Chapter Text
One: Tiebreaker
1-1
Araujo wiped the sweat off his face, pausing to catch his breath. How long has this lasted? It felt like hours had passed since half time, and neither team had managed to break the tie. His legs felt like they were on fire, struggling under exertion and the many tiny scratches from the prickly turf below.
The ball was far away from him now. He could see the distant shapes of his teammates and his opponents only able to distinguish them by their jerseys. The white shapes of Real Madrid seemed to be battling hard, weaving around the blue and red figures of his Barça teammates
“Araujo,” he glanced around to see Balde heading towards him, also keeping an anxious eye to make sure no Madrid player was making a run for the goal. “We’re on extra time. I have a bad feeling Madrid is gonna make some moves, they seem to be getting more desperate.”
Araujo could see what he was saying. The closer he looked he realized they weren’t just fighting to make it to the end of the game. They wanted to win, and badly, even if it was just by one more point.
They were much closer now. Both his team and Madrid were closing in. He spotted Ansu making a break for the ball, just barely stealing it from between Modric’s feet.
He shook himself out of his thoughts as Ansu passed him the ball, narrowly dodging Benzema’s attempt to snatch it from him. The screams of the crowd pressed in his ears and he fought to keep his head clear. He looked desperately to find a safe direction to pass. It seemed almost like he was surrounded by a sea of white jerseys. He spotted De Jong some feet away, and in the spur of the moment he decided to go for it. Planting his other foot firmly, he sent the ball sailing through the air.
Time seemed to go in slow motion. He could see De Jong jump up, hoping to connect the ball with his head before it could land at the feet of another Madrid player.
He didn’t jump high enough. The ball flew right past his head, landing with a clean one touch against Vinicius Jr’s leg.
Shit. Time sped up, and suddenly it was a race to get the ball back. Vinicius sped past Gavi and Balde, a look of grim determination set on his face.
Araujo scrambled to run. How many minutes were left? A feeling of cold dread ran through his blood. One goal and they were done, they had no time to level the score.
He was running right beside Vinicius now, just close enough to see the look the other man shot at him. It felt like he was mocking him; his face held an air of victory.
Come get the ball, if you can The look said, very clearly.
Anger flared unexpectedly in Araujo’s chest. He could hear the thrumming of his teammates running behind them.
A few feet away from the goal, Vin planted his foot to the ground, ready to strike. Ter Stagen held his ground, but somehow Araujo knew the goalkeeper wouldn’t be able to save this.
The defender swerved, throwing himself across the ground, just as Vinicius brought hu foot across the ball.
It was just a slide, a simple tackle, but his heart leaped into his throat as he felt the ball collide with the bottom of his cleats. It flew across the field, landing with a thump against an empty seat.
The crowd exploded. It seemed almost deafening from both sides.
It was done, the match was over.
A scream of frustration burst out from above him, and he met Vinicious’ eyes only for a split second, before he was surrounded by the arms of his teammates as they congratulated him.
He responded heartily, a wide grin plastered across his face, accepting a hug from each of them. He felt like he was floating and the stadium glowed unnaturally bright.
But even through the screams and the hugs, he couldn’t get Vinicius’ final look out of his mind.
Just from that split second he could see the glare in his eyes. It was full of anger and pure undisguised hate.
Araujo found himself puzzling over it in the locker room, mostly ignoring his team’s relentless excitement.
Why in the world would the Real Madrid forward hate him?
They’ve only played against each other a few times, and never stopped to speak. The slide was nothing personal, Araujo was just doing his job as a defender.
He could understand the anger, but why did it feel like much more than that? Did he do something to offend the other man?
Araujo sighed, slipping on a plain white t-shirt to replace his jersey.
He knew he should share his teams pride and relief at his last minute save, but he couldn't push the unease from the back of his mind.
Maybe he should speak to him?
By the time Araujo reached his car, he had made up his mind. He would speak to Vinicius by tomorrow, and find out once and for all why the man hated him.