Chapter Text
Life is strange.
Yesterday, I was with my family in Tenerife, on a short break, catching up with all the stories I had missed.
Now, I'm driving to my first ever training camp with the national team.
I was running down the streets I've known all my life, when Luis Enrique called me. When he hung up, I ran right back home.
My breath was short, but my smile wide.
"Luis Enrique called me," I said, screaming, pushing the front door open.
Fer, my brother, was the first to catch up from where he was, sitting at the kitchen table. From where they all were, in fact, having breakfast.
"Wait-"
"I'm in the national team," I was practically bouncing on my feet at this point.
Mama squealed happily, jumping to her feet and hugging me close, despite all the sweat. Fer came smashing into us, while my father clapped silently, a proud smile on his face.
"Pedri, it's so great," she said enthusiastically. "You deserve it so much!"
"God, I was getting out of things to brag about to my friends," Fer patted the top of my head.
"Idiot," I muttered but smiled.
And just like that, I was to leave the next day for a full two weeks with the spanish national team.
I couldn't quite believe it.
In fact, I still can't, even though I can see the facility growing bigger and bigger through the windshield.
Me, Pedri González, from Las Palmas, second division. Me, who signed to Barcelona only a few months ago. Me, who used to kick balls at the wall in the garden, back in Tenerife. Me, who will soon be part of a team full of people I've always admired.
I'm in for a two weeks camp for the Spanish National team.
The training facility is just as huge as I thought it would be.
I park and brace myself. I can't help the little twinge of anxiety in my chest. It's not something I'm used to, but more something I'll have to get accustomed to, for sure.
I get out, grabbing my suitcase and make my way inside.
Half the team is already there, chatting and laughing loudly. I recognise some of my teammates from Barcelona, so I put on a smile and go towards them, greeting them.
"Pedri," Jordi Alba exclaims. "Good break?" He smiles lightly.
I can't say I'm very close to him when playing in Barcelona, but Jordi is nice and easy to talk to.
"Yeah, spent some time with my family," I relax a bit. "You?"
"Same," he answers.
The conversation flows easily after that.
I try to take it all in. The spacious hallway, the players catching up with one another, suitcases everywhere, the soft music playing in the background. The faces of my teammates, how everyone congratulates me on making it in the first team, even some of the players I used to admire. That I admire still, really.
A few minutes later, Luis Enrique invites us in a conference room.
"So, welcome to all of you," he starts once everyone is sat on uncomfortable plastic chairs. "Welcome to our old players and welcome to our new one," his eyes find mine. "Today, we will be-"
But what we will do, we won't know soon enough, as Ferran Torres barks into the room.
"Sorry," he catches his cap that was falling from his head, putting it back on, suitcases in hands. "Sorry I'm late, traffic was horrible."
Half of the team laughs, clearly used to this. Luis Enrique pinches the bridge of his nose, but I don't miss the curve of his lips. A faint smile pulls at my lips, too, seeing the situation.
"Welcome back, Ferran, please take a seat," he says patiently.
Ferran straighten, taking on the serious act. "Of course, sir."
His eyes meet mine for a fraction of seconds as he walks up the aisle, bumping his suitcases in a few chairs as more laughs escape from the players.
"So, as I was saying," Luis picks up when everyone is settled. "Today, we'll let you the morning off to unpack into your quarters. Lunch is at twelve. Don't be late. At one thirty, we'll start by running some tests and then light training before dinner."
Silence fills the room. I feel the atmosphere has shifted. If everyone was all fun and laughter before, now every player is focused, ready.
"Questions?" Luis asks.
No one speaks.
"Off you go, then," he smiles lightly at us all.
I'm quick to settle into my room. I didn't bring much. So once every clothes hangs in the wardrobe and my bed is made, I find myself waiting, wondering if I should get out and find someone to talk to, to meet the players with who I've never had a chance to talk to yet.
But then I think it would be nice to nap before the tests, this afternoon.
So I take off my shoes, grab an oversized sweatshirt and put an alarm to be ready for lunch.
Just like that, sleep finds me easily, as if it was all I ever needed.
When I wake up, though, it's not because my phone is ringing, but because there is banging on my door, as if someone was dying on the other side. Sighing and rubbing the sleep off my eyes, I get up and walk to the door.
"God, Pedri, I thought you were dead or something," Jordi says, relieved, as soon as I open the door.
And that is just why, I don't stick with him in Barcelona.
"I thought you were the one dying, hearing how you knocked," I quirk a brow at him, unfazed.
He chuckles awkwardly, looking sideways. It's then, that I realise he's not alone on my doorstep. Ferran is beside him, looking at me with an amused look.
"Well, lunch is in twenty minutes," he offers as an explanation, still chuckling.
"I had an alarm set for fifteen minutes before, but thank you, I guess." I tried really hard to not let my eyes wander towards Ferran because, for some reason, knowing him there, looking at my disheveled self, freshly woken up from a nap, is making me self conscious. "I'll be there in five."
I close the door on them.
Sighing, I rub my eyes once more before putting my shoes back on. I take off my old sweatshirt and put on something more presentable, fix my hair quickly and leave the room.
When entering the cafeteria, I try not to spot Jordi again and sit somewhere else, pretending to be unaware of where he's sitting.
The table is soon to be full with players as well as plates.
We all eat, talking about nothing and everything really, before the conversation takes a turn I would've preferred it did not.
"So, first time here," someone says from my left.
I nod. "Obviously."
"Media's are really optimistic about you," someone on my right, this time, chimes in.
"So is Enrique," another says.
"And so is Barcelona, signing such a young boy," someone says more quietly, like a joke that isn't. Not really.
I know they don't intend to be mean, or to irritate me, but it does anyway. Even if I know they're just trying to create some kind of bond with me.
"People tend to be way more optimistic than what's realistic," I shrug, taking a forkful of whatever's in my plate.
"But somehow you manage to keep up with their optimist expectations," Jordi says loudly from the other side of the table, siding with me.
"I'm happy we get some fresh blood," someone says. I hear a few hum in agreement, and the conversation moves on as if nothing happened.
I continue eating, making small talk with the others close to me, but mostly I keep to myself.
Deep down, I don't quite feel like I belong here. And not just because I don't know everyone yet, but because I feel there's an entire world difference in between the football I play and the one they play. They have so much more experience.
I feel small, like the nineteen year old boy I am. I feel too much and not enough at the same time, which is strange because I'm used to feeling like I belong wherever I go. But there it is, the sinking and stressful feeling in my chest, curling in my stomach and trapping my breath in my throat.
"You're the quiet kind," someone says suddenly.
"What?" I look up quickly, heat burning my cheeks as I find myself looking to the person speaking.
"I said you're really quiet," Ferran repeats, gesturing to everyone else, speaking and laughing loudly. "Not like them."
My first instinct is to shrug. Then I register what has just been said. "I guess I am."
Ferran smiles but it's small. I feel his eyes on every inch of my face, as if studying me.
I look away before he does.
Luckily for me, the rest of lunch goes by fast and without any more strange interaction with anyone. Soon enough, we're running on treadmills, masks on, our blood is taken, we lift weight, our eyes and ears are checked, as well as everything else.
Practice with everyone later is indeed light, and it helps me regain confidence in the fact that I'm not that far behind.
I talk more with most of my new teammates, even though I mostly stick with the lads I know from Barcelona. But it feels more like I belong.
Just a bit more, but enough to make it easy to play again and to focus without feeling the eyes of everyone looking at me like the young boy I am, pressing expectations on me.
Then Luis' whistle blows the session away.
Everyone clasps each other's back, muttering words of encouragement for the work that still has to be done in the week ahead, the fatigue coming down on us.
"I want everyone in a cold bath and sauna before dinner." Luis says before leaving us on the pitch.
But I have other plans.
I linger too long on the bench, sipping water, tying and untying my shoes, until everyone has left.
Then I grab a ball and work some more on drills.
It is a routine I've become used to, in Barcelona; the extra training.
By the time I'm done, the sun is down and there is no queue to the iced bath nor the sauna. My body is sore but it feels good, so I sigh in relief.
I've done the work good again, today.