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Cristiano has told Ricardo before that he had a serious heart problem when he was young, but he had said it casually, breezily, and then explained how he had surgery when he was fifteen and it was all okay after that.
Ricardo himself had suffered an enormous ordeal when he was eighteen and thought that he would never walk again, but the panic he felt then is nothing compared to what he feels now, as he watches Cristiano go down after a tackle, convulse for a second, before suddenly going limp, limbs falling lax, head lolling listlessly to the side.
There is something seriously, horribly wrong. Cristiano has never reacted like that after a tackle before; nobody reacts like that after a tackle. Ricardo feels like all the breath’s been pushed painfully out of his lungs and he can’t breathe, he can’t do anything except stare at Cristiano with fear pulsing within him like a second heartbeat.
“Cris.” Sergio is rushing to Cristiano’s side instantly, eyes wide and fearful, while Ricardo is completely paralyzed, wide eyes tracing over Cristiano’s immobile, lifeless body.
The referee kneels down besides Cristiano and pushes him over so that he’s lying flat on his back, starts pressing down rhythmically on Cristiano’s chest, and Ricardo notices in some tiny, rational corner of his mind that he’s performing CPR.
“Oh my God, what’s wrong?” Mesut’s eyes are wide and terrified.
“What’s the matter with him?” Gonzalo hisses, pushing aside the opponents so that a circle of white shirts surround Cristiano, like a wall of guardians.
“He’s not breathing,” Xabi says, voice deadly quiet, and it’s like a fist of ice grips Ricardo’s heart.
Ricardo feels like he can’t breathe either, feels cold dread wash over him like icy tides as he watches the medical personnel rush onto the pitch, carrying a stretcher and what looks like a tank of oxygen.
“Cris.” Sergio is staring at Cristiano with an expression of despair, his usually warm eyes dark and despondent. Ricardo remembers suddenly that Sergio’s friend had died of a heart attack. “Cristiano Ronaldo, you’d better wake up, do you hear me? You’d better get up right now!”
Cristiano shows no sign that he’s going to wake up anytime soon. He looks pale and terrifyingly lifeless, as if with every second that he’s lying there on the grass, the life is draining out of him.
Ricardo doesn’t realize he’s moved until he’s suddenly on his knees by Cristiano’s side, the medical personnel having moved to accommodate him. He brushes his fingers over Cristiano’s cheek, which is still warm, and whispers like a prayer, “Please, please wake up. Please.”
And amazingly, astonishingly, he sees Cristiano’s eyelashes flutter, as if he’s responding to Ricardo’s plea even in unconsciousness. But then the movement ceases and Cristiano doesn’t open his eyes and Ricardo’s heart plummets all the way into the pit of his stomach, his insides filing with ice and fear and a terrible blankness.
They stretch Cristiano off the pitch, and Ricardo feels absolutely sick with worry, watching helplessly as the man he loves is taken away with no guarantee of whether he’ll be okay or not.
“He’ll be fine,” Sergio says, face still pale, putting his arm around Ricardo’s shoulder.
“How do you know?” Ricardo whispers.
“Because he’s Cris,” Sergio says, determination filling his tone, “and he’s a fighter. He won’t go down easily like that.”
Ricardo doesn’t say anything. He knows Cris is strong, is brave, is a fighter, like Sergio said, but he also knows that those things don’t matter when it comes to fighting against your own body.
Ricardo stares after the stretcher, at the glimpse of white – the only part of Cristiano that he can see – as it’s carried down the tunnel. He barely knows how he’s still standing there, face relatively composed. Ricardo’s body is screaming at him to run after the stretcher, run after Cristiano, and stay there by his side until he wakes up.
If he wakes up, Ricardo corrects himself numbly.
The referee blows his whistle and holds up his arm. He says something to them that Ricardo completely misses because his mind is full of Cristiano, how vibrant Cristiano looked moments before he collapsed, how he had been running with no signs of strain, complexion healthy, eyes bright.
And how he had looked on that stretcher: pale, still, lifeless.
Ricardo doesn’t realize that he’s started to run towards the tunnel until he feels Sergio holding him back, arms tight around his middle.
“Let them do their job, Ricky,” Sergio says softly.
“You always tell us – have faith,” Marcelo adds, expression more serious than Ricardo’s ever seen it. “Now, it’s our turn to tell you.”
Ricardo, for the first time in his life, feels absolutely no faith. Normally he would be praying, would be pleading to God to help Cristiano, to save him, but he can’t stomach the thought of that now. It was God who did this, who gave Cristiano a weak heart, who made this happen, and Ricardo almost wants to sink to his knees and cry at the heavens, “Why? Why did you do this to him? To me?”
Instead, he, like the eighty thousand people in the stadium, looks towards the tunnel, and despite himself, prays fervently that Cristiano will be all right.
The tunnel is utter chaos. There are people swarming everywhere, bumping into each other, pushing and tugging and crowding. Ricardo has no idea where Cristiano could be, and he doesn’t see a single face that seems to know the answer.
He sees the club doctor after a few minutes, and after some pleading and demanding, he finds out where Cristiano most likely is. The way is blocked, however, by grim-faced people who adamantly refuse him entrance.
“He’s my best friend!” Ricardo bursts out. “I need to see him!”
“Don’t we all,” the taller man, whose biceps are the size of Ricardo’s legs, says.
Ricardo glares at the man, wondering if he could break down the door. “Please. Cristiano is – I need to see him. I need to. Can you at least tell me if he’s okay?”
The shorter man, fair-haired and milky-skinned, looks at him with softer eyes. “He’s receiving treatment right now,” he says in a gentle voice. “You can see him in a bit, but not now.”
“But he’s okay?” Ricardo presses. “He’s not – he’s—”
“He’s alive, as far as we know.” The taller one shrugs, and Ricardo exhales so loudly in relief that the whole corridor seems to echo with it. He braces an arm against the wall, feels as though his knees might give out on him.
“Hey,” the blonde one suddenly says, sounding almost shy. “Can I – can I have your autograph?”
Ricardo blinks at him, completely surprised, and he gives the same reply he always gives to people who ask him for autographs, for pictures, when he can help it. “Sure.”
After a while – it feels like an eternity to Ricardo, but he figures that it’s probably been around twenty minutes – a doctor comes out of the room, face grim.
“Is he—?” Ricardo swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing.
“He’s alive.” The doctor nods. “And well. I believe he’ll make a full recovery.”
Ricardo almost sinks to his knees right then and there. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you so much.”
The doctor smiles slightly, eyes kind. “You’re welcome, Mr. Leite.” Ricardo doesn’t ask how the doctor knows his name. “In fact, Mr. Ronaldo is waking up. You can see him, if you want.”
“Really?” Ricardo can’t believe his ears. “I can – I can see him?”
“Yes.” The doctor inclines his head. “Go right on in.”
Ricardo can’t believe his luck, but he isn’t going to question it. He wants to see Cristiano so badly that his body is almost shaking. “Oh, and Mr. Leite?” the doctor adds as Ricardo’s hand closes on the doorknob.
“Yes?” Ricardo asks, polite, patient, although he’s almost bursting inside.
“You were amazing against Ajax last weekend,” the doctor says earnestly. “My family and I were there.”
“Thank you,” Ricardo says, trying to give a smile but failing. He understands though, the doctor’s leniency with him. “Cristiano was amazing in that match.”
“Yes,” the doctor replies, something flashing in his eyes, pity perhaps, or sympathy. Ricardo doesn’t want to think too much about it. “He was great.”
“And he still is,” Ricardo says, “and he’ll be even greater, once he recovers from this.” Without waiting for a response or looking at the doctor’s expression, he sweeps into the room.
When Ricardo goes into the room, Cristiano and Mourinho are shooing away the last of the reporters.
“I’m fine,” Cristiano insists. “Well, at least I will be if you stop bothering me with questions.”
“He’s a sick man,” Mourinho deadpans, expression grave – then again, he always looks like that. “Now, please, give Cristiano some space.”
“Yes, give Cristiano some space,” Cristiano says, eyes wide, and the media people laugh.
They finally start to file out – after bombarding Cristiano with some more questions and trying to ignore Mourinho’s death glare – and some of them do a double take when they see Ricardo.
“Ah, there you are, Kaká,” Mourinho says loudly. “Did you find my phone? I have some important calls to make.”
Ricardo blinks. “Yes,” he says, reaching into his pocket. “I have it right here.” The media, seemingly disappointed that they just lost a ripe potential story, finally leave.
“I’m sorry, míster,” Ricardo says. “I just – I had to see him.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Mourinho says, his eyes uncharacteristically soft. “Just make sure you score some goals, okay?”
“I will,” Ricardo says, eyes flickering to Cristiano, who’s looking at Ricardo like Christmas and his birthday just came early. “I promise.”
“Good,” Mourinho says briskly. “Now, I really do have some calls to make. Don’t take too long with Cristiano. He needs his rest.” He pats Cristiano on the shoulder, grip firm, and gives Ricardo a nod, before heading towards the door.
Ricardo can hardly believe it, can hardly believe what Mourinho is giving them. “Míster?” he calls, their manager having one hand on the doorknob already.
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” Ricardo says, all quiet sincerity, and a shadow seems to fall in Mourinho’s eyes.
“Ricardo,” he says, his voice kinder than Ricardo’s ever heard it. “Things in life don’t always turn out the way we want, and when that happens, we just have to deal with it and take life as it comes. Remember that.”
Ricardo looks at Cristiano, who’s examining his nails with a look of utter boredom, and says quietly, “I don’t believe in being pessimistic. I believe in hoping for the best.”
“Ah,” Mourinho says. “You’re an optimist. Just remember that the best rarely happens and hope doesn’t mean a thing in life.”
Ricardo opens his mouth to ask why Mourinho is so negative, but Mourinho just gives him a deep look – of pity? Of sympathy? – before opening the door and disappearing behind it.
The door closes with a quiet click.
“So, Ricky,” Cristiano says. “How do I look?”
Ricardo wants to make a joke, maybe say something like, Well, the hospital gown really brings out your eyes, but he’s not Cristiano and his sense of humour seemed to have left him as soon as Cristiano had collapsed.
“You look great,” he says instead, soft, speaking past a lump in his throat. “You always do.”
“You’re just saying that because you’re hopelessly biased,” Cristiano says, but his eyes are soft and he’s smiling at Ricardo, even though it’s just a minute tilt of his lips. “I bet I look like shit.” He stops, runs a hand through his hair – Ricardo notices that his fingers are shaking, and it makes the tremor of fear in Ricardo spread like ink through water, dark and murky – before closing his eyes and letting his head fall back against his pillow. “I feel like shit.”
“What’s wrong?” Ricardo asks hurriedly, reaching his hand towards Cristiano and then pulling it back, feeling like Cristiano might fall apart if Ricardo touched him. “Do you want me to call the doctors?”
“No, no, no doctors. I’ve seen enough of them for a lifetime.” Cristiano makes a face.
“Do you want a glass of water? Or to call your family?”
“I already did. My mother’s worried out of her mind.”
So am I, Ricardo thinks, but he doesn’t say it, because he knows that it wouldn’t help the situation, and he doesn’t want Cristiano to feel worse than he already does. He may still be joking around and acting like nothing is wrong, but he’s pale and exhausted-looking, and Ricardo feels a sharp pang of agony that he can’t do anything to help.
“Hey, don’t look so sad,” Cristiano says. “Am I the dying one or are you?”
“You’re not dying,” Ricardo says sharply.
“Yes, I am,” Cristiano says. “We’re all dying. Nobody lives forever.” He grins then at Ricardo, mischief dancing in his eyes, impishness in the set of his mouth, and Ricardo can’t help but smile back, although he doesn’t feel like he has full control of his facial muscles.
“Well, you’re not dying anytime soon,” Ricardo says, putting his hand on Cristiano’s.
“There’s going to be a cost for that,” Cristiano says, turning away, looking at the bland paint of the hospital walls.
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t the doctors tell you?” Cristiano gives him a blank look. “My heart stopped today. They were able to get it pumping again, but there’s no guarantees of that happening the second time.”
“The second time?” Ricardo echoes, feeling something creeping at the edge of his awareness, a terrible realization slowly coming to him.
“If I exert myself like that again,” Cristiano says. “It’s too dangerous.”
“It,” Ricardo repeats, understanding now, but he wishes he didn’t, he wishes he never heard the words coming out of Cristiano’s mouth, he wishes that he could close his eyes and when he opened them again, all this would turn out to just have been a nightmare.
“Football,” Cristiano says, as if Ricardo hasn’t figured it out yet, his voice terribly calm even as his eyes look like there’s something breaking inside him.
“No,” Ricardo whispers. “No.”
“That’s what I said too,” Cristiano says, his mouth twisting bitterly.
“Are they sure?” Ricardo asks. He desperately hopes that they’re not, that there’s still some kind of chance. There has to be, there has to be more for someone as brilliant and strong and good as Cristiano. They can’t take football away from him. They can’t take him away from football. They just can’t.
“No, they’re not 100% certain, but they said that it’s too risky, too dangerous. You know what the doctor said to me? ‘What’s more important to you, your life or football?’“ Cristiano snorts. “They just don’t get it. My life is football.”
“I get it,” Ricardo says. “I know what you’re feeling.”
Cristiano looks at him, really looks at him, eyes dark and intent and filled with a pain that Ricardo knows and understands and has felt before.
“Yeah,” Cristiano says softly. “You do.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” Ricardo whispers, places his palm tenderly against Cristiano’s cheek, not drawing back at how cold his skin feels, like all the warmth has been sucked out of him.
“You won’t,” Cristiano says, putting his hand on top of Ricardo’s. Although his skin is so cold, Ricardo feels a burst of warmth at his touch, a slow flame flickering to life inside him. “I won’t die, I promise.” He tries to give a smile, but it falls short, and it’s heartbreaking to watch him like that, his composed mask falling to pieces.
“I love you,” Ricardo says, tightening his hand around Cristiano’s. I want you to be able to play football, but I don’t want you to risk your life for it. I want you alive and healthy, even it means you’re not happy. Is that so terrible of me? “I believe in you. Whatever you choose, I’ll support you.”
“Ricky,” Cristiano whispers, his voice finally cracking. “Ricardo.” He doesn’t say anything besides Ricardo’s name, but there are a thousand unsaid words lingering in the silence between them, and Ricardo can feel the pain in them wash over him.
“I love you,” Ricardo repeats, because he can’t give Cristiano anything else besides his love, and he hates that, how utterly helpless and useless he is. “I love you.” He lurches forward clumsily, catches Cristiano’s mouth with his own, their teeth mashing together painfully. Cristiano doesn’t seem to care though, kissing Ricardo back eagerly, an urgency bordering on desperation in the movement of his mouth that Ricardo’s never felt before.
“I love you too,” Cristiano says. “Don’t worry. I promise I won’t be reckless. I’ll be careful, for you.”
“Cris,” Ricardo says quietly. Of course Cristiano had understood him all along. Of course.
“Meanwhile, you’ll just have to play well enough for the both of us,” Cristiano says, the lines around his eyes seeming deeper than ever when he smiles. “Score some goals for me, okay?”
“I will,” Ricardo promises. “And in return, you—”
“There’s an ‘in return,’ huh?” Cristiano raises an eyebrow. “Since when did you become such a cold-hearted businessman, Ricky?”
“I’ve always been cold-hearted,” Ricardo says. “You’ve just never noticed because you’re hopelessly biased too.”
Cristiano laughs at that, quiet but utterly genuine, the warmth in it more than making up for the lack of volume. “Well, that I am,” he agrees. “Can’t argue with you there.”
“In return, you have to promise me that you’ll try to be happy,” Ricardo says. “I know that-that I’m asking for a lot and I’m being selfish, but you have to promise me.”
Cristiano looks at him solemnly. “I promise,” he says. “It’s not selfish of you to want me to be happy, Ricky. I want you to be happy too, you know?”
“Yeah,” Ricardo says, running his fingers through Cristiano’s hair, the curls soft. “I know.”
“Good,” Cristiano says simply. “The road isn’t going to be easy, but I’ll fight, you know? I’m not going to take the easy way out.”
“You never do,” Ricardo says. “I love that about you, you know?”
“Yeah,” Cristiano says, his mouth curving up. “I know.”
He leans into Ricardo’s touch, eyes falling shut, and Ricardo doesn’t stop stroking his hair until he hears Cristiano’s quiet snores.