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You take off your buttoned white shirt and put it on the bench.
"Why are you always wearing fancy clothes before the matches? You know people probably won't see you with them," Stevie tells him and sits on the bench next to him, already dressed up and ready for the match to begin.
"I like these clothes. And it's not that fancy, Steven. These are pair of jeans and a buttoned shirt. You should try it sometimes."
Stevie laughs and runs his fingers in his short hair, knowing Xabi is joking; knowing Xabi knows everything he has in his closet.
Xabi puts on his red shirt with Liverpool's crest; this is probably his favorite shirt. God knows that if he could he would have worn it all day.
"You know, you are much more beautiful without this shirt," Stevie grins quietly after checking no one is listening.
"Not now, Steven," Xabi mutters, but smiles back at him.
You unbutton your pair of dark blue jeans and take it off of you, staying with your black boxers briefs.
"Come with me," Stevie whispers in his ear before the match against Chelsea.
"Why?" Xabi wrinkles his forehead, questioning. He starts to take off his shirt, but Stevie puts his hand on his and stops him.
"Just come," he says with a mischievous smile and tries to pull Xabi with him toward the side door of the locker room.
"I don't have time for fooling around, Steven. The match is in less than an hour."
"Plenty of time," Stevie promises Xabi and grabs him.
Xabi can't really resist. He looks around, sees that nobody is looking at them, and sneaks out with Stevie.
Stevie leads him to one of the small equipment storerooms and locks the door from the inside. Xabi doesn't ask where he got the key from. Stevie leaves the key in the lock and begins to kiss Xabi firmly, demanding every piece of his mouth to himself. His hands move on Xabi's body, teasing him and arouse him.
"Steven," Xabi whispers when Stevie grabs his dick through his pants. "This isn't a good time for this."
"I want you," Stevie moans into Xabi's mouth, his hand doesn't stop from its movement, and Xabi knows that soon it would be too late to stop.
He cuts himself off of Stevie and puts his hands on Stevie's to stop him from trying. "Not now. Not before the game starts."
"Then when?" Stevie asks desperately.
"After the match," Xabi promises.
"What if we lose?"
"Consolation prize," Xabi grins and kisses Stevie. "Come on." He flips open the lock and walks out the storage closet.
You wear the red trousers with the white strips, uncharacteristically quiet while your teammates make jokes with each other and laugh. You look for him with your eyes, but you don't see him.
It's the night before the match against Norwich and Stevie bursts into Xabi's flat. "We are going to lose," he says hysterically, pacing from side to side in Xabi's living room without even closing the door.
Xabi closes it and reaches to stop Stevie's marching. "What happened?" he asks in a quiet and calm voice.
"I just have this terrible feeling we are going to lose tomorrow, and I can't shake it off."
Xabi pushes him down to sit on the couch. "Steven. Relax," he says softly but firmly. "Why do you think you are going to lose?"
"I don't know. I just… I don't know, Xabi. I just have this feeling. And it's killing me," Stevie says, and Xabi can tell he's about to start crying.
"What will make you feel better? Secure?"
"You playing with us," Stevie whispers and stares Xabi's eyes.
Xabi lowers his head and examines his broken ankle. "I can't," he says and swallows the lump in his throat.
"We can't do it without you," Stevie says. " I can't do it without you there on the field."
"I will be right here, watching you on the TV. And I'll call you before the game starts. And during the half time."
"It's not enough," Stevie says. "You won't be there; won't wear the kit."
Xabi kisses him. "You'll be okay. You have the team – and they have you."
That's what he keeps murmuring during that night, when he has Steven Gerrard in his arms, his entire body to himself.
"I will kill Lampard next time I see him," Stevie mutters when they are already half sleeping, and Xabi kisses his neck.
"Steven?" he asks the day after, when he's on the phone with Stevie before the match starts.
"Yes?"
"I'm wearing my kit," Xabi says while touching the fabric of his trousers, and he can see in his mind Stevie's smile; can hear him sigh in relief.
One red sock is already on your right leg. The other is on the way. Álvaro sends you a smile, and you know you both think the same thing.
"Steven! Give it back!" Xabi yells at Stevie who stole Xabi's sock right before the match.
"Come and take it," Stevie is teasing him waving his red sock in front of Xabi, on the other side of the room.
"Steven George fucking Gerrard," Xabi says with a warning voice and looks right into Stevie's eyes. "Give. It. Back. Now ."
Stevie sticks his tongue out at him, but throwing the sock right to his lap, probably knowing after three years that angry Alonso means bad sex. Or even worst – no sex at all. "I hate you," Stevie mutters as he drops himself to the sit next to him.
"You love me and you know it."
You tie your shoes, tightening the laces much more than you actually need.
"Do you have any idea what I have in my mind when I see you tying your shoes like that?" Stevie whispers in Xabi's ear when no one looks.
Xabi is immediately hard and turned on, seeing in his mind an image of Steven hovering above him, tying him to the bed and making him beg for release. "Steven. Please! Not now. How many times do I need to tell you? Not before the match starts."
"You'd prefer me to say it during the match?" Stevie looks around for a second, and when he makes sure nobody is watching them, he licks Xabi's earlobe.
"Fucking hell Stevie, not now!" Xabi says angrily as he stands up, but keeps his voice quiet. "What?" he adds when Stevie stares at him.
"You called me Stevie," he says with surprised face.
"Yeah, whatever."
That night he moans the word "Stevie" over and over again in Stevie's ear as he moves against his hard, sweaty body.
You pull the red shirt over your head and look in the mirror. This is it.
"Good luck," Stevie says when Xabi stands in front of the mirror, watching his reflection.
"What, no teasing?" Xabi asks surprisingly and turns around to face Stevie.
Stevie shrugs his shoulders. "I'm not in the mood today."
"Right," Xabi says unbelievingly and nods with a grin.
"Fine. Carra suspects us already. I don't want it to be that obvious to the others as well," Stevie admits.
Xabi can't think straight. He leans closer to Stevie in the middle of the full locker room and kisses him. "Good luck, Stevie," he says when he pulls away. All their teammates are staring at them, but Xabi couldn't care less.
"Come on lads, this is not a show," Carra says finally and everyone is looking somewhere else. "I knew it," he grins to Stevie as he walks past them.
"Good luck," you say to your captain as you step out to the field. But this is not Steven Gerrard – this is Iker Casillas. And this is not Anfield – this is Maksimir Stadium. And it's not "Carlsberg" written on your shirt – it's "bwin" written on it in big white letters. And it's not the red Liverbird with the words "You'll Never Walk Alone" that are right above your heart – it's the blue and yellow circle and the crown you've learned to love. And the songs in the crowd doesn't have some Beatles melody, they are other songs.
And this is not Liverpool. This is Real Madrid.