The Teammates

I thought we'd get to see forever, but forever's gone away.

And I’ll take with me the memories to be my sunshine after the rain, it’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

Xabi’s throat felt sore. So sore in fact, that he couldn’t talk, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t do anything that even remotely involved his neck area. He guessed it had been the combination from the rain and the cold the night before; he’d come home and not showered, one of his many mistakes. 

Now he looked around his old Liverpool home, full of unpacked boxes still, but other than that, the house seemed like he never left. The keys to back doors were still hung neatly on the kitchen wall, the floors impeccably clean, the same red hand towels on the hanger in his bathroom all traces of Xabi’s near obsession with perfection. In front of him was a cup of black coffee he had made himself a few hours prior, but he had yet to touch, and as a result, the dark liquid had gone cold. Xabi wondered why he bothered leaving the comfort of his bed at all. Since Steven’s death, he found that he would much rather spend his time sleeping, being awake meant that his brain was fully functioning and was busy reminding him of things that should have happened but didn’t, making him ask himself questions that he spent days and hours pondering, never even nearing an answer.

He knew his form was slipping, he had managed to get in the beginnings of pre-season training with Real Madrid, although as the contract talks with Liverpool came closer to being finalized, he spent less and less  time at Valdebebas. Yet when he put pen to paper, Liverpool was hit with the sudden news of Steven’s passing, and despite a month having gone by, the wound was still bloody and raw and incredibly sensitive. The Steven-Xabi partnership, relationship or whatever people considered it had been an open secret within the squad a few years back, but this new batch of boys  and manager (with Carra retiring only Skrtel, Agger, Reina, and Lucas were the only Reds still left over from that era) did not have a clue of how close knit they had been.

Still, he thanked Brendan for giving him time to put himself back together, if that was ever possible. The whole squad had barely begun training a week before, and Xabi was still at home. The home opener against Wolverhampton was nearing at a rapid rate, 16 days to be exact, and he still hadn’t been properly introduced to the fans, the only people who knew he was now with Liverpool were both his current and former teammates…

He wanted to be with the fans, honest to goodness he did. Even when he wore a white shirt instead of a Red one, he was always welcomed back to Liverpool with arms open wide, smiles, and a song or two, but he couldn’t bear to think about the pity looks he would receive, and the looks of pity he would be given. He had heard them all over the course of the month:

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Why? You didn’t kill him.

“I know what you’re going through.” You didn’t love him half as much as I did.

“He’s in a better place now.” And I’m not with him.

Of course the fans were devastated. Their captain, their beloved captain, the very heart and soul of Liverpool Football Club was gone. He was a legend even before his passing, he was worshipped as a god, treated even better than one, but he remained as humble as always. That’s partly why Xabi loved him. For the first time in days Xabi felt a real smile tugging at his lips as he recalled the late Skipper. He’d always watch LFC’s games when he could, mostly to watch Steven Gerrard play. He’d sit back in his couch, eyes intently on the game, and his mind would always wander. It was almost like the old days where he could just slip on a Red shirt and step out into the pitch, make the exact run he needed to, and without even having to look up, he would cross the ball. Steven would be at the other end of that cross, waiting to slot it home.

But of course that would never happen again.

Xabi couldn’t quite grasp that concept yet. He still had a shred of stupid, and completely irrational, hope that he would just one day show up on his doorstep, and the two would make their way to Melwood for training. He knew Steven was gone, but then again how could he be gone if his name constantly plagued his mind? Every other word was Steven. Every other thought was Steven. Every memory was Steven. Steven George Gerrard. The name was permanently tattooed on his lips.