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When Gavi went down, Robert’s heart went with him.
Because Gavi was clutching his left leg. His left leg, where he’d torn his ACL two years ago.
The expression on Gavi’s face as he walked off—the way he was barely holding back tears—crushed Robert in ways he couldn’t articulate, because that was his boy. His boy, who worked so hard to get back on the field.
Robert waited thirty minutes after the game ended before calling, though it felt like hours. He’d planned to wait a bit more, wanting to make sure Gavi was alone—or as alone as he could be—before calling, but he folded. Robert simply couldn’t wait any longer.
Gavi answered on the first ring.
“Robert,” he breathed, voice small and shaky. He sounded relieved.
Robert had to close his eyes and take a deep breath before responding, lest his voice mirror Gavi’s; and his boy didn’t need that.
Not right now.
“It’s me, little one,” Robert said gently.
A sniffle. “Robert,” Gavi repeated, voice cracking at the end.
“Shh,” Robert said. He wished he could take Gavi into his arms and just hold him. God, did he wish it. “It’s okay, kochanie. Just breathe for me.”
A broken sob—one that tore at Robert’s heart strings like nothing else. “I can’t,” Gavi gasped. “I can’t, I can’t, I—”
“You can, and you will,” Robert said, tone gentle yet firm. “You’re going to take a deep breath for me. Then you’re going to hold it for a few seconds, and then you’re going to exhale nice and slow.”
“Robert—”
“Gavi,” he interrupted, voice leaving no room for argument. “Do what I told you, okay? Be good for me.”
The tone accomplished what Robert hoped they would—he heard Gavi follow his order immediately.
“Again,” Robert said.
Gavi did it again.
“Once more.”
Gavi did it once more.
“Good boy,” Robert whispered once Gavi’s breathing slowed down a bit, and the boy’s answering whimper was one of an entirely different kind. “Now, are you okay?”
A shaky laugh. “Define okay.”
Robert simultaneously addressed his words and didn’t in his response. “You’re strong, little one,” he said. “One of the strongest I’ve ever met.”
Another quiet sob escaped Gavi. “But I don’t want to be,” Gavi cried. “I don’t want to be strong. I want to play without getting hurt. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair.”
Then the sobs really let loose, and it was all Robert could do not to follow Gavi in them; not to let his sadness take him too.
Because Gavi wasn’t wrong—this wasn’t fair. His boy had worked so hard to come back, and yet he wasn’t even able to finish playing the entire first half before needing to come off.
“Have you spoken to the doctors?” Robert asked after a few moments. “Have you been checked out?”
A rustling sound, as if Gavi was wiping his tears away. “No, I’m still waiting,” he said, voice shaky. “Pedri’s been with me, but he went out into the hall when you called. Probably to talk to Ferran.”
Robert’s felt a brief pang of sadness at the thought of those two.
Barcelona fumbled by letting go of Ferran, and Robert certainly couldn’t blame the boy for leaving—not with the way he’d been treated. If anything, Robert was proud of Ferran for standing up for himself, despite how much he wished the kid never needed to do so in the first place.
The kid’s debut couldn’t have gone better. Maybe Robert should send him a message of congratulations.
But that was for another time—right now, he had Gavi to think about.
“Are you in any pain right now?” he asked.
Gavi huffed a laugh. “Not really,” he admitted. “But I’ve had it on ice for a little while, so it’s still kinda numb.”
That explained why Gavi was still waiting, at least—you can’t check for pain levels when you can’t even feel the area at all.
It was ridiculous, just how badly Robert wanted to tell his boy that everything would be fine; that everything would work out. But he couldn’t.
Because he didn’t know that. He couldn’t know that. And Robert would be damned if he ever made a promise to Gavi that he wasn’t absolutely positive he could keep.
All Robert could do was hope.