Title: Phone Call
Pairing: Esteban Granero, Juan Mata, mentions of Jose Callejon, Antonio Adan and Jose Mourinho and a very tiny mention of Sergio Ramos and Fernando Torres
Summary: Esteban receives a special call from someone after the Real Madrid v Bayern Munich UCL 2011-12 semi final game.
Warning: Un-beta’ed. This is also my very first footie fanfic and my first fanfic in a long, long, long time. I’m extremely rusty. Please be kind.
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Right after the game, Esteban stays behind. All his teammates left within two hours after the game with the same heavy heart. He feels doesn’t have to leave, at least not yet.
He lies down on the bench in the locker room, occupying Karim, Mesut and Marcelo’s now empty space to stretch his legs.
All sorts of things go through his mind as he stares up the blank ceiling. What went wrong, what went right, what could have gone better, what they should have done, and most importantly what may happen in the coming weeks. Certainly they would be focused on the Liga, now that they were in the home stretch with 4 games left to play and the worst, namely the Clasico away at Camp Nou, over. There was no use crying over La Decima. It will come. This season was probably not the time yet.
Inside his gym bag, his phone rings unexpectedly, interrupting his train of thought. Without any hesitation, he grabs the bag from the floor and finds his phone.
“I’m fine, mom,” he answers without changing his position.
“Oh, hello to you too,” the other person answers. “And, as you might have guessed, I’m not your mother.”
“Juanin?” Esteban sits up fast and bumps his head on the dividers between 11 and 12.
“Really, idiot, we’ve been friends since 15 and you can’t remember my voice?”
“Sorry, I’ve been thinking”
“As usual. Which, by the way is why I called.”
“What, to gloat?”
“No, crazy. I was hoping to see you and Jose and Toni in Munich.”
“Sorry about that.”
“You’re over it so soon?”
“Not really. Just resigned to the fact that what’s done is done.”
“I thought hipsters didn’t like using clichés?”
There was a bit of silence.
“Congratulations by the way on getting to the final,” Esteban starts again.
“Thanks. You should have been there when we played at Camp Nou.”
“Are you kidding? I would have laughed at your faces with your tactics. Then Terry would have given me worse than a knee to my butt.”
“Hahaha. But a win is still a win right? You guys know how it feels with your game last Saturday.”
“Don’t forget to support Bayern in the finals.”
There is another pregnant pause. This time though, it’s Juan who breaks it.
“Do you like it there?”
“Where, in Madrid?”
“Yeah. With the first team.”
“You’re still asking that question? Of course I do.”
Esteban pauses a bit before reply, knowing that the question implied something, coming from Juan. “Are you recruiting me to join Chelsea or do you want me to recruit you?”
“Are you willing to leave?”
“If they sell me, I guess I have no choice.”
Still another pause.
Esteban knows what Juan is thinking. He doesn’t mention Valencia. Instead thinks of what was different between them. “I’ll ask Mourinho tomorrow if he can buy your contract for next season.”
“You wouldn’t do that. Besides, there’s too many midfielders in your squad.”
“I know. But someone might be leaving.”
“I doubt it.”
“I still would, you know.”
“Thanks. But I’m ok.”
“Do you like it there in London?”
“Of course. Chelsea is great.”
“I was just thinking about the old days in the cantera.”
“Oh. So you’re just jealous of the three of us.”
“You totally are.”
“Now it’s my turn to say shut up.”
“Actually, I wish you were playing with us.”
There is a pause for the fourth time.
“I hope you trounce Bayern in the final. And Liverpool in the FA Cup.”
“Ooh, what would Xabi say if he heard that?”
“And Arbeloa, don’t forget.”
“Right. Anyway, I KNOW you’ll win the Liga.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“We miss you, Juanin.”
“I miss you, Esteban.”
Esteban smiles. “I’ll see you soon, right?”
Esteban almost hits the red button to end the conversation.
“Oh wait. Fernando told me to tell Sergio he misses him.”
“Really. Bye Esteban. See you soon.”
In London, Juan Mata says to his empty apartment, “Hala Madrid!”