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Leo slowly makes his way back to the locker rooms, waving to the fans, shaking a few hands with some of the Real Madrid players, receiving pats and hugs from his fellow teammates. He’s still running high on adrenalin from the beautiful finish of their match so he nearly misses Ronaldo making his way to him.
Confronted with Ronaldo’s naked chest, Leo’s eyes automatically drift down to check out his abs. It’s a natural reaction, he reasons with himself. He recovers quickly, mindful of the cameras getting a shot of his every movement. He thrusts his hand forward for Ronaldo to shake.
Instead, a soft white fabric is deposited over his outstretched hand. Leo’s fingers close around the jersey tightly. Ronaldo’s eyes are unreadable.
Leo hastily peels off his own jersey and Ronaldo takes it from him with a nod. Leo’s right shoulder gets squeezed so tight Leo has to focus not to wince. Ronaldo gives him a final pat on the shoulder and walks off the pitch.
Leo’s breath comes in quick small puffs and his chest is heaving but only he knows it has nothing to do with how intense the final eleven minutes of the match were.
He walks into their locker rooms to a loud cheering, his right hand with the offending white jersey limply brushing his side. Someone takes the jersey away from him and gives him a water bottle instead. It’s okay, Leo tells himself. It’s okay because he couldn’t be trusted with it anyways. Keeping it would be dangerous. Not to mention pathetic.
The phantom feeling of the warm fingers bruising his shoulder stays with him for the rest of the day, even though Leo makes sure to stay in the shower for a few extra minutes, letting the hot stream hit his shoulders and neck.
There is a huge photo in the newspaper the next day and it’s what catches Leo’s eyes, though he only wanted to check if Federer managed to beat Kohlschreiber last night. Leo scrutinizes his own expression in the picture with a sharp glare; he doesn’t like what he sees. He reads the article deliberately slowly, taking in every word written about the shocking exchange. It’s an ambitious article, full of wild speculations. They asked Ronaldo why he’d felt the urge to do what he did and he talked a lot but never answered. They asked him if he missed Ancelotti. It was a trick question; negative answer equalled blaming Ancelotti and positive answer meant blaming Benítez. Ronaldo talked about the development of the team and the importance of a positive attitude and about how much they managed to learn from Ancelotti, how far they have gotten and how far they were going this season.
“I think Messi would have scored against de Gea as well,” Ronaldo is quoted and Leo can only wonder how the original question was phrased. “It’s our strategy that needs to change. We need to focus more on the ball possession and not give our opponents needless chances.”
In a way, Leo is not surprised by the uproar caused by him and Ronaldo exchanging jerseys. But the reporters pestering Ronaldo about it and claiming Ronaldo is saying his goodbye, that doesn’t sit well with Leo.
He stays tuned to the news over the next few days. The rumours spiral out of control and by the end of the week, everyone is thinking that Benítez was the final drop for Ronaldo and the unsuccessful beginning of the season a mere catalyst. That Ronaldo is leaving after the end of the season quickly becomes a given fact.
It’s driving Leo insane. He can’t get the brief interaction out of his mind and the gossips about Ronaldo’s retirement aren’t helping any. Leo isn’t one to believe what the media say but there is no smoke without fire. And he can’t puzzle out the exchange. Why now, after so many seasons of happily ignoring each other after the matches? Leo tries to imagine the league without Ronaldo. He can’t. It would be… it wouldn’t be the same challenge. He wouldn’t get the same satisfied feeling after winning. The point of winning is to be better than everyone. Better than the best.
He hopes he’s worrying over nothing. And there is a way to be sure.
Leo’s fingers hover over a number in his phone he never used before. His thumb brushes against the call button before he fully gathers his thoughts.
“I didn’t know you had my number,” is what Ronaldo says upon picking up the phone.
“I, um, yeah. Um, hi,” Leo babbles awkwardly.
Ronaldo sighs into the phone. “I have your number, too, obviously. What did you need?”
“I didn’t need anything but I wanted to ask you something.”
There is a brief silence. Then, with a hint of an amusement in his voice, Ronaldo asks, “The news about my transfer are keeping you up at night?”
Leo didn’t realize it was that late. He whips his head around to gaze at the clock on the wall. “It’s not late,” he says, sulkily, to Ronaldo’s quiet chuckle. “Wait, a transfer?”
“Oh, haven’t they told you yet?”
“Who?”
“Well, I was thinking Manchester. But it seems Barcelona is the highest bidder.”
Leo grips his phone so tight his knuckles go white.
Ronaldo starts laughing. “I wish I could see your face right now.”
“You are an idiot,” Leo growls into the speaker but in fact it’s him who feels like an idiot for falling for Ronaldo’s little prank. He ends the conversation before Ronaldo’s laughter dies out.
It’s not the end of the conversation, not really. Ronaldo keeps texting him fake updates about ‘the transfer’ and Leo mostly keeps ignoring him. They might make some of his days a little brighter but they are definitely not something Leo is looking forward to. They are not the reason Leo has the urge to check his phone constantly.
Then Ronaldo sends him an especially whiny text about how come a private yacht is not a part of the deal when Barcelona has such a great port and Leo can’t help himself. He bites his lip to keep from laughing and sends back – poor you, wanna cry about it on my shoulder?
Ronaldo calls him right away. Leo answers, warily. “Yes?”
“Yes. And I can meet up with you in Barcelona.”
Leo frowns. “What are you doing here?”
“Negotiating the transfer,” Ronaldo deadpans.
To hell with it, Leo thinks and asks Ronaldo when can they meet. There is a brief pause but then Ronaldo recovers and they set the details.
Hours later, as he is getting ready for bed, another text comes. Leo is prepared for some bizarre excuse about why Ronaldo needs to cancel their ‘plans’. He has a suspicion that Ronaldo wasn’t counting on him going along with the idea of meeting because they both know what a ridiculous idea it is. Leo is pretty sure Ronaldo only agreed because he didn’t want to be the one to stop the joke but now the rational sense won over. Leo flicks the message open.
What the text actually reads is, Not even a jet? Outrageous!
Leo grins. Having second thoughts already?
No.
Leo blinks at the swift reply, something warm blossoming in his chest. He is sure he is going crazy but he is not sure he minds.
Ronaldo changes the time and place twice, and Leo feels irritated, to put it mildly, as he drives around the city, feeling like a joke. He wonders if this is some elaborate prank and someone is getting the pictures of him stupidly waiting on Ronaldo who never shows up.
He is genuinely surprised when he arrives at the new meeting place to find Ronaldo already there. Ronaldo gets up to greet Leo and pulls him into an one-armed hug, easily, effortlessly, like this is something they do, something they have. Or could have, Leo thinks, still a little stunned, as he takes a seat opposite to the Portuguese.
Ronaldo takes off his sunglasses, folds them on the collar of his shirt. His expression is guarded, his eyes are fixed somewhere left to Leo’s elbow. He looks too serious for Leo’s liking.
“If the reporters see us, they’re going to have a field day,” Leo says lightly.
The grin is back, brown eyes looking up to meet Leo’s gaze. “Ah, then we’ll have to make sure they do see us.”
“You’re evil.”
“I think I’ll even need to comment on how beautiful the city is and how you’re a marvellous help with showing me around.”
Leo pretends to be outraged. “Do you, by any chance, get a profit from selling the tabloids?”
Cristiano stays silent.
The evening is over way too quickly, and Leo finds himself offering Cristiano a lift back to his hotel. Apart from the constant ribbing, it’s easy to talk to the other man.
“You’re not leaving for England, right?” Leo asks a question he wanted to ask all evening, and pulls to the side of the road.
“Too early to retire. And people think you’re the best – if I beat you it means I’m a legend.”
“Or just incredibly big-headed and lucky. So, um, do I get to know what are you really doing here? And give up that transfer bullshit, it’s getting old.”
Leo doesn’t even expect an honest answer but Cristiano keeps watching him for a moment while Leo tires not to fidget.
“We’re playing Espanyol,” Cristiano says quietly.
Leo could smack himself; he completely forgot. “Oh, right.”
“Here,” Cristiano says, shoving a small packet into Leo’s arms. Leo looks down to frown at it, so he doesn’t see Cristiano leaning down into his space. When he registers the movement and looks up, Cristiano’s lips brush his cheek. Leo freezes.
“I’d better go.” The click of the seat belt, a click of the door opening, and then Cristiano is gone.
Leo is speechless. His hands are still slightly shaking when he puts the car into gear and joins the traffic.
Back in his home, he opens the unexpected present and lets out a choked laugh.
After pausing for a moment, he reaches for the jersey and with his cheeks flaming, he pulls it on. A small note falls out. Time, place and a question mark.
Leo smiles.
He stares down at the offending piece of clothing, snow white and soft to the touch.
There is a signature, too. A wide scrawl, stark black, just above Leo’s heart. A mark of ownership.
Leo is hit by a sudden realization.
It wasn’t a goodbye. It was a hello.