"Oh, look at him."
Inside a large mansion in the Madrid suburbs, a Movistar broadcast was playing on the largest screen in the main living room. The post-match interview from the Camp Nou was still rolling, Mateo King walking back toward the tunnel after his answer, and somebody on the sofa was very much pissed.
"He is taking the piss now, isn't he."
"BABE."
The voice came sharp from beside him.
Pilar Ramos was sitting on the end of the long sofa, the youngest son in her arms, and one of her hands was pressed gently but firmly over the ear of the toddler in her lap. Her eyes were on her husband. Her eyebrows were doing what everyone who had ever dated a lady or married long enough knows when they had crossed a line and wanted him to register the crossing before she had to do anything about it, It was a look not just exclusive for girlfriends or wives as mothers always used it too.
Sergio Ramos saw her look.
His face changed immediately.
"Oh, baby. I did not—" Almost as if to mock him with impeccable timing, his product struck,
"Taking the piss! Taking the piss!"
The voice came from somewhere near the floor.
A six-year-old in a singlet and boxers was bouncing up and down on the rug in front of the television. He was repeating the phrase with the specific gleeful repetition of a kid who had just learned a word and had located, with instant accuracy, the exact word the adults did not want him to be saying.
"JUNIOR!"
Pilar's voice cracked across the room.
"Junior, stop saying that! Right now!"
"Hahahaha."
The laugh came from the armchair across from the sofa. A man in his forties, older than Sergio by a handful of years, with the same jawline and a small grey beginning at the temples, was throwing his head back with the unrestrained laughter of a brother who had been waiting his whole life for this exact moment to occur in his sibling's living room.
Sergio groaned. He put one hand over his face.
He stood up.
"Taking the piss. Ah, ah. Daddy said it. Number two!"
Junior and his brother Marco, the five-year-old, who was just a year younger, were both now laughing, jumping, slapping each other on the arms with the loose chaos of small boys who knew they had momentum and were going to ride it until somebody stopped them.
Sergio passed the armchair on his way to deal with the situation.
His older brother was still laughing.
Sergio grabbed a pillow from the nearest chair and threw it at him.
René caught it one-handed, still laughing.
"What did I do?"
"Not helping," Sergio said.
He turned and faced the music.
Pilar was holding the toddler Maximo with both arms now, since Junior had broken free and Marco was still hanging off one of her wrists. Alejandro, the third born, was standing slightly to the side with the quiet observer's posture of a middle child who had decided that staying out of this particular round of chaos was the wise choice.
"Let go, let go, I want to go play."
"Mom, I will show you my power!"
"Mom, you said we could watch Minions!"
"Yeah, Dad was the one who changed it to football!"
The volume was rising.
Pilar was staring at Sergio.
Junior, the six-year-old, finally got both hands free from her grip. He turned and bolted.
"Hahahahaha!"
He was already running.
"Junior!"
Pilar shouted it.
Sergio could not help it. He smiled. The kid sprinted past him on the way out of the living room, arms up, voice at full volume.
"You are not taking me alive! Hahahaha!"
Marco, still trapped on Pilar's wrist, started wailing.
"Nooo, do not leave me, take me with youuu!"
Sergio watched it. The smile was there for a second and then it disappeared when he turned back and found his wife's eyes again. They had not stopped staring. He swallowed.
Pilar exhaled.
Her voice came out at half volume, loud enough to carry to him but more loud enough to carry to herself.
"Boys."
The single word held everything she was thinking.
Sergio laughed. It came out drier than he intended.
"You were the one who wanted to keep trying for a girl."
Her eyes snapped open at him.
He started fake-laughing immediately, the apology already arriving in his hands.
"Let me help you take them up to—"
"No."
She cut him off cleanly.
She looked at the sofa.
"That will not be necessary. You should get accustomed to your bed for the night while I go deal with your spawns."
The laughter from the armchair behind him was instant.
Sergio groaned and fell back onto the sofa.
"Arghhh."
"Heh. Heh heh."
René was giggling. Actually giggling. He moved from the armchair to the empty space beside Sergio on the sofa.
"Okay. Now I am so glad I came tonight. Hahaha."
Sergio turned his head to look at him. He was frowning.
"What are you even doing here?"
"Well. First of all, from the look of things, sitting on your bed tonight for starters."
He started laughing again. Sergio turned his head back to the side and stared at the ceiling, the specific dignity of a man who had decided to outlast the joke through silence.
The laughter slowly settled.
René breathed.
"Okay. For real. For real. I came because I have something important to talk to you about."
Sergio turned back.
He looked at his brother.
The face had changed. The laughter was gone. René was looking at him with the directness that arrived only when he was not being the older brother in the room anymore. He was being the agent.
Sergio sat up.
"What is going on."
René was quiet for a second.
"There is no easy way to say this."
He breathed.
"The negotiations with the club."
Sergio looked at him.
"Is it the salary reduction?"
He waved his hand.
"I already told you. Whatever the amount. I am down. Whatever they need to do, I am willing."
René shook his head.
"It is not that."
A pause.
"Madrid have no intention of signing you over one year."
Sergio stared at him.
"That is not possible."
He sat up fully. He put one foot on the floor. His hands had moved without him deciding to move them.
"Did you tell them all I am asking for is a two-year extension?"
"Sergio."
"Did you tell them?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
"They said they are planning for reconstruction. They cannot offer over a single year."
Sergio stood up.
"No."
He said it quietly first. He started moving. His hand went up to his head. He turned in a small circle in front of the sofa and faced his brother again.
"No, no."
René was watching him.
"They looked serious, Sergio. They are not budging from that stance."
Sergio stared at him.
"Perez said this?"
René shook his head.
"They said the president was too busy to attend the talks. All my conversations were with Sanchez."
Sergio went still.
He knew exactly what that meant.
The president was not too busy. Florentino Perez had never been too busy for the captain of his football club for fifteen years. If the president had not attended the talks, the president had chosen not to attend the talks. The choice was the message. The renewal that had been the centre of Sergio Ramos's professional life since he had arrived at this club was no longer the centre of anybody else's.
His face went somewhere it had not gone in front of his brother in a long time.
He sat back down.
He started laughing. A small dry sound that had no humour in it.
"First the national team. Now this?"
René did not say anything. He just kept looking at him.
Sergio's voice came back. Louder this time.
"Too busy? For me? Last season, when everything was shit, I fucking carried that club."
He turned to his brother. His face was lit with something that was not yet rage but was on its way there.
"Second."
He held up two fingers in front of René's face.
"Second highest goal scorer in the entire squad. The entire squad. Defender. I was the only reason we won the damn league."
He scoffed.
"Reconstruction. Tch. Hahaha."
He was venting now, the words coming faster than he was choosing them, and René just sat there and let him. Sergio paced two steps and turned and paced two more. He stopped. He sat back down hard on the sofa. He closed his eyes. He breathed. In. Out. In. Out. The specific breathing of a man trying to push his heart rate back into a place it was not currently in.
René waited.
When Sergio's breathing slowed enough, René spoke.
"First thing in the morning, I will start looking for alternatives. If we leverage well, we should be able to get you a deal that is better than what you even have now."
His voice was low. Steady.
"Before news of the meeting leaks, I have already asked Sanchez to hold off. To delay the public side. I told him we are considering their offer. That buys us a window. While that window is still open, we can look at other clubs."
He paused.
"I am thinking Chelsea. United. Paris. Clubs that are willing to spend and that have the kind of league standing you can still compete at. Not a step down. A different chapter."
Sergio did not respond.
He was looking at the floor.
René watched him for a moment. Then he leaned slightly forward.
"Hey."
Sergio did not move.
"Hey. Look at me."
Sergio looked up.
René met his eyes.
"You are the greatest defender of this generation. Possibly of any generation. You have won everything there is to win in this sport. Four Champions Leagues. A World Cup. Two Euros. La Liga titles. Copa del Rey. The list does not end."
He held the eye contact.
"This is not your loss. This is their loss. You did not stop being who you are. They stopped recognising who you are. There is a difference. Hold that difference in your chest tonight. Do not let yourself carry this like it is something you did."
Sergio was looking at him.
"You are still Sergio Ramos. You will be Sergio Ramos when you walk out of that door tomorrow morning and you will be Sergio Ramos when you walk into a new dressing room at a new club. The shirt changes. The man inside it does not. They have lost you. You have not lost them. Remember which way that sentence runs."
Sergio stared.
His eyes were very red. No tears had reached the surface. He would save those for the bedroom upstairs when his wife was the only person who would see them.
He swallowed.
René smiled.
"I know, brother. I know."
Sergio's voice came out lower. Heavier. The choke present in it but controlled.
"The national team?"
René's eyes closed briefly.
"From the last thing I heard, Enrique still is not—"
Sergio's head dropped back down before René had finished the sentence.
René leaned forward.
"Hey. Hey. It is not over. I have a connect directly inside the national team coaching staff. He is doing everything he can to try and convince the head coach. There is someone there lobbying for you. The selection is not finalised. There is still time. There is still a path."
Sergio was looking at the floor.
He said something. Quietly.
"What?"
René leaned closer.
Sergio said it again.
"I am the captain."
His voice was a whisper.
He raised his head.
His voice came back stronger.
"I AM THE CAPTAIN."
René looked at him.
"Which one?"
Sergio's eyes met his brother's.
"Both."
A pause.
His voice dropped. The whisper coming back.
"I am the captain of both of those teams and yet still—"
René's face softened.
"About Real Madrid, you are right. That part is settled. They have made their decision and they are not changing it. You have to accept that and use it."
He paused.
"But the national team. That is not over. Do not carry that mentality. It is not over until you hear the call-up list and your name is not on it. Until then you fight for it. Until then it is still yours."
Sergio nodded slowly.
He shook his head once.
"I do not even get what happened."
A beat.
"It is that guy."
René frowned.
"What?"
He turned to follow Sergio's eyes.
The television was still on. The Movistar broadcast had moved past the interview and was now playing highlights of the match. Mateo King was on the screen. Two-goal scorer. Beating defenders, jumping above two centre-backs for the header, running with the ball at his feet through the Real Sociedad midfield. The clips moving in slow motion.
René watched for a second.
He knew the kid. He had been watching La Liga long enough to know the kid. He had known the kid before his brother's name had become attached to the kid's in any way.
"Well, ehm."
René hesitated.
"I am not sure the kid had anything to do with the call-up."
Sergio did not respond.
René turned back to him.
"Actually, that is something I have wanted to ask. What is the deal with you both? He was very clearly targeting you in that interview just now."
Sergio groaned.
"Oh, do not even remind me of that."
He scoffed.
"Different."
He scoffed again.
"Different."
René looked at him.
"You never said what went down between you both during the national call-up. Before."
Sergio scoffed and looked away.
"Do not worry about it. It is nothing."
René paused.
He started nodding slowly.
"Okay. Okay."
Then his face shifted slightly.
"But, Sergio. Whatever you are thinking. Do not."
Sergio looked at him.
"Come on. You also do not actually think I am beefing with a kid."
René raised one hand.
"I did not say anything."
"What need will I have to beef with a kid who hasn't even won anything "
He continued.
"All I am saying is. After your last comment. Barcelona are not playing around. They are protecting that kid viciously. They have used all of their resources to come at you on this. The fans online are not to be underestimated either. Even now, the PR team at the firm is still trying to manage what came out from the first interview. They are still having their hands full."
Sergio scoffed.
"Everyone is just sensitive. I was just giving the kid advice and they took it like it was an attack."
René looked at him.
"Right."
He dragged the word out, the sarcasm clear.
Sergio sat up properly.
"You do not trust me?"
"It does not matter what I—"
Sergio cut him off. He had pulled his phone out of his pocket. He shoved it at his brother.
"Look. Did you watch the full interview? You know how the media operates. They just took clips. They cut it. They picked the lines they wanted and they ran with them."
René pushed the phone away from his face.
"Sergio. You know as well as I do that the clips and the cuts are what matters. That is what trends. That is what people see. That is what they remember."
Sergio looked at him. The expression had gone serious.
"How can you be my manager if you do not even know what I actually said or did not say?"
René sighed.
He held out his hand.
"Let me see."
Sergio handed him the phone.
René pressed play.
The interview began.
The studio was clean and corporate, the kind of professional set Sergio Ramos was placed in for major media engagements. He was sitting forward. His hands were clasped. He had a faint smile on his face.
"Look. I have huge respect for what Mateo is doing. The kid is special. Anyone with eyes can see that. Truly special."
He nodded slowly. Affirming his own words.
"But this conversation about him being the future. The saviour. All of that. It puts a weight on a seventeen-year-old that nobody should carry alone. And I think we all forget that sometimes. Including him, maybe."
A slight pause. The smile on his lips did not reach his eyes.
"Some of these young players have two great months and suddenly the world tells them they are untouchable. That is not their fault. That is on us. The hype. The headlines. The people whispering in their ears."
He adjusted the microphone.
"I was not ready for this shirt at his age. Neither was Xavi. Neither was Iniesta. And we turned out okay. Because someone reminded us that the badge is not a reward. It is a responsibility."
Another pause. His jaw tightened just slightly.
"Mateo has all the talent in the world. Truly. But talent alone? It does not put you above anything. The pitch teaches you that. Eventually."
He leaned back. The smile returned. Warmer this time but still measured.
"I want him to succeed. I really do. The national team needs him. I just worry that the way things are going right now. The noise. The entitlement. The people around him. He might not. And that would be a shame. For all of us. But I also hope someone protects him from the people clapping the loudest today. Because those same people? They will be the first to eat him alive tomorrow."
He paused. He let it hang in the air.
He stood up. He buttoned his jacket. He added, almost as an afterthought:
"And if he ever feels like he does not need to earn this shirt anymore? Football has a beautiful way of reminding you. On the pitch."
A nod. Then he walked off.
The clip ended.
René did not look up immediately.
Sergio had been breathing on his shoulder for the last forty-five seconds, watching the screen along with him. He stepped back now and stared at his brother, waiting.
"See."
Sergio's voice had come back warm.
"I told you. The media people just scrapped it. They took the bits that sounded the worst out of context. The whole interview was me actually wishing him well. Did you hear it? I said he was special. I said the national team needs him. I said I hope someone protects him."
René handed the phone back.
He looked at Sergio.
"Drop the act."
Sergio froze.
"You may have used nice words," René said. "But you and I both know that was not with well intentions. You spent half the interview talking about hype and people around him and entitlement. Every single one of those lines was aimed. You know it. I know it. The internet knew it within twenty minutes of it going out."
Sergio took the phone back.
"Whatever."
He turned his head toward the television. The clip of Mateo on the screen had moved to the post-match celebration. Mateo with both arms up to the crowd. Mateo laughing. Mateo blowing kisses into the stands.
Sergio looked at the screen.
The smile that had not been on his face for the whole night came back slowly. It was not warm. It was something else. The specific smile of a person who had been pushed past the point of trying to manage himself and had finally arrived at the decision he had been working up to.
"He wants to see what is different, right?"
He kept looking at the screen.
The smile widened.
"Oh. I am going to show him exactly how different we really are."
A/N
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