Chapter Text
March 2014. The Valdebebas training ground woke up under a cloudless blue sky, soaked in that scent of freshly cut grass and warming cream that permeated the training pitches. Real Madrid was flying high in La Liga and the Champions League, but on the training pitch, the atmosphere breathed a different kind of tension.
Carlo Ancelotti observed the morning session from behind dark sunglasses, chewing his gum at a tired, steady rhythm. Beside him, Zinedine Zidane rested a foot on a ball, jotting down notes in his pad.
Suddenly, it happened again.
Sergio Ramos intercepted a ball. Without lifting his head, without adjusting his stride, and without even looking toward the wing, he unleashed a crisp pass measured to the exact millimeter. On the other side of the pitch, Luka Modrić didn't have to adjust his run by a single step, the ball fell softly onto his instep as if drawn by a magnet. Without breaking stride, the Croat returned a one touch wall pass with the outside of his boot, completely shredding the opposition's pressing line.
On the touchline, Ancelotti froze. His left eyebrow slowly rose until it nearly touched his hairline.
"Zizou..." Ancelotti said without stopping chewing. "We didn't practice that on the whiteboard this morning."
"It's just the talent of great players, Carlo," Zidane replied with a calm smile.
"No, Zizou. That isn't talent," the Italian declared, shaking his head. Luka knows exactly where Sergio is half a second before Sergio even decides to pass. They aren't looking at the ball, they're looking at each other. They're practicing a secret scheme behind my back."
Across the pitch, completely unaware of the coaching staff's gaze, Sergio and Luka jogged side by side in defensive transition.
To the rest of the world, it was pure footballing chemistry. To them, it was the result of months of learning to read each other's bodies without needing a single word.
While jogging, Sergio reached out and slapped Luka's neck firmly, letting his hand linger a second extra on the sweaty skin of his nape.
"Good pass, blondie," Sergio muttered, his deep voice lost in the clatter of studs on the grass.
"The pass was bad, Sergio. If I don't run, Pepe intercepts it," Luka replied without looking at him, though the corner of his lips curved into a slight smile. "Your mind is somewhere else."
"My mind is on the fact that we haven't been alone for more than ten minutes in three days," the Andalusian retorted, bumping his shoulder against Luka's in a subtle nudge. "And today it's your turn to find a spot."
Luka felt a spark of adrenaline shoot down his legs. Playing for the biggest club in the world under the lens of a hundred TV cameras was a challenge, but maintaining that clandestine electricity in the middle of their daily routine was what truly kept them alive.
Luka glanced out of the corner of his eye toward the touchline and noticed Ancelotti staring intently at them.
"Dissemble a bit, Sergio. The gaffer won't stop staring," Luka whispered, quickening his pace to join the rondo.
"Let him stare all he wants," Sergio smirked with that innate swagger. "As long as he doesn't find out what we practice after we shower, the Champions League is ours."
That same afternoon, after the press conference, Ancelotti decided to take action. He closed his private office door, poured three cups of double espresso, and brought in the two men he trusted most to maintain locker room order. Iker Casillas, the historical captain, and Xabi Alonso, the team's tactical brain.
"Guys, we have a strategic discipline problem," Ancelotti began, resting his palms on the desk. "Sergio and Luka are practicing unauthorized automatisms. I want you to watch them this afternoon. Find out what scheme they're preparing and bring me the report."
Iker Casillas blinked, holding his coffee cup halfway to his mouth.
"Sergio and Luka? Boss, if those two do anything together, it's just drinking coffee, and Luka barely speaks while Sergio just talks all day like a parrot."
"Iker," the Italian frowned. "Investigate."
If anyone in the squad was capable of taking a spying order with hilarious, over the top seriousness, it was Xabi Alonso. Twenty minutes later, equipped with a black notebook, the Basque midfielder walked the Valdebebas corridors with the rigid posture of a detective. He dragged along Iker Casillas, who just wanted to go home and rest.
"Come on, Xabi, please," Iker sighed, trying ridiculously to hide behind a giant potted plant in the central hallway. "The press will see us through the glass. We're the captains of the Spanish national team, what are we doing stalking Modrić through the facility?"
"Silence, Iker," Xabi whispered, adjusting his jacket with tactical elegance. "The synchronization in the buildup play isn't normal. Look over there."
At the end of the hallway, Sergio and Luka were walking slowly. Sergio had a heavy arm draped over the Croat's shoulders, ruffling his blonde hair while Luka laughed softly.
"See how he talks in his ear?" Xabi analyzed, jotting down points in his notebook. "He's marking the diagonal for corner kicks. They're heading toward hydrotherapy and saunas. The physio staff has already left. It's the perfect place for a secret tactical meeting."
While Xabi and Iker crept along the wall, dodging kitmen who stared at them in bewilderment, inside the sauna area, the atmosphere was completely different.
The heat of the steam sauna was dense, impregnated with a strong eucalyptus aroma that dulled the senses. The lighting was dim, barely illuminating the white mist that covered the room.
Luka was sitting on the upper stone bench, wearing only a white towel wrapped around his waist. His eyes were closed and his head was leaned back against the warm tile, trying to relieve the neck tension from training.
He heard Sergio's footsteps enter the room. The Andalusian closed the glass door behind him, shutting out the noise of the outside world. He walked over slowly, took the towel off his shoulders, and stood right between Luka's open legs.
"Are you exhausted?" Sergio said softly, placing his large, warm hands on Luka's thighs.
Luka opened his eyes and looked up at him. Sergio's beard was wet from the steam, and the dim light outlined his shoulders and chest tattoos. The Croat sighed, letting his hands slide up Sergio's waist to tangle his fingers in his nape.
"It's the matches, Sergio. And the pressure. I feel like everyone is watching us every second," Luka confessed in a whisper, pulling the defender a little closer.
"Then let them watch," Sergio replied, leaning down to rest his forehead against Luka's. "In here there are no cameras, no press, no president. In here, it's just you and me."
Sergio leaned in further and sought Luka's mouth. It was a slow, deep kiss, laden with the accumulated exhaustion of the week and the wild relief of not having to pretend. Sergio's hands moved down to the Croat's back, pressing him against his chest with possessive strength, making Luka let out a soft moan between Sergio's lips.
Right at that moment, outside the door, Xabi Alonso pressed his ear to the wooden frame.
"Listen," Xabi whispered to Iker. "They're talking about positioning."
From inside, muffled by the hiss of steam, Sergio's deep voice echoed:
"I told you, if you stick so close to me you throw me off, blondie. You've got my head somewhere else the whole match."
And Luka's response came back clear:
"If I don't stick close to you, you get lost, Sergio. You need me to set the tempo."
Xabi looked at Iker wide eyed, nodding smugly.
"Hear that? They're talking about zonal marking and tempo control. Told you. Carlo is a genius at analyzing patterns. I'm going in to confiscate the notebook where they drew the plays."
Without waiting for Iker, Xabi Alonso pushed open the glass door of the sauna all at once, bursting into the room with his notebook raised high.
"Aha! I knew you were practicing the buildup out of—!"
Xabi's sentence froze dramatically in mid-air. The notebook slipped from his fingers, hitting the wet floor with a dull thud.
Iker Casillas, right behind him ready to act as mediator, slammed to a halt, crashing straight into Xabi's back.
Inside the sauna, the scene had absolutely nothing to do with sports whiteboards.
Sergio Ramos wasn't showing off a playbook. He was sitting on the stone bench, completely pinned against the wall by Luka Modrić, who was straddling his lap with legs wrapped behind the Andalusian's back. Sergio's hands were firmly locked onto the Croat's hips, while Luka's hands held Sergio's face. Both were visibly disheveled, their skin shining with sweat and their lips swollen from kissing.
The silence that fell over the sauna was so dense that the only sound was the constant hiss of water on hot stones.
The four men froze.
For a second, Luka panicked. He stared wide eyed at Xabi Alonso. But before he could awkwardly pull away, Sergio's hand on his hip tightened firmly, keeping him in his lap protectively, refusing to show a single trace of guilt or shame.
Sergio cleared his throat, wrapped an arm around Luka's bare back to shield him from their gaze, and turned his attention to the two captains with the defiant composure of someone who just scored a stoppage time winner.
"Lost something in the sauna, fellas?" Sergio asked, his voice deeper and slower than usual.
"We... Carlo..." Xabi Alonso stammered. The man of eloquent speeches and Germanic elegance felt his brain short-circuit. "Carlo said... the practiced play... the buildup out of the back..."
"The buildup is just fine, Xabi," Sergio Ramos interrupted, a slight smirk playing on his lips while Luka hid his face in the Andalusian's neck for a second to stifle a sudden laugh. "Thing is, the blondie and I have our own methods for understanding each other on the pitch. You got a problem with our training?"
Iker Casillas reacted fast. He grabbed Xabi Alonso by the jacket sleeve with the grip of a drowning man.
"None at all. Zero problems. Impeccable physical output," Iker declared at top speed, hauling Xabi backward out of the sauna. "We're leaving. We didn't see anything. If anyone asks, you two were doing deep hamstring stretches."
Iker slammed the glass door shut, leaving Sergio and Luka alone again in the dim steam.
Inside, Luka let his head fall onto Sergio's shoulder, letting out a stifled laugh that shook his whole body.
"They're going to kill us, Sergio..." Luka said, shaking his head.
"Let them try," Sergio smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his sweaty cheek. "We're winning on Saturday anyway."
Ten minutes later, Ancelotti's office was a temple of anticipation. The Italian manager paced back and forth, awaiting the verdict of his two locker room elders. The door opened. Iker and Xabi entered. Xabi held a damp notebook with his gaze lost on the floor; Iker's forehead was covered in a cold sweat.
Ancelotti stopped, adjusted his jacket, and stared. His left eyebrow raised to a challenging height once more. "Well..." Carlo demanded. "What play were they preparing? An indirect screen? A diagonal run for the fullbacks?"
Xabi Alonso looked at Iker. Iker gave him a terrified look that said if you open your mouth, the locker room explodes this afternoon. Xabi swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and adopted his most professional tone.
"Boss... we analyzed the situation on the pitch and across the facilities," Xabi began, measuring every syllable. "There is no tactical scheme drawn on paper."
"What do you mean there isn't?" Ancelotti protested, narrowing his eyes. "The chemistry on the pitch is ridiculous! They understand each other without looking!"
"It's... a matter of biological chemistry, Carlo," Iker chimed in, desperately trying to salvage the situation. "A personal synchronization. Deeply personal. They align very closely on a human level. And that carries onto the grass."
Carlo Ancelotti observed them in total silence for a long minute. He shifted his gaze from Iker's rattled face to Xabi's military rigidity. The italian let out a long sigh, chewed his gum twice methodically, and poured another cup of coffee.
"Are you telling me there's nothing I can draw on the whiteboard for Sunday's match?" Carlo asked calmly.
"Definitely not, boss," Xabi assured with absolute certainty. "If you try to draw that on the whiteboard, UEFA will suspend us all."
Ancelotti slowly lowered his eyebrow, closed his eyes for a second accepting the surreal reality of the Real Madrid dressing room, and took a sip of coffee. "Fair enough," the Italian muttered, staring at the ceiling. "As long as they don't lose their man at the far post... let them train their way."