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Kaká transfers back to Milan a few weeks before the season begins. He thinks about his last transfer, the excitement even with a 68 million euro weight on his shoulder, There’s a different kind of weight now—the knowledge that he hadn’t lived up to expectations at Madrid, injury aside, and that the last time he had played for Milan he had been one of the best in the world. Now he has been surpassed by so many for that title: by Iniesta, by Messi, by a dozen others, by Cristiano of course, and even if the supporters will still, Kaká hopes, love him upon his return, he doesn’t want to shake their faith in him.
Nobody else seems to have the same doubts. Caroline is thrilled to be moving back to Italy. Several of his friends from the country call to say they look forward to seeing him. Even Sheva sends him a text message of congratulations.
Kaká drives over to Valdebebas the day before he leaves Spain. The team is already training when he arrives but Marcelo immediately jogs over to wrap Kaká in a bear hug that squeezes the air from his lungs, and the others soon follow. In the distance, Kaká sees Cristiano pound a free kick into the net and then approach, hanging back as the rest of the team says goodbye. Iker puts a hand on Kaká’s shoulder and wishes him good luck. Sergio kisses both of his cheeks.
Xabi looks Kaká dead in the eye and says, “See you in the Champions League.” Kaká nods slowly. He has become accustomed to playing with Xabi, wonders what it will feel like to face him once more. He and Xabi have never talked much about their previous teams to each other, their main points of reference being a game that Xabi most likely does not want to remember and a match two years before that Kaká certainly wishes to forget.
Cristiano lingers, not quite a part of the crowd, not quite out of it. When Kaká turns to leave the field Cristiano—despite being in the middle of the training session—follows. In the hallway Cristiano stops Kaká with a hand on his back. Kaká turns. Cristiano stands with his hands out, palms up like he’s offering something, or asking for it. “Hey,” Cristiano says. “Good luck.”
“Thank you,” Kaká replies. After a moment, Cristiano drops his hands, then raises one again and clasps it around Kaká’s bicep, thumb pressing into the fleshy part of Kaká’s shoulder.
“I’ll miss you,” he says, with difficulty, and Kaká isn’t sure if Cristiano is trying to hold the words back or if he’s trying to push them out. Then Cristiano steps back and smiles. “But I guess I’ll see you on the field soon.” And there’s the small, niggling thing that Kaká has been worrying about.
“Maybe not,” he says.
“Sure we will,” Cristiano says, after a moment where his smile falters, his forehead creases, his eyebrows knit together. Then his expression smoothes. “In the Champions League. Or in the World Cup next year. Or maybe a few years from now we’ll end up back together in one of those Real Madrid legends games, right?”
“I don’t think I qualify as a Real Madrid legend,” Kaká says. Cristiano shakes his head emphatically.
“You do. You’re Kaká. And if they don’t ask you I’ll tell them I won’t play without you.” Kaká almost laughs but Cristiano sounds serious. “Maybe we’ll play against the AC Milan legends and you’ll have to put in a half for both sides like Ruud and me when we play United.” Now Kaká does laugh, at Cristiano’s simple self-assurance that he’ll be remembered as a legend for not one, but two clubs. Not that anyone would ever doubt it, Cristiano’s status legendary at Old Trafford and the Bernabéu alike.
Kaká glances down at his watch and knows his family is waiting for him. “I should get going,” he says. He hugs Cristiano, lays his head on Cristiano’s shoulder and presses his cheek against the soft, worn fabric of Cristiano’s training shirt. When they separate, Cristiano kisses Kaká on his left cheek, goes for his right but Kaká has moved and Cristiano’s lips land on the corner of Kaká’s mouth. The look on Cristiano’s face, thoughtful and open, makes Kaká want to kiss him for real. So he does, once, closed mouth, feather light, and when he pulls away they both smile foolishly at each other until Kaká says, “Bye, Cristiano.”
“Bye,” Cristiano replies, quiet now. Kaká turns away and although he does not turn back as he walks down the hallway, he knows Cristiano is watching him go.
There’s no public presentation ceremony at Milan, and if there had been it would have been nothing like the circus of his presentation at Real Madrid. But there is the first game of the Seria A season, when Kaká comes off the bench in the sixty-fourth minute and the crowd cheers the first time he touches the ball. It’s a good touch, and Milan beats Sampdoria 2 to 1 thanks to Kaká’s cross into the box that El Shaarawy knocks into the goal.
The newspaper headlines the next day read Bentornato, Kaká!
+
Kaká’s next few games aren’t as successful as the first but the manager assures him they’re thrilled to have him on the team and they want to give him the minutes he needs to get back to top form. He scores a goal in his fifth game, his second start of the season, and the stadium chants his name.
“Milan is my home,” Kaká tells a reporter after the game, a microphone thrust into his face as he comes off the pitch high on adrenaline and the song of the crowd.
Because life is funny sometimes, when the Champions League draw occurs, AC Milan is in the same group as Real Madrid. They play each other second, and both are coming off a win—Madrid against Benfica and Milan against Marseille—when Los Blancos arrive at the San Siro.
Kaká doesn’t go to the away dressing room before the game because he doesn’t want to distract anyone or be distracted, but two lines of teams shaking hands before the game quickly turns into a line of hugs and backpats as he makes his way along. When Kaká reaches him, Cristiano clamps a hand tightly on the back of Kaká’s neck, and Kaká gives him a warm smile.
“Hi,” Cristano says, the word heavy, thicker than the air on the warm October night.
“Hi.” For Kaká it’s lighter, breathed out as he clasps one of Cristiano’s hands in both of his own and squeezes it before letting go and moving on to Mesut behind him.
Madrid are the favourites of the game and maybe of the whole tournament, having started the season strong with a new manager and several good signings, and nobody including Kaká is shocked when Benzema manages to slot a ball past Abbiati in the twenty-eighth minute. In the forty-third minute Balotelli has a shot but Iker parries it away and Milan go into the second half trailing by a goal.
The second half has barely begun when Di Maria is taken down just outside the box by a reckless challenge from Mexés. The defender is booked while the teams set up for the free kick. Taking his place in the wall, Kaká looks out at Cristiano, his usual clenched fists, tight jaw stance. He catches Cristiano’s eye for a moment but Cristiano looks away, down at the ball, then past Kaká at the goal.
The ball curls up, over, around, and dips into the net. Nobody will blame Abbiati for failing to save this one; it’s perfect. Kaká is proud to be back with the Rossoneri but still he turns away as Cristiano’s teammates rush to celebrate his goal, so as to stifle the urge to join them. Only because it’s Cristiano.
Two down in the eighty-fifth minute and the stadium has a hum to it, the mix of despair at the slim chance Milan will be able to score two or even three goals before time runs out, and the optimism that somehow they will find a way. Because life is funny sometimes, it’s Kaká who manages to carve out an opening, the pass from Boateng landing for him to run on to. There’s no chance to settle it, but Kaká hits it with as much power and accuracy as he can, and the ball makes a satisfying noise as it goes past Iker’s outstretched fingertips and into the net.
Kaká won’t celebrate, not against a former team; as the crowd cheers he goes to collect the ball from the goal and gives Iker a sympathetic tap on the shoulder. Iker, whose eyes make him look sad even when he isn’t—and they’re about to win the game so he can’t be too disappointed—cups the side of Kaká’s face for a moment and then pats his cheek before releasing him. The game is nearly finished, Madrid ahead, but Kaká knows it hurts Iker to concede any goal, meaningful or not.
Kaká turns and kicks the ball up toward the centre line, and he is about to jog back to his kickoff position when he notices Cristiano in his peripheral vision. Cristiano has a hand out, palm up, like he’s asking for a high five. When Kaká lays his hand over Cristiano’s—softly, not a slap—Cristiano curls his fingers around Kaká’s hand. They don’t hold hands all the way back to midfield, but they stay side by side until Kaká has to cross the centre line to Milan’s half.
The game ends 2 to 1 and only moments after the whistle blows Cristiano finds Kaká again. He tugs his shirt up over his head and passes it to Kaká wordlessly. Kaká holds it tightly as he removes his own and hands it to Cristiano. Cristiano drapes the shirt over his shoulder and hugs Kaká. He’s shaking a little, with adrenaline and exhaustion, and his nails scrape blunt against Kaká’s back, mouth open against the corner of Kaká’s jaw, breathing hard, warm air into Kaká’s ear.
“Good game,” Cristiano says.
“I miss you,” Kaká replies, before he feels hands worm between them and pull him back into a hug from behind that lifts him off his feet. “Hola, Sergio,” Kaká says, twisting to face him. He feels Cristiano’s hands slide away from his body and when he turns back, Sergio Ramos going off across the field to say hello to another Milan player or congratulate another Madrid player, Cristiano has already gone into the tunnel. The Spanish team has an early flight, so by the time Kaká has finished showering and packing up his bag, they have already left on their bus to the airport.
+
The next morning the paper runs a picture taken just after Kaká’s goal. Kaká is facing away from the camera and Cristiano is looking at him, lifting a hand, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. Caroline must clip it out because Kaká finds it folded neatly and placed on top of his training kit when he opens his bag in the dressing room that morning.
Whenever the times of their games don’t coincide with Milan’s, Kaká watches Madrid play. In the game against Valencia Cristiano scores, stands still then sways a bit as Fabio barrels into him for a hug, and kisses his fingertips up in the direction of where Kaká knows his family always sits. It isn’t quite a non-celebration, but from Cristiano it’s subdued, and Kaká is not surprised when the reporters ask about it in the mixed zone after the match.
“I am happy,” Cristiano assures them. Then, cryptically, “But things are different.” Kaká thinks about this for a few minutes and decides he is arrogant enough to believe that Cristiano is talking about him. Pride is a sin, but Kaká is already guilty of envy, lust, greed thanks to Cristiano; one more won’t make a difference.
He waits a while, long enough for Cristiano to have left the Bernabeu, and calls him. Caroline walks through the room. She leans down to where Kaká is sitting and says, “Hello, Cristiano,” into the mouthpiece of the phone, although Kaká is still waiting for Cristiano to pick up. Then she kisses Kaká on the cheek and goes upstairs to bed. Kaká wonders sometimes how she seems to know everything about him, even the things he will never find the words to tell her, and he loves her all the more for it. He listens to the sound of her footsteps on the stairs, and then is pulled back by a click and then a tired-sounding greeting from the other end of the line.
“Hello? Kaká?” Cristiano repeats, impatient now because Kaká has not responded quickly enough.
“Good game today,” Kaká says.
“You watched?” Cristiano asks.
“When I can, I try to,” Kaká replies.
“Me too,” Cristiano says. “You, I mean.” Which is different, because Cristiano has never played for AC Milan. Kaká doesn’t watch his former teammates, for the most part. He keeps track of them and sends texts when they have important matches, but when he sits down to watch a match it’s São Paulo, or Milan, or now Madrid, or just whatever’s on. “Ricky?” Cristiano says, impatient again.
“I’m here,” Kaká tells him. They talk for a while about nothing important, and when Cristiano’s speech gets slow, accent thickening until Kaká must strain to understand him, Kaká tells him to hang up and get some sleep.
“Okay,” Cristiano agrees. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
+
They text a few times in the following weeks, but they don’t actually talk again until the second group stage game between Milan and Madrid. The match is mostly a formality; it is statistically unlikely that Milan, even if they lose, will drop out of second place in the group and into the playoff round, and equally unlikely that they will pass Madrid to top the group even if they win. Still, they go in determined, and Madrid has the same determination. Balotelli scores just after the 20 minute mark, and Sergio Ramos heads in a corner to equalise just eight minutes later.
In the tunnel, when the teams are waiting to go back out to the field after halftime, Kaká is leaning against a wall when Cristiano comes over, puts his hands against the concrete on either side of Kaká’s head. Kaká tips forward and slides his arms around Cristiano’s waist, under his warmup jacket. Cristiano lifts his hands from the wall and buries them in Kaká’s hair as Kaká rubs his cheek against Cristiano’s neck. Kaká notices a few of his teammates looking at them curiously when they separate, but nobody at Madrid; they are all used to his and Cristiano’s odd displays of affection.
The score doesn’t change in the second half—El Shaarawy gets a shot that Iker manages to save with a diving punch, and Cristiano drills a free kick just a few inches high of the net, and with the score tied at 1 to 1 the referee blows his whistle in the 92nd minute.
This time, Kaká gives his shirt to Casemiro and congratulates the young Brasilian on his first team contract, takes the white jersey in return. This time, he doesn’t look for Cristiano on the pitch but he does go to the home team dressing room.
“Our flight isn’t until tomorrow afternoon,” Kaká informs the Madrid team, his eyes focused on Cristiano.
“Great,” Sergio says from one corner. “We’ll go out, no?” They make plans to meet up, and Kaká finds Sergio, Cristiano, Marcelo, Albiol and Arbeloa waiting for him later that evening. He makes introductions—Mexés, Abate, and everybody knows Mario, and then Sergio leads them down an alleyway and into a bar.
“So when do you play Juventus?” Arbeloa is asking a few minutes later.
“Two weeks,” Kaká answers. “I’ll say hello for everyone,” he adds, and Albio nods. Kaká feels a nudge at his side and he scoots over a few inches to allow Cristiano half of the bar stool he is sitting on.
“C’è una sede qui,” Mario says to Kaká, nodding at Cristiano and gesturing at an empty stool between himself and Albiol.
“Lui sta bene,” Kaká replies, and then Mario is distracted by Sergio asking him in halting English about his time at Manchester City.
They stay at the bar for a while but when Marcelo suggests they change locations to a nearby discoteca, Kaká takes the occasion to say that he is tired. Kaká is not surprised when Cristiano yawns and decides that he isn’t up for clubbing tonight and maybe he and Kaká can share a cab back in the direction of Milan’s hotel and Cristiano’s house, and nobody else seems surprised by his declaration either. Kaká says his goodbyes to the Madrid players, Cristiano excluded, and tells his own teammates he’ll see them in the morning. The rest of the group walk off toward the lights and sounds of the discoteca and steps out into the street to hail a cab. Kaká keeps a watchful eye on the cars careening around the corner, in case he should have to pull Cristiano back and out of harm’s way.
“Your house and my hotel are in two different directions.”
“Yeah,” Cristiano agrees, He sounds tired, looks it too, but Kaká doesn’t think sleep is what is roughening the timbre of his voice. A car pulls over and Cristiano pulls the baseball cap he’s been wearing low on his forehead, shielding his eyes. They get into the cab and Cristiano gives the cab driver his address; if the man recognises either of them he doesn’t say anything, just begins to drive out of the centre of the city and toward La Finca. Cristiano slumps back against the seat, creeps a hand up the inside of Kaká’s thigh until Kaká squirms and grabs Cristiano’s hand with both of his, intertwines their fingers.
Outside of the house Cristiano pays the driver quickly and Kaká follows him through the front gate and up to the front door, shifting from one foot to the other as Cristiano taps in the security code in the panel on the side of the door. The house is dark, Cristiano mumbling something about his mother and sister taking his son back to Portugal for a few days.
Inside, Kaká reaches for the wall behind him, fumbles for a light switch he knows must be nearby. As a chandelier above them turns on, Cristiano takes a step toward Kaká, and Kaká puts out a hand to hold him back. He looks at Cristiano.
This is what Cristiano looks like when he isn’t captured by the lenses of photographers and paparazzi, when he isn’t lit up by the floodlights of the Bernabeu, and Kaká memorises it to take home with him: his eyes crinkle at the corners; his hair is messy, smushed down by the hat he has now removed and tossed onto a table further down the hallway; his lips are pursed, maybe in frustration at Kaká’s examination, but when he opens his mouth to speak Kaká covers it with his own.
Cristiano kisses him back hard, winds his arms around Kaká, fingers bunching up the fabric of Kaká’s shirt then dropping lower, pressing dimples into Kaká’s back. Then he pulls away, looks at Kaká in the same searching way Kaká had been looking at Cristiano a few moments before.
“I missed you,” Cristiano says, eyes wide and voice raw, like the words are tearing out of him.
Kaká gathers him in again, smooths his palms down Cristiano’s back, kisses his forehead, his eyelids, his mouth. “I know,” he says, “I know."