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3one3 · 7 years

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The Sequel - 770

Rules Don’t Apply

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea and BVB players, and random awesome OC’s

(okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

That Christmas Eve trail ride didn’t work out as well as Christina hoped. It seemed like that happened with everything. No matter how good her intentions, everything turned out short of expectations, or went in the complete wrong direction. Even the big German feast was a disappointment to her because there were three different potato dishes and none of them were the fried pancakes she liked best, and four different types of sausage but no knackwurst. There were also enough cabbage-based dishes to give everybody gas. The girls seemed to manage okay with that, and the guys didn’t. They were all in for a stinky night of Christmas movies in the living room. Christina almost didn’t even mind that Melanie stole her spot and claimed André to lean on while Rafa drove Angelina and her trio of pals back to London, where they would impose on someone else’s family for their Christmas breakfast and lunch. Once the strangers were gone André stopped pretending he wasn’t having digestive difficulties. Melanie said pregnancy messed with her nose so much that she couldn’t even smell what was coming out of the couch cushion. Christina sat one spot over with her feet on the coffee table for lack of somewhere else to put them, and Spencer in her lap. As usual, she was the quiet one of the group. By 11 she just wanted to pass out but had nobody to sleep on or corner to lean on, and knew her partner would be disappointed if she went to bed early. There were stockings to stuff and presents to put under the tree anyway. But then there was also Juan.

“Come over,” he wrote to her without preamble. She never did call him to explain why she was “mad” at him, and he never called to find out.

“It’s after 11,” she wrote back, assuming that was explanatory enough.

“I know. Everyone just went to bed. I have 5 kids under 11 sleeping in my living room, and no parents! Sleepover at Primo Juan’s :)”

“Oh jeezus. Are you in charge? You’re taking care of 5 kids in the morning?” He is not prepared. Nope. Not at all. Christina pictured total Christmas chaos, including some kind of tragic wrapping paper suffocation accident.

“My parents are here and so is Paula. The kids’ parents come back in the morning. I love it! They’re like you. They like the view. It’s better here than their hotel.”

“Okay but how are you going to put their gifts under the tree if they’re all sleeping around it, genius?”

“They get their presents January 6. Tomorrow I give them one each and they know it’s from me not Santa. We told them just now that we’d wake them up if Santa’s sleigh went by over the river though. Taylor convinced them he uses water like a roadmap. She just left though. Come over.”

“It’s so late. It would be Christmas by the time I got there.” I wish I had been there earlier to see Primo Juan play with these kids though, the rider lamented, ignoring It’s A Wonderful Life, her least favorite holiday film of all time. Mrs. Martin was obsessed with Frank Capra movies and her daughter was, well, not. I wonder if these cousins are going to be there on Monday still. No one seemed to notice she wasn’t paying attention to the TV, or that her phone was receiving rapid-fire texts, except for Spencer, whose ear moved a little each time it vibrated. André was slightly drunk anyway, and not on his own stench. He was not taking his football break for granted, and sampled all the nice wines.

“So? I’ve never been with you on Christmas morning :)”

“You’re very smiley tonight.”

“I am and I am not. I was waiting all night to hear from you. Come over. Please?”

“Why?” The stinky drunk’s wife glanced left first, and then right, just to check the state of everyone else on the sofa. She definitely didn’t feel like getting up and driving into the city, and for sure wouldn’t feel like driving back again, but she also wasn’t definitely against the idea. André was right. She did usually end up at Juan’s when they had family around. Other people in her house ruined it as her safe retreat.

“I want to see you. That’s not reason enough?”

That was more than reason enough. That was the only reason as far as Juan’s ex was concerned. It was music to the ears of a girl who felt like everybody wanted a piece of her for less endearing purposes. André wanted her to be like his happy, sexy muse. Lukas wanted spaghetti and bedtime stories and someone to hold his hand so he could walk on the bricks lining the driveway and not fall down. Tim wanted her to pander to fans so that he could make more money making her more money. Tom wanted her to get over herself and get back to winning things. The list went on. The Spaniard usually just wanted to share average, regular, everyday moments with her.

“It’s laaaaaaaaate,” she reminded once again while making up her mind. She already had that “he wants to see me” tingle inside. But she also already had resignations about the tingle, because of what happened on Sunday.

“I’ll make you a playlist for the drive home that keeps you awake. Or I’ll talk to you on the phone until you get there. Come over.”

Awww that’s sweet, on both counts. But don’t forget, you’re not the only one he’s sweet to. The boy who has it in him to spend all night with his girlfriend and then hit up his ex the minute she leaves to invite her over has the capacity to play you too.

“I’m tired, and Schü wouldn’t like it.”

“Stop playing hard to get, cariña. My will for you is much stronger than your will for...anything.”

Christina smiled at the latest message but she wasn’t swayed. She wanted to know why her presence in London was so important that night, especially in light of the sparse communication between her and the player throughout the week. She wrote back that she assumed he’d been drinking with his family, like that would explain his smiley faces and urgency. Juan sent back a photo of a $2000 bottle of Le Pin Bordeaux from the year he was born.

“1 glass left. I’ll save for you. Put your trainers on.”

“I need to pee again,” Melanie announced with a hefty groan. She started trying to get up from her embedded position beside her brother. “I didn’t think having to go every 10 minutes would happen this soon.” Spencer got up with her to see if she was going to do anything with food, so his human slid over to talk to his other human.

“Hi babe.”

“Hello Prinzessin.” André leaned over to kiss her forehead. His cheeks were red and she could tell he was sleepy and buzzed.

“Would you be terribly angry if I run-“

“No. Just go. Get it over with.”

“But I didn’t even-“

“I’m surprised you lasted this long,” he snorted. He was also half-smiling. “I don’t mind if you go over there. Just be careful on the road, yes? And make sure you come home,” he added with feigned indignation. “You have to be the Santa before I’m the Santa so you don’t see my surprises, and we both have to be the Santa before my mom is the Santa or that’s more ruined surprises.”

“I’m definitely coming home, but no way are you staying awake that long,” his wife grinned. Tipsy André was her favorite. It was a rare thing. To have it happen when he was relaxed at home was even rarer. Usually the phenomenon happened in busy nightclubs and came with almost hyperactivity.

“Wake me up and we’ll take turns being Santa and then I’ll make love to you,” he whispered conspiratorially, which evoked laughter. “I don’t have training tomorrow.”

“I know, babe.” Christina patted his chest and gave him a proper kiss, and then she told her in-laws she had to make a last-minute gift delivery. They knew where she was going. She knew they knew, too. Her relationship with Juan was a weird and uncomfortable thing for them and they got through it by pretending it wasn’t real. She ran upstairs to exchange her Christmas PJ’s for legging jeans and a t-shirt. It was guaranteed to be too warm at the Chelsea midfielder’s place, and drinking a glass of ruby red wine would add several degrees to her face. She grabbed shiny, mirror-like chrome Prada pumps too, because they were festive and she resented that Juan assumed she was coming over in sneakers, and they matched her nails perfectly. They were carried to the garage instead of worn though, because she didn’t want anyone to know she was wearing heels to go see her ex. She told herself repeatedly on the way there that she was just going for that Le Pin.

They read tasting notes about it in a wine shop right in the next building over, and whoever wrote them called it “hedonistic”. Juan tried to buy it so they could find out exactly what hedonistic means in terms of a red blend from Bordeaux, but the rider said it was absurd to spend that kind of money on wine. Another thing she thought of on the way to Wandsworth was why he decided to get it, drink it with other people, and then show her that he’d done so. She hoped he just forgot it had anything to do with her until she brought up the drinking, or that maybe he hadn’t even remembered then either but thought an expensive vintage would woo her over regardless of which region or chateau from which it derived. Or maybe Taylor’s dad just forgot to buy some wine to bring over and popped into the shop downstairs next door and decided to show off by being that guy who brings a ridiculously expensive bottle to a casual gathering. That possibility got Christina thinking about what exactly the gathering was that night, since the Mata family’s usual Nochebuena feast was officially moved to Boxing Day, when Juan could actually eat all of it, and then she decided that Taylor’s parents probably weren’t even there.

She texted the footballer to let him know when she was outside his door, so as not to wake up any of the kids by knocking. He let her in with his finger in front of his mouth, as if she still needed further reminder to be quiet, and gestured for her to follow him to the living room so she could see all the little people encamped there. Silent gliding across a surface was easy as pie for him. He typically walked like an old man with a beer belly, but he could be so graceful when he deemed it appropriate, like on the pitch. Christina had trouble limiting the noise of her heels on the tiled floor. The three kids asleep on the couch and the two on the floor, collectively using just about all of Juan’s extra pillows and blankets, including a duvet in a deep brown color that he swore he threw away to appease her, did not evoke any emotional response in the equestrian mother of one. The delight on their cousin’s face, however, was another story. The Spaniard seemed absolutely thrilled to have an apartment littered with children, who were probably drooling on his linens and/or wetting themselves on his vanilla carpet.

“Isn’t it sweet?” he whispered to her, gesturing at the scene with the kids and the lighted Christmas tree.

“Uhhuh. You should unplug the tree when you go to bed though. It’s a fire hazard.”

“You’re so lame.”

“Your face is lame.”

“Come.”

The pair quietly headed for the master bedroom, where there were jarred crimson candles burning on both nightstands and tall khaki columns burning on the table by the window and under the TV. A small strand of white twinkle lights like the ones on the tree was draped over the immense framed mirror that leaned on the wall. That and the candle flickers were it for illumination in the room. The bed was somewhat worked over, like Juan had been rolling around in it while he texted her and waited for her to get there, Christina hoped. The wine was waiting for her in a glass on “her” nightstand too. She tossed her red car coat on the bench at the end of the bed and picked up the Bordeaux for a smell.

“Those are the shoes!” her best friend remarked with surprise and enthusiasm.

“Hm?”

“The shoes I was talking about a few months ago. I love those shoes!”

“Oh.” She stepped out of the shoes. They weren’t supposed to be that exciting. He felt much nearer behind her when she was at her usual height, but didn’t know if that was from coming down to Earth or because he actually moved. Then he was very close.

“It’s quite good, this wine,” he said over her shoulder, his hands magically appearing on her hips while she sniffed the Le Pin. The side of his mouth magically found her left temple too, and it was terrible.

“Don’t do that,” she hissed, cowering away out of his grasp, his reach, and his range. The wine almost sloshed wastefully out of its receptacle.

“What? What did I do?” The Chelsea man gaped at her like he had no idea where he went wrong. His little kiss was only friendly- perfectly innocent, but not to her. She was furious and her nostrils did the angry-bull flaring thing her husband was so wary of.

“This is why I’m mad at you!” she complained. Juan looked to his right, then his left, then behind him, brows furrowed in confusion and lips slanted in distinct displeasure.

“I wasn’t trying to-“

“Last week!”

“What? What about it? Calm down. Sit down, before you spill that on my rug. Have some. Relax a little.” His instructions or suggestions were delivered with a hint of bitterness. He evidently wasn’t expecting a patented Christina Meltdown. She did as she was told despite the anger, and despite the anguish creeping into her countenance.

“Last week I was here, and Taylor was here, because god knows why you thought it was a good idea to tell her it was okay to come over,” she began in an animated retelling. “And then you even more weirdly sat in that uncomfortable chair with the high arms so that me and her would sit on the couch together. I dunno what you were thinking.”

“You’re mad because you had to sit on a couch with Taylor? What the f-“

“No. Shut up. I’m not finished.” A markedly unceremonious sip of the Bordeaux sidetracked the very, very awake German girl. It was delicious. “I got up to use the bathroom and when I came back I kind of stopped where the hall stops being the hall and turns into the foyer, a wall, and then the living room, because you were sitting in that stupid chair and she was sitting on the floor between your legs and you were hunched over to talk in her ear and you had your arms crossed in front of her, and you kissed her temple exactly like you just did to me, only like, sexy. And I heard the words “fuck”, “you”, “she” and “leaves” while I was standing there spying.”

“Okay...” Juan sat next to her on the side of the bed and still looked confused. Christina groaned with frustration and made a gesture with her free hand like she was trying to shake some sense into him.

“You’re not supposed to be like “Oh my god, Tay Tay baby, I can’t wait for her to leave so I can fuck you”! You’re supposed to be sitting there longing to fuck me and lamenting that all you get is Tay Tay! She’s a thing you have to do like...like...like some...noble but unwanted duty. You’re not supposed to like it!”

“Are you listening to yourself?” the Spaniard asked as the purest, most sincere amusement erupted from him in the form of carefree, hysterical laughter. “You can’t be serious,” he added. He was clutching his chest like it already hurt from all the laughs and giggles. They were innocent, uncontrollable ones- not like his more sinister laughs that came out when he was teasing her. “Were you drinking home too? Did you drive all the way here drunk?”

“No! And it’s not funny!” I shall not be swayed or deterred by the butterflies I get from this laugh. Shan’t. The display of affection and desire she witnessed in his living room on Sunday evening absolutely ruined her day. The nausea of Saturday morning was back, but worse. He was only supposed to feel compelled to kiss her that way. He wasn’t allowed to be affectionate with someone else. And he wasn’t allowed to be soliciting sex from someone else less than a week after he propositioned her for it. The conflicts cheapened everything for Christina. Suddenly those little kisses and embraces weren’t authentic anymore, and his discussion of need and their special connection was just lines he fed her so they could have sex that would be meaningless to him. He couldn’t possibly have been real with her if he was turning around telling his girlfriend he couldn’t wait for Christina to leave so they could fuck. She had one of those “everything is not how it seems” moments that haunted her after every realization that someone was playing her or using her in some way she didn’t foresee or detect until it was too late. There was no way she was going back to Olympia to ride again that night, and it was still bothering her the next day. It bothered her enough in the days after that to ignore the player’s communications too. But she knew during those days that her reaction was unfair. Of course he would be affectionate with his girlfriend. Of course they had sex. She felt bad that she had that reaction. It kind of all came up like surprise word vomit when he made the fateful error of kissing her like that though.

“It is too funny. You think just because you’re in the vicinity I can think only of you?”

“Yes.” She folded her arms and turned up her nose.

“And obviously you never kiss André the way you kiss me, right?”

“Shut up. That’s different. You two are like one little tiny level apart. Me and Tay Tay are supposedly like 47 very large levels apart in terms of your love. I’m up here; she’s way down here.” Christina used her two hands to demonstrate the vast difference in expected quantity of love.

“I give up,” her favorite friend shrugged with a disbelieving headshake. “You’re insane.” He declined to correct her delta, which even she knew was exaggerated. “I’ll just take it as a compliment that you’re so obsessed with me I can’t speak to other girls if you’re in the same building.”

“Because making fun of me makes it so much better. It makes your dumb lines and cheesy I-need-you’s sound like more than just rhetoric. Uhhuh. Okay.”

“If you want to know that what I say isn’t just words, I’m happy to show you, baby girl.” The player’s grin was a little less smirky as he reached in front of her to prevent a dark chocolate wave from ending up in her glass. One shouldn’t spoil a $500 drink with the taste of hair and Garnier Fructis Extreme Hold. “Would you believe me then, if I showed you?” her sommelier asked quietly, patiently.

“You probably say that to her too,” Christina shot back, her voice unexpectedly trembly. Something she took from her family trail ride was that André might be right- that maybe she did need to give more diligence to the suggestions offered by her loved ones for how she could be happy again and get past the depression that consumed her to various levels day to day. But that meant that Juan could be right too. It meant his assertion that her marriage and her subconscious’ conflicted heart were the root causes of her unhappiness could be right too. If that was the case, then she wanted to know that the evidence on which she built her love, and by default that conflict, was real and true, not just some insignificant words and gestures meant to keep her keen.

“I don’t have to say it to her because she knows I show her all the time how I feel about her. She knows when she’s with me that I love her very much, but she sees when I disappear for days at a time to be with you and stay with you that I don’t love her as I love you. She knows and she accepts. The same isn’t enough proof for you?”

“No.”

“You want more?”

“I don’t know.”

“Drink your win and be quiet,” Juan chuckled.

“How can you spend Christmas Eve with your girlfriend and then 40 minutes after she leaves be trying to get another one to say she’d like you to sleep with her to show her how much you love her? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? How does that make sense in the male brain?” the rider grumbled while begrudgingly sipping the stimulating red. It tasted of all things black- cherries, currants, prunes, chocolate. It had more tannin than she usually preferred but it worked. It warmed from the depths of her stomach, up her throat, and into her cheeks.

“Did you not fuck André on Christmas Eve and me less than a full day after? Did that make sense in your female brain?”

“Yes! I love both of you. You know that. And I was deeply uncomfortable with what I did,” she pouted.

“You can love two people and it’s real but if I love two people it’s not? Such inequality.” Her ex was still kind of laughing at her, but that was weird to her. Why is he not even offended? I would be offended if I were him. I’m completely unfair. I just can’t help it.

“Does it not bother you more that I question your feelings? That I’m constantly...looking for you to prove it? Schü hates it. He gets so upset at first, and then angry, and then resentful, and then sometimes he threatens to just stop doing it. He hates when I don’t believe his love is real,” she sighed, eyes in her glass.

“It doesn’t bother me. Love isn’t something earned once and then kept forever. You have to keep developing it, and sharing it. I’m happy to prove how I feel for the rest of my life if you want to. Hey, speaking about love, can I give you your Christmas gift? It’s after midnight.”

“Is it something that’s going to make me emotional?” Christina questioned with a warning lilt. “I don’t want to open some panty dropping gift right now. That’s like giving you a penalty kick.”

“It might, but not about me. Hang on.” The player got up and padded into his big closet, leaving her to guess about his gift. I hope it’s not some absurd diamond, or keys to his beach house. Actually, it doesn’t even use keys. The gate and the front door are keypad only. What if it’s a composite of what our children might look like? Maybe it’s just a banana tree. I told him I want a banana tree. What the fuck is that, she wondered when she saw him return with a rectangle that couldn’t have been more than 5x7” and maybe an inch deep. It’s so tiny. She frowned, perplexed, at him when he handed it over. The dark green wrapping paper was textured with subtle ridges against her fingers, and there was a gold ribbon around it in both directions and tied with a pretty bow. “Open it! Don’t look at me like that.”

There was a cardboard box under the paper, and inside it was a simple but heavy silver-plated picture frame with a photo of Christina and Dirk surrounded by narrow black matting. The quality of the image was low, because she took it with her second ever iPhone- the first with a forward facing camera. It was a selfie, but a very well composed one. Dirk was free jumping a 5’ vertical behind her, and clearing it by several feet with his knees to his eyeballs and his hind legs tucked as tight as they could possibly push the limits of equine anatomy. Only her face was in the shot, her eyes huge and her brows lifted. It was the expression of someone truly impressed by the freakish nature of the horse’s jumping effort and form.

“Where did you get this?” She was duly impressed by the gift too.

“I wanted your first picture with him and the earliest one on Instagram is only from 2013. I checked Facebook but your page is even newer than that. Then I found your private profile, from before you had an athlete page, and you have it all on lockdown,” the gift giver laughed. “Samantha let me use her password so I could see it. You had some questionable and problematic looking party friends, cariña,” he chided.

“Oh god.” Christina blushed hard and covered her face. There are so many things there he should never see! Like me when I was an awkward teenager, me when I had braces, me when I first got boobs and didn’t really know what to do with them, me with ex-boyfriends, me in bad clothes. Eeeeek.

“I like the pictures of you at raves with the emo makeup.”

“Can we pretend you never saw that?” she cringed, returning her focus to the gift in her lap. “I took this the first week we had him, right after my dad pretended to croak. We pulled him out to run him through the free-jumping chute so his new owner could see how insanely good he was, without a rider at least. It took a while to get that with someone on him. It took a while to manage to get this photo too. I kept mistiming it.”

“Your caption for it was something like, “New baby from the motherland. Boarding pass and TSA check required.” I laughed. It’s cute.” The Spaniard smiled at her profile and reached with a finger out as if to tap the glass, but stopped himself, perhaps to avoid leaving prints. He touched her hand holding the frame instead. “No special gift this year. Just a reminder of how long your journey with him has been. You have a way to go yet, I think. Difficult periods aren’t new to you two.”

“I adore you.” She turned to give him a thankful and appreciative peck on the cheek, and then kind of leaned over on his shoulder to take in the photo once more.

“You’re not allowed to kiss my cheek if you’re going to go home and kiss him too,” the Spaniard scolded.

“Shut up.”

“The rules don’t apply to you?”

“No. You know what’s weird? I think I was wearing this necklace in this picture.” She felt around at her neck to find the onyx and diamond “Albion” pendant, and then pointed to the small bit inside the collar of the fleece she was wearing in the photo. The distinctive box chain was just visible. “It might be the topaz and amethyst paving one. I’ve had both forever. They have the same chain.” Her absent explanation had nothing to do with what she was thinking about. I hardly knew anything about him that day. Simon and I figured he could jump Earth’s moon, from some other galaxy, and maybe even do it with some regularity if we could figure out how to eradicate his ADD and nose for mischief. I knew on my own that he had a good heart. I knew because he spent that night hanging with me after Dad was carted off. Der Weltmeister was just a skinny, green baby then, but he was so keen for attention and so weirdly reciprocating of it. “For as long as I’ve known this horse, or I guess a few months less than that since I didn’t know when we picked him out and he didn’t get to us for weeks, he has given me back everything I’ve given him, and I mean that literally. He responds in kind, exactly, to the T. If I get mad at him, he gets mad back. If I lose my patience, he loses his patience. We even exchange frustration. Do you know how odd it is to be able to tell that a horse is frustrated and not just obstinate or distracted or unwilling? You can only find that in horses that truly love to work, and to please. You can actually feel that he’s trying to do what he thinks you want, or he’s trying to do what he thinks is right, and he doesn’t understand why you’re pulling, or kicking, or leaning, or whatever it is. He doesn’t get it. And it upsets him. He gets frustrated when it doesn’t make sense, and if you push it far enough, it’s almost like despair. He starts to think he’ll never get it right, and it’s discouraging.”

“That’s how you feel lately, yes?” Juan rubbed her lower back and her left side while she talked more to the photo than to him. She was solemn, and worn down, and almost resigned to it.

“Yes. It’s not his fault though. It’s not him. It’s my whole life. I do what I think I’m supposed to, and what I think is right, and whoever is in the saddle and holding the reins reacts unexpectedly. I’m pushed when I’m expecting a pull. I get a spur in the side just when I think it’s a good idea to slow down and collect. It’s a miracle I can ride Dirk at all right now with what I have in my head.”

“What do you do when he’s frustrated and you’re frustrated and you’re passing it back and forth? How do you help him understand what you’re really asking him to do?”

“I stop and do something else for a while, and then try again in a slightly different way.”

“Perhaps life is trying to get you to do something else for a while, and try a different way. Maybe the person in the saddle with the reins is steering you to a different exercise to stop the frustration.”

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