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The sun was shining gaily in Madrid and everyone enjoyed the early summer, with the exception of Luka Modric.
He sat alone in the Valdebebas locker room, still in his training kit, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together, head bowed low. The distant laughter of teammates couldn’t reach him now. He knew it was the moment, the end of the story, the farewell to Real Madrid—his everything.
The president told him he would not receive a renewal. He was sitting there, looking at the pictures on the wall, the Champions League trophies, and the captain lifting them. He saw the younger version of him, and Sergio Ramos. His captain smiled like a king who had won a great war, and he was standing beside him, grinning like brothers.
He opened Instagram, typing and editing the words he never wanted to write down:
Ha llegado el momento. El momento que nunca quise que llegara, pero así es el fútbol, y en la vida todo tiene un principio y un final...…
……
Nos volveremos a ver. El Real Madrid siempre será mi casa.
Para toda la vida.
Hala Madrid y Nada Más.
Luka Modric.
He sighed, fingers trembling slightly. He never wanted this day to come, but it had. It had ended, not with fury, but with the soft, cruel finality of goodbyes. He had given everything to Real Madrid, and now, all he wanted was to leave with his head held high. One last game at Santiago Bernabéu. One last moment of magic. One last dance.
But he was not ready. Not truly. How could anyone be ready to say goodbye to home?
Across the city, the sun was just beginning to dip behind the rooftops of Madrid. Sergio Ramos stood in the lobby of his home with his phone in hand, coffee forgotten on the counter. He had just landed for a short stay before heading back to Mexico, where he now played. He had been looking forward to a few quiet days, maybe a dinner with some old friends.
But then he saw Luka’s post.
He read it once, then again. Then a third time.
And he froze.
“Saturday. Last game.”
“Shit,” he whispered, heart pounding. “Come on, what the hell? He’s leaving?”
The pain hit him like a tidal wave. Luka was leaving Madrid? His Luka? The one who never stopped smiling through the hardest matches, the one who carried them through finals with his quiet brilliance?
Sergio did not even realize he was dialing someone until he heard the ringing tone.
“Marcelo,” he said when his old teammate picked up. “Tell me it’s not true.”
There was silence on the other end. Then a soft sigh.
“It’s true, Sergio. Saturday. It’s over.”
Sergio didn’t say goodbye. He hung up, heart thundering.
There was just one thing in his head. He could not let Luka leave without seeing him.
Friday evening, Luka’s house was warm and alive with voices. The family had gathered for a private dinner in Luka’s honour. His wife Vanja and the children moved between the tables, laughter and music filling the air. Luka’s parents, relatives, and close friends came for him, offering hugs and good wishes.
Luka was happy for everyone’s support, but sometimes he was quiet. He sat in the backyard alone, looking out over the garden he had helped plant with his children, sipping from a half-empty glass of wine. His thoughts were a million miles away.
“Thinking about the Bernabéu?” a voice called behind him.
He turned, then froze.
Sergio Ramos was standing there.
Luka choked. His breath caught in his throat.
For a moment, time stopped.
Sergio stepped forward, a crooked grin spreading across his face. He was still the same, with white top and blue jeans, broad-shouldered, tanned, intense, but there was something else too, something softer in his eyes, something only Luka could see.
“You…” Luka’s voice cracked. “You came.”
Sergio didn’t answer. He crossed the space between them in three strides and pulled Luka into a fierce embrace. Luka folded into him without hesitation.
“It’s been too long,” Sergio murmured, lips brushing Luka’s hair. “I couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye.”
Luka tightened his arms around him. “But you were in Mexico…”
“Fuck Mexico,” Sergio said without pause. “You’re what matters. Always.”
They stood like that for a long while, hearts thudding in time.
Finally, Sergio pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.
“You look terrible,” he teased, smirking like before.
“You look perfect,” Luka retorted, but he was already smiling.
“You still ump on those guys after you score?” Sergio asked, brushing his knuckles along Luka’s cheek.
“Not really, they are not you.” Luka whispered, eyes wet.
They laughed and shared this intimacy. Their foreheads touched.
“I remember,” Sergio said quietly, “when you first came here. Everyone thought you were too small. Too fragile, including me.”
“You didn’t like me at that time,” Luka smirked.
“I didn’t like you, I loved you.” Sergio corrected.
There was no warning.
Sergio cupped Luka’s face in his hands and kissed him, hard, like a storm breaking.
Luka didn’t resist. He melted into the kiss, heart bursting with all the years of quiet longing, the nights they had never spoken of, the bond they never named but always felt.
When they finally pulled apart, breathless, Luka rested his head against Sergio’s chest.
“I don’t want to go,” he said softly.
“I know,” Sergio replied. “But you have been a part of Real Madrid. Even if you’re not wearing the jersey.”
Luka closed his eyes. “Stay with me tonight?”
Sergio pressed another kiss to his hair. “Of course.”
The next night, when Luka Modrić stepped onto the pitch for the last time at the Santiago Bernabéu, the stadium roared his name.
He turned toward the stands, he knew Sergio was not here, or maybe he was here.
He had to go back to Mexico. He promised he would try to negotiate with his current team for one more day in Madrid, but Luka did not know if he succeeded.
He had his last match, Sergio had his own schedule.
This was life.
But he always knew Sergio was always here, hand over his heart, eyes on him.
They did not need words.
They never did.
Sergio was always here.
- The End -