head. He thinks of every kiss they've shared before matches, quick and fast like crossing yourself in church before a prayer, every kiss different and the same. He thinks that he has this- after all, through victory and defeat, accolades and vilifications, nothing could take this. White that can never stained with shame. Love that can never be stained with shame.
Sergio says, “Let's go home, Iker.” He leans in and kisses Iker like a plea, close mouthed and chaste.
Iker smiles when he pulls away. Sergio starts grinning, although he looked slightly confused, and he asks, “What?” but Iker just drags him closer, buries his face in Sergio's neck. He breaths him in, thinks about everything the man in his arms was- Sergio like sunlight on grass fields, the way the pitch in the Bernabeau blocks in to sun and shade on clear days, a hundred thousand voices singing Hala, Hala, Como no te voy a querer?
Iker leans back and looks at him, about to explain even though he didn't know how to, that he was home already , he was home because- but Sergio looked like he knew anyway. He says, “Iker-”, smiling very wide now, but Iker just kisses him, and he makes this one last.