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Neymar bit his lip to suppress a sob as he bent over the sink, letting cold water run over his hands. His eyes burned as he squeezed them shut and tried to draw in a full breath. He managed to turn off the tap and dry his shaking hands with a paper towel, tossing it somewhere in the direction of the waste basket. Opening and closing his fists to stop the trembling he opened his eyes again and found himself unable to focus his gaze on anything.
He didn’t understand how it was this difficult. He knew football, he had absolutely no doubts about his own capabilities, and yet somehow these days he felt as if the pitch was covered in tar and his feet kept getting stuck. He was surrounded by super stars, people he had looked up to since he was a kid, and he wanted nothing more than to impress them, to be part of that renowned class of people whose names were on the lips of everyone in the world, and now he felt like a village idiot in that crowd.
He constantly found himself tripping over his feet in his hurry to do what had felt like child’s play at Santos, and hoping the others didn’t notice when he stumbled over his words in Spanish. He felt like every few minutes he had to kick himself mentally when he got too excited about being surrounded by his virtual heroes and thought he caught them giving him glances from the corners of their eyes.
Trying to focus his eyes on his hands, he listened to the sounds of people moving around the facility, the sounds of footsteps and voices floating through the halls. He thought he heard the sound of the locker room door opening and closing and supposed he was the last one left. It wouldn’t do him any favors if he left the place looking like he’d been crying his eyes out, so he stayed put.
He reached for the tap, thinking he might wash his face with cold water, and glanced up at his own red-rimmed eyes only to freeze in place when to the left of him, dark brown eyes met his own through the mirror. The seconds they stood there seemed to last hours and Neymar was hoping against hope that the man had only just walked in. As he turned around slowly and took in the way Leo was leaning on the door frame, the hope died in his heart.
“Sorry,” he muttered, not quite sure what he was apologizing for. Leo raised an eyebrow and said nothing.
Neymar sighed and pulled another paper towel out of the holder. There was no hiding the fact that he’d been crying, so he dried the tears on his face and used it as an excuse to not meet Leo’s eyes as he pushed past him into the locker room. He’d been almost right about being the last one there, because the room was deserted apart from himself and the silent Argentine. He dropped heavily onto the bench in front of his cubby. His legs felt like he’d been running around the pitch for days without pause.
Trying to look busy he pulled his phone out of his pocket, but he was swiping back and forth aimlessly, laser-focused on the other person in the room. He stilled when Leo started walking, waiting for him to leave the room, but instead he felt a hand on his shoulder. Only just managing to avoid flinching, he looked up, his mouth opening for words that never left his lips.
Leo’s face was perfectly unreadable as he leaned slightly forward. “You’ll be alright,” he said in a quiet, even voice. Neymar blinked up at him, his mind not quite understanding the meaning and choosing to focus instead on the way Leo was speaking, slowly and clearly. “You’re going to be fine.”
“I’m -” Neymar started, then closed his mouth again. He didn’t want to whine, but he didn’t want to lie either. He looked away from Leo’s eyes and swallowed, taking his time to find words. “It’s just hard, you know.”
“I know,” Leo said, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His hand squeezed Neymar’s shoulder, then pulled away as he sat down next to him. “But you’re good. I’ve seen the tapes of you at Santos.”
Neymar scoffed quietly and shook his head. “Yeah, well. I guess I’ve just lost something - ” he said in a slightly more derisive tone than he meant to, but Leo cut him off.
“No, you haven’t. You’re just finding you place.” Neymar shook his head again, still intent on wallowing in self-pity. “You’ll be fine,” Leo repeated, and Neymar could hear the smile in his voice, “and you have help. You just have to get used to it.”
“I guess,” Neymar sighed, “it’s not easy, though. Everyone is so great, and I’m new, and my Spanish isn’t -”
“Neymar,” Leo cut him off again, leaning forward on the bench, “nobody cares if your Spanish isn’t perfect. You’ll pick it up, it just takes time.” Neymar sighed again and felt something like a frustrated kid being chided by their parent. He banished the thought as quick as it came to him, if there was one thing he didn’t want to see Leo Messi as it was a father figure.
“Sure, it’s just -” he said, waving a hand in front of himself and trying to find the word.
“Frustrating?” Leo suggested with a raised eyebrow. Neymar nodded, the irony of forgetting a word while trying to express his difficulties with the language barrier making him smile despite himself.
“Yeah,” Leo said, shrugging slightly, “but it’ll take the time it takes.” He leaned back against the cubbies and Neymar looked down at the phone in his hand, turning it around absently to have something to do.
“You know,” Leo said so quietly that Neymar had trouble hearing him. He turned back to see Leo watching him with half-lidded eyes that felt like they were reading Neymar’s thoughts trough his eyes. “You try so hard you’re tripping with every other step, but you need to stop thinking of us as your idols or whatever. We’re your team, we’re here to help you.”
It was the most Neymar had heard Leo speak on a subject that wasn’t football, and it stunned him enough that it took him a while to catch up with the actual words. He bit his lip and frowned down at his hands.
“I know, I just – I want to be helping too,” he said, trying not to sound as childish as he felt.
“You’re helping,” Leo said simply. Neymar looked at him again and stared into his indecipherable eyes, trying to work out if he was being humored or placated. Leo met his stare calmly, then stood up and leaned over him again, the hand back on his shoulder.
“I want to help you,” he said in a low voice. Neymar swallowed and found himself fighting another sting in the corners of his eyes. “Just remember that I’m here, Ney.”
Not a sound escaped him in reply, but Leo didn’t seem like he expected one either. He squeezed Neymar’s shoulder one more time before walking out of the room, leaving Neymar to stare at the empty locker room while the conversation replayed in his head.