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It was one of the first places Fernando had come to know in Liverpool: a quaint corner coffee shop nestled in between a small street of jazz clubs, art shops and bookstores.
(He had discovered it during one of the uncountable times he got lost walking around. The barista was an old man with a kind face and a wrinkled smile who spoke enough broken Spanish to be able to point him ten blocks down to where he made a wrong turn.)
Nobody he knew—the little people that he knew in Liverpool, that is—ever frequented that area. So, Fernando went there every time he wanted to be let alone.
And Fernando’s been lonely ever since he’s been to England.
*
“Ah, Pedro, you’re back!” The old barista greeted Fernando as he pushed open the door to the cafe, and the little chimes made that tinkling sound he had grown familiar of.
It was always a different Spanish name every visit. (Yesterday, it was Juan. The day before, it was Miguel. The other week, it was Sergio—that made his heart ache a little.) The first few times, Fernando had tried to correct him, but by now, he realized, it was futile to fight against senility.
He gave a friendly wave, ordered his drink (tall—because he’d be there for hours, extra hot—because he still wasn’t used to the chilly weather, and double espresso—because the English made terrible, weak coffee), then plopped down to the overstuffed sofa in the nook of the shop.
Then, he just stared off into the distance and got lost in thought.
*
“Torres?”
Fernando is jolted out of his daydreaming when he hears his name.
“Agger,” the Spaniard greeted. Daniel almost didn’t recognize his name under the thick accent.
“I was thinking if I should come over. I was looking over at your table for half an hour now, but you were too distracted to notice,” Dan explained.
Fernando’s eyebrows knitted together as he tried and failed to piece together the English. Dan spoke too fluently that the words melted into each other, and Fernando couldn’t pick them apart anymore.
Holding his hands up in the air in surrender, Fernando replied in Spanish, “I don’t understand.”
“Oh,” his face fell. “I forget we speak different languages.”
“I’m sorry I can’t understand you,” Fernando smiled, not as apologetic as it was regretful.
Dan shifted from one foot to the other. Fernando ran his hands through his mop of blonde curls. They descended into a silence so awkward, but cruelly enough, more comfortable than the tangle of words that was their attempt at conversation.
“Sorry, maybe I should—” Dan broke the quiet.
“Join me?” Fernando blurted out at the same time.
They stopped, startled again and confused at how to proceed.
Fernando looked up at his teammate and patted the couch beside him. Maybe that was the universal sign to ask for someone’s company?
“Oh,” comprehension dawned on the defender and he broke into a timid smile, “Sure.” Fernando smiled back, relieved.
“Are you sure you don’t want some privacy? You looked busy.” Dan asked again.
“I … don’t have anyone to talk to,” Fernando confessed, no fear of disparagement. There was a certain assurance in being misunderstood, he had come to find.
*
“Caffeine,” Dan pointed at Fernando’s tall, steaming cup. “That probably breaks all the dietary rules of the club physio.”
“Don’t tell Rafa,” Fernando gave Dan a lopsided grin.
“Not a good idea when you’re supposed to be getting rest after flying home from Greece on Thursday, training in Merseyside on Friday and playing 90 minutes today,” Dan teased as Fernando took a long sip of his coffee.
“Well, you’ve got bad habits too,” Fernando nodded at the cigarette stick between Dan’s fingers. Dan blushed and shrugged, “It’s good for the stress.” He lit it and took a few puffs.
The smoke clouded around them before dissipating. The smell of nicotine was sharp, but it was also tempting. “Could I …?” Fernando started, tentatively looking at the cigarette, and then lifting his eyes to Dan.
“You wanna have a puff?” Dan raised an eyebrow skeptically, raising the stick.
Fernando nodded.
Daniel was reluctant, but he handed the cigarette to the Spaniard. He watched him: the way he held the stick delicately between his fingers, expertly tapped the excess ash from the tip, brought the cigarette to his lips, took a long draw, leaned back and let the smoke out lazily.
“You’re definitely not an amateur.”
Fernando may not have understood the words, but he saw that appraising look in his teammate’s eyes and the smirk playing on his lips. He blinked innocently, trying to keep a straight face, “What?” He handed the cigarette back to Daniel, who waved it away.
“You can have it,” he said, bringing out his pack to take out another stick for himself.
Fernando grinned, “Thanks.”
“El Niño my ass,” Daniel shook his head, laughing as well.
The Spaniard leaned forward, bringing the end of his cigarette against Dan’s to light it. And in that brief encounter, from that angle, Dan could almost scrutinize Fernando: the sprinkle of freckles against a fading tan, the mess of wavy blonde hair, the long eyelashes framing brown eyes specked with hints of black.
Dan stopped. For a moment there, he almost—never mind.
*
One by one, lights were put out along the street as the hours rolled by late into the night. Still, the pair remained in their seats, a bit more settled now with Dan halfway through his cigarette pack, feet propped up on the coffee table, while Fernando ordered a midnight bite for them.
“Bad game today at Sunderland, eh?” Dan asked.
Fernando nodded, picking up the word “Sunderland” to know what they would be talking about next—that is, if one-sided dialogues really counted as conversations.
“It looks like you’ll be busy in defense with Jamie and Sami injured.”
Dan tried not to laugh at the way Carra and Sami’s names rolled off Nando’s tongue, but he took those sounds as a cue that they were now discussing the back four.
(That was how they desperately got by: taking familiar sounds of people and places and things.)
“At least we got two goals and three points.”
Fernando shrugged listlessly. Dan saw the beginnings of a frown etch itself on the Spaniard’s face.
“You had your own chances, Fernando.”
“The game was terrible. I had too many opportunities to not have a goal.” Fernando buried his face in his hands, as if he were embarrassed just reminiscing the game.
“Well, Craig Gordon was really good.”
“At least Momo and Andriy were able to score. That’s good, yes?”
Dan didn’t buy that—whatever it was Fernando said. (He found he was more perceptive when you didn’t have words on your side, just signs, tones and gestures.)
“…Fernando, are you threatened by Voronin?”
“No.”
Fernando blinked and thought again.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
And for someone reluctant, the answer gushes out in a stream of endless Spanish that Dan could never comprehend but whose sentiments he strangely understood.
“He comes on a free transfer. I cost too much. Then, he scores more goals than I do. He tries to set up my goals, and I can’t even finish. Everyone talks about my promise and my potential, and in the end, I might end up just as that.”
“The goals will come.”
“Rafa will surely rotate the squad and replace me in the next game. What if I lose my starting spot in the line-up to Andriy, Dirk and Crouch?” Fernando lets out a strangled groan, releasing the pent-up angst that he’s refused to acknowledge game in and game out.
Dan looked at him with a kind smile he rarely sported. (Fernando thought he always looked aloof in training, quiet during meetings, and furious during games.)
“Well, I think you’re our top striker.”
Fernando felt a faint sensation of warmth spreading across his chest. He almost didn’t recognize it. Liverpool’s been too strange and unwelcoming in ways that has made him forget what that felt like. But tonight, with the strangest of companions, he remembered.
Sometimes someone says the smallest thing, and it goes straight into that empty space in your heart.
*
“I should probably go,” Daniel started, stifling a yawn and standing up.
Fernando looked up and nodded, “I might stay here a little bit longer.”
Dan smoothed down his clothes, nervously shifted from one foot to another again. “Listen. I had fun.”
Fernando smiled sheepishly, and Dan knew he didn’t understand what he said. His heart sank a little.
“Right. I’m off.” Dan said, announcing his departure again but never really going through with it.
Sensing reluctance, Nando replied, “I’m here almost every day, if you happen to be around the area…” He paused and racked his brain for the words. He continued unsurely, “Er, next time?”
Dan let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding in.
“Si. Next time.” He broke into a shy grin, “Maybe we’ll meet again like this.”