Pasa al siguiente Nivel ~Nando story~ [A/N, 11.03.2010!!!!] - Cristiano Ronaldo, Football, Fan, Soccer

Web	www.cr17.com

Pasa al siguiente Nivel

Author: Moi
Rating: still undecided, but I will announce it beforehand, should it change
Category: Humor, Romance
Characters: LFC's finest and additional characters
Length: Long story
Summary: If someone told you that a simple mis-dialled phone call would change your life, what would you do? Exactly, you'd laugh and say "bring it on!!"
Disclaimer: This story is just fiction, not reality. Only the additional characters are figments of my imagination, the rest is borrowed from Real Life. If there are any discrepancies between the character in this story and Real Life - I'm sorry but I didn't know any better... EDIT: Despite what you might think, I do not own Fernando Torres or any other footballer mentioned in this story. EDIT 2: The girlfriend which appears in this story IS NOT Olalla Dominguez Liste, but an undisclosed character - the real partner of Fernando Torres is not a public figure and therefore will not be used out of respect.
Authors Notes: This fic is my first attempt at a story with real life people in it, so bear with me, if they seem a bit (or a lot) OOC. Also, the characters will talk in their native language from time to time, but don't worry, there's a vocabulary section at the end of each chapter!

And now, please ENJOY! Grin

CAPITULO UNO

Looking at the young woman in front of him intently with those big, boyish brown eyes of his, he spread his long, slender fingers over the outside of her thighs lightly caressing the skin hidden beneath the material of her dress pants with his thumbs. Slowly inching downwards, his hands, which were far too soft for a man let alone a football player, softly pressed her bent, toned legs against his sides.

Her response was instantaneous, as she wrapped her (in her opinion rather short) legs around his waist, interlocking her feet above the small of his back to secure herself as to not fall flat on her bum if he dropped her (for which there would be hell to pay). Her high heels fell to the floor with a rather loud clank, but neither of them cared all too much about that pricey footwear at that moment.

Content with her actions, her partner in crime (and many, many other things) kissed her deeply, longingly, and dug his fingers into the dip between her thighs and the swell of her backside to lift her up and carry her somewhere far more comfortable than his marble kitchen counter...

Her attention was suddenly drawn back to reality from her aroused state, when she heard him mutter something under his breath against her thoroughly kissed lips in his native language (which definitely wasn't English or very nice for that matter). She leaned back and away from him; their body contact was broken instantly.

"What did you just say?"

Blushing furiously under her expectant gaze, Fernando Torres, Liverpool Football Club's elite striker and Spain’s hailed El Niño who, at the Euro 2008, had shot the one goal that had made a whole country happy and him a national hero, averted his eyes from her gaze and bit his lower lip, but otherwise remained silent.

"So?" she pressed him to repeat what he had just said, emphasizing her question by pulling his blond streaks at the nape of his neck backwards. Sometimes having a soft spot for running one's hand through another one's hair had its advantages (by the way, he had amazingly soft curls, but the colour had yet again become … meh to say the least).

The blush spread even more which almost drowned his myriads of dark freckles in a sea of red, when he mumbled it again, "Eres bastante pesada, nena." This time she understood him perfectly.

A well shaped eyebrow shot up.

"Way to make a girl feel desired, Torres," was her simple, yet sarcastic reply, to which he let his head fall onto her shoulder a little embarrassedly and bit his lower lip again (a habit that he had acquired at school when he wasn’t sure about something; it had had the best effect on female teachers, they had let him get away with almost anything when he had looked at them like that).

He didn’t like her calling him by his last name though (a habit she had acquired when she wanted to get her point across to him and his thick skull loud and clear), it reminded him of the beginnings and that made him feel even worse about what he had just said.

When the had started going out, they had sworn to keep prejudices and petty comments out of their private life and up to now it had worked out pretty well, despite a few little lapses, like this one. The fact that he actually held her up in that very position (she was securely wrapped around him, like a baby koala around its mother) without any noticeable effort on his side was clearly missed by both of them.

Head still bowed, he dared after a minute or so of uncomfortable silence to look up to gauge her reaction. That single, puppy dog look instantly melted her heart - who could ever resist those eyes gazing up at her almost innocently through thick, dark, curly eyelashes? (Again, school had been the best teacher…)

Valerie smiled lightly and kissed his temple lovingly to show him that she wasn't angry with him in any way for that comment, annoyed maybe, but not angry (She would get her revenge later - and both of them knew it). With anyone else, she would have probably begun a serious argument, with the young Spaniard though...

In the media, he was made out to be that extremely focussed player who when provoked had a serious case of bad temper, on and off the pitch.

In reality however, Fernando Jose Torres Sanz was a shy, well mannered, sweet young man, still a boy really, who above all cherished peace and quiet and therefore liked to avoid any form of confrontation in private.

On the pitch it was a different situation, the old saying "what happens on the pitch stays on the pitch" (or was it Vegas? Never mind…) applied to him perfectly. He had a competitive streak and, God forbid, if someone tried to keep him from reaching his goal!

She had seen him yell at Sergio Ramos more times than she could count during the Champion's League matches against Real Madrid in February and March, notwithstanding that he was one of his best and oldest friends in the professional football world. Yet afterwards, it was all forgiven and forgotten and they were best friends again, prepared to cause mischief wherever they went - and they did so with unprecedented glee.

As for her arguing with him, she didn't want to do it, because she would most probably not know when to shut up (she had a feisty character, mind you not to cross her when she was angry!) and hurt that sweet, lovable man in front of her in the process.

He certainly wasn't inferior to her, nor was he all that innocent either, when it came to a good verbal fight and their arguments could quickly lead to deafening (or so Pepe complained more than once) shouting matches.

Afterwards, they would not talk for days. She would feel too guilty for saying some very stupid things and he would just clam up and not talk to anyone unless absolutely necessary, until he was coaxed out of his shell by a peace offering (freshly made chocolate brownies with cherries would mostly do the trick).

Sometimes though, it would be him who hurt her by saying something utterly stupid or inconsiderate. Then, he would just not be able to look her in the eye and she would be too angry with him to make the first step and consequently shy away from him, burying herself in her work until he came out of his shell and threw her with a sweet and heartfelt apology.

Fernando stood there with Valerie safely in his strong arms and just savoured the feel of her warm lips against his skin. His steady heartbeat was mingling with hers, both individuals united to one in this embrace of lovers, until her overactive mind decided it was time for her to put her foot in her mouth again.

"You know, Torres, if I'm too heavy for you, you should lay off the chocolate and consider going to the gym more often. Rafa would surely appreciate it." Damn her big mouth, it should just swallow her foot and be done with it but NO, it had other ideas, like always!

She swallowed, a little uncomfortable in her skin now, and braced herself for whatever was to come - considering him and his Spanish passion, it really could come down to anything.

He looked at her like a little puppy, all innocent and wounded, making her feel guilty and her heart melt in the blink of an eye, before he suddenly dropped the act and laughed wholeheartedly – a sound that she loved to hear. It was deep and sonorous and always sincere. "I'll do that, pero solamente sí vienes conmigo, querida mía."

"I'd rather walk," she deadpanned, smirking at him.

His lips widened into a dazzling smile, one he reserved for special occasions of privacy, one only few people, including her, got to see. It was the perfect definition of a smile, with those full lips of his curved upwards in a very cute and alluring way and with the sincerity of it radiating in his big, brown eyes.

Bending his head, he stopped his mouth only millimetres from her left ear, his slightly stubbly cheek grazing her smooth one, tickling it sensually. She had to suppress a sigh of pleasure. "Now, what's so erotic about walking to the bedroom?" he whispered in a deep, husky voice and placed a small kiss on the earlobe, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick the outer shell gently.

His warm breath tickled the sensitive skin of her ear, making her shiver involuntarily which increased when she felt his tongue make contact with said skin again.

Closing her eyes, she sighed contentedly before answering slowly, equally low-voiced: "Who said anything about the bedroom?!"

That comment had him stop abruptly in his motion of peppering her fine jaw line with short, feathery kisses on his way to her lips, and he turned his face to hers in wonder. At that, she grinned cheekily and let go of him, placing her feet firmly on the cold, tiled floor of his kitchen, where they had been placing their used plates into the dishwasher before thy had gotten distracted.

Or rather, he had gotten distracted and had just easily pulled her away from her task. Their first real kiss of the evening had developed into something more at lightning speed…

Fernando was still looking at her, asking himself what had gone wrong. Hadn't he been clear enough about his intentions? He had thought that the heavy make-out session in this very kitchen after dinner, which had been cooked by him - no, it wasn't precooked or ordered, the paella had been made with his own hands after an age-old family recipe his mother had dictated him on the phone this afternoon after training -, had made it very clear what he had wanted.

But obviously she had other ideas. Maybe she was tired, he mused while watching her walk languidly away from him, a slight sway in her step, after all a day at the hospital could be really stressful.

Deep in thought and self pity, he almost missed her turning around at the door to the hall and saying slowly: "I'd rather take a hot shower, I suddenly feel rather dirty… what about you?!"

She extended her left hand in invitation.

A grin spread over his entire face, instantly lighting it up with an expression mirroring a child's face on Christmas morning and he happily sauntered over to this extraordinary girl whom he still hadn't figured out completely even after more than nine months of knowing her.

Valerie just laughed and took his big warm had in her small cooler one to let him lead (his definition of lead was her definition of drag) her to the bathroom upstairs...

[NINE MONTHS EARLIER....EQUALS SEPTEMBER 2008]

"I can't believe that she would ever do something like that to me!" a deep, extremely enraged voice laced with a foreign lilt sounded over the answering machine.

"Esa puta me engaño and she even dared to deny it at first when I asked her about it! Everyone knew but me and now I look like a complete tarado! How could I ever think that we could stay the same people we had been in Mad..."

The voice went on and on and on about "her" (whoever she was, not that she cared) and just wouldn't let up, explaining everything and nothing during that irrational rant.

Finally, she had had enough.

"Look Sir, I don't know who you are and right now I don't particularly care but however you think I was I'm not, so stop chewing my ear off with your petty problems at six o'clock in the morning!" she all but yelled into her mobile phone, but before she could hang up on him (whoever he was, not that she cared) to go back to her rather cut-short sleep she heard him say, "But it's almost eight..."

Her eyes flew open instantly. Merde, of all days she just had to be late today on her first day of work!!!

The young woman practically jumped out of the confines of her warm and snugly bed and into the shower, getting ready in record time (fifteen minutes give or take). Rummaging around in her suitcases to find something more or less acceptably for her new working place, she eventually put on a pair of light coloured dress pants and a green wrap blouse she didn't even know she had (it was probably her mother's and had coincidentally gone with her to Liverpool).

Checking once again that her hair was in place, she grabbed her mobile and purse and raced out of the company owned apartment to her company owned car. At the sight of it, she sighed exasperatedly. She should have known that the steering wheel would be on the other (the wrong) side, she was in England after all. Sighing again, she got into the car and, looking around, silently thanked God for in-built navigation systems, because she frankly had no idea were to go. It would be difficult enough already to try not to drive on the wrong (the right) side.

The young woman - let's introduce her properly now - was a just turned twenty-four year-old French girl, alumnus of the prestigious medical faculty of the Université Pierre et Marie Curie in Paris, rather small and of average built (not too thin, not fat, something in between which made her look like a healthy young (not anorexic) woman), with wavy, brunette hair reaching just past her shoulders.

She was someone you would probably pass on the street without really taking notice of (men might have taken a second look at her, but only if their wives or girlfriends weren't looking), if it weren't for her eyes.

Her eyes were almost almond shaped with big, childlike blue-grey irises which would change their colour in accordance to her respective mood. Sometimes they would be wide and bright blue looking at something in utter amazement (or so it seemed), other times they were narrowed to slits, stormy grey, with fiery passion or anger flashing in them.

Heaving one last sigh, the young French decided that she truly didn't have time for driving lessons now, she would just have to pay more attention as to what she was doing (which could prove difficult due to the lack of coffee in her system). She turned the key in the ignition and the little car roared to life…

Driving carefully through the heavy early morning traffic, she eventually spotted a Costa Coffee Shop sign at the end of the road and immediately thanked every deity she could think of. A quick stop by the quaint café later, she could call a big and utterly black coffee (her life elixir and the only thing that got her going after a very short night) and a triple chocolate cookie (not good for the waist line, very good for saving the already badly beginning day) her own happily.

She hadn't had a very good start in this country when she had arrived at the airport from Paris yesterday evening (or was it this morning?!). First, her luggage obviously had thought it might be fun to take a holiday of its own and disappear within the rather small airport (compared to Charles de Gaulle-Roissy, it was nothing). Then the person who had been supposed to pick her up had seemingly deemed it too late and had left, so when she finally arrived at her final destination at two o'clock in the morning, she was tired beyond words, needless to say mightily pissed off.

Luckily enough, she had found a big envelope on the kitchen table with all the necessary information she needed for her first day as well as keys to the BMW Mini she was driving around in at the moment. Said envelope was now sitting securely in her purse, just waiting to be taken out and read or used or whatever else one could actually do with it.

Turning right again, she directed the Mini up a short drive, stopping in front of the heavy iron wrought gates that lead to her new working place. After the guard had checked her credentials, she was allowed to enter an ample parking lot filled with some of the most expensive and exclusive cars in the world.

She had finally arrived...

Vocab:

Eres bastante pesada – you’re quite heavy

pero solamente sí vienes conmigo – but only if you come with me

Esa puta me engaño – that bitch betrayed me

Tarado – blithering idiot

Merde - Crap

If you're happy with this story, there's a little button at the end of the page, comments are very appreciated!!! Grin

He commited a big no-no. You never call a woman heavy, unless you don't want to continue breathing. jeje

Great start, please post more soon!

Really I `m very happy with your story

it was so funny to read. Want to read more and can`t wait for your next post!
And a fiction about nando ::lol::yeah I love him!!
I want to know what happens next, so please bump soon!!

I agree, I like this =) You really should continue!!
But someone should slap Nando for that heavy-comment Wink

Thanks for your kind words!!

I'll try and update in the next few days, but I'm still working as an intern and therefore don't have that much free time.

Dear readers,

Good evening, everyone, thank you for your kind comments on my story!! Before I post the next chapter, I wanted to clarify some things:

1. I'm not from Liverpool, I know they speak in a Scouse accent and I know how it sounds, but I can't write it to save my life! So bear with me if Liverpuddlians actually speak English

2. My character's a Frenchie, so she speaks or thinks in French from time to time. To make it easier for non-French speaking people on the board, I put the French sentences next to the Spanish ones in the Vocab section. I hope this doesn't inconvenience you too much, if it does, tell me please!

That's about it... wait, another thing: the rating on this story varies from chapter to chapter, and sometimes it isn't that innocent... Cheesy

Pretty please: Comments are very welcome!!!

CAPITULO DOS

Arriving at the training ground he was in a downright thunderous mood. The morning had already begun badly, for the first time in his life he had misdialled Pepe’s number (and it was on speed dial!! How it had been possible for it to happen he still doesn’t know…) in his urge to talk to someone – anyone – about what had occurred this weekend.

The someone he HAD called had let him drone on and on about his problems (and making a utter fool out of himself) before finally saying that he had the wrong person on the other end of the line and just hanging up (the nerve of that woman! Qué borde!).

From that moment, it had gone from bad to worse: First, he forgot his training bag at home and only remembered that it wasn’t with him in his car when he was half way there. Then, at home he just had to run into HER (actually not that surprising as she still officially lived there) as she was leaving for work and his mood suddenly dropped a few more points on the mood-o-meter.

And then, to top it all off, when he had at long last got to the training grounds (or as their coach liked to call it, “su pequeño parque infantil”), he had to find that someone had taken his preferred parking spot (again, the nerve!) and therefore had to drive to the end of the lot to find a space to park his Audi Q7 (monstrous thing, actually far too big for his needs, but it had been given to him, so to not displease them he used it to get to and from training).

Now, he sat in his car, forehead on the steering wheel, and was desperately trying (quite unsuccessfully) to calm himself down and get his emotions in check. It wasn’t an easy task, mind you, he was of Spanish blood after all…

How could his life have taken such a bad turn in a matter of days? Everything had worked for them, but still… He sighed deeply. Hadn’t he done everything to make her happy? Was it his fault that everything was so messed up that it probably couldn’t ever be repaired again? Por qué ella no dijo nada?

Opening his brown eyes, he glanced at his watch and realized that he was going to have to hurry up if he didn’t want to be late – and he didn’t want that, dictadorzuelo Benitez had made sure of that the one time he had been late… joder, his legs had hurt for days after he had completed the 10km extra run around the training grounds (He definitely didn’t want his legs to bitch at him again, they were worse then women during their time of the month…)!

So, grabbing his bag from the passenger’s seat, he opened the car door, hopped out and instantly let out a string of Spanish curses that would have made a sailor pale in comparison. His mother would have seriously hurt him for saying such things, and right now he didn’t care, but he knew that his mother would find out about it anyway, she had a sixth sense for things like that (and she was probably going to call him tonight to make sure he knew that she knew…).

Then suddenly the young man stopped, realizing the irony in the situation, and laughed mirthlessly while picturing himself. There he was, one of Liverpool’s Football Club’s elite player, getting drenched in the rain he hadn’t even noticed until now, too absorbed in his self pitying session. Abruptly, he stopped, sighed deeply again and took out his keys to lock his car.

Fate was obviously having a field day watching him get from one bad situation to the next. He wondered what it still had in store for him during the day, when his morning had already begun like this… maybe he should have just stayed at home…

Shouldering his training bag, he slowly made his way over to the main doors of the enormous building complex that marked the eastern corner of the club’s Melwood Training Grounds.

Glancing outside the big glass wall of the main entrance (with the “Liver-bird”’s shape tinting the glass a milky white), she was glad that she had entered the building when she did (that is shortly before heaven’s gates had opened), because in her haste to get here, she had completely forgotten to take an umbrella with her (a fact that she often forgot while visiting friends in London, it just wasn’t needed in Paris – much meilleur temps there…). It wouldn’t have looked too well if she’d arrived soaked to her bones (on the other hand, there surely would have been some people who would have greatly enjoyed it).

She tore her eyes away from the main entrance, turned around and walked purposefully towards the counter, where an elderly woman was sitting and currently answering the phone. As she was signalled by one raised finger to wait a second, she took her time to take a look around the reception area.

To her right, was another glass doorway with a red carpet in front of it, behind it a set of double doors. Turning her head to the left, she saw a modern staircase, mainly marble with a balustrade made of steel and light wood, leading upstairs to a destination unknown. Next to it was a lift, framed by doors on either side, the left one designed with frosted glass, the other one open and leading to an anteroom.

The reception area itself had wooden walls (which to her looked a bit like sauna décor) and two red leather sofas, which contrasted with the randomly placed potted plants (little palm trees and agaves), and the nondescript reception desk (the Liverpool crest on the wall gave away the location, otherwise you could have mistaken the desk for one in the main halls of New York’s Wallstreet). All in all, it looked rather bland for a multi-million pound complex.

When the receptionist finally hung up, she beckoned the younger woman over to the desk. “So, dear, how can I help you?” Despite her rather uptight looks (she had the air of Maggie Smith in “Harry Potter”), the woman had a really friendly voice (albeit a heavy Scouse accent) and even managed to half smile at her encouragingly. “Well, I’m here to see the chief of the medical staff, Dr. Waller, I’m….”

“Oh, so you’re one of his two new assistants. Nice to meet you, dear! I’m Leonora Arkwright, the only one to keep this chaos they like to call a football club in check,” the older one let out a small chuckle at her own joke, and the young French woman couldn’t help but smile at her girlish behaviour (ever seen a reserved lady chuckle? *crickets*).

“If you have any problems, you come to me, I’ll fix it for you. So,” the receptionist turned around, grabbed a huge packet and opened it on the desk, “those are your things: First, your preliminary ID card - I’ll need a pretty picture of you and then you’ll get the final one - you’ll always need to carry it around with you. And then,” she sunk her hand deep into the packet and slowly lifted the rest of the content. “Here you go dear.”

A big stack of clothing was shoved into the new employee’s hands (a new wardrobe? Nobody said anything about new clothes?! Au secours…) and with a small smile the receptionist said, “You’ll have to hurry up a bit now, the staff meeting will begin in about 10 minutes. Go change in the boys’ locker room, they’re already outside warming up. Nobody will have to know, it’s usually off limits for everyone except the players, but I’ve already got a weak spot for you and your charming smile.” (Merci, mes ancêtres! Next time she saw her parents she would have to hug them for having the best genes ever…)

After she had been told to come back once she’d changed (she could leave her things underneath the reception desk, no one would dare to take them) and that she would be accompanied to the press room (which lay beyond the double doors on the right – ahhh, first secret disclosed! Indiana Jones would be so proud!), the young woman made her way to the left, past the antechamber and into Melwood Pavilion’s sanctuary…

A few minutes later our miserably wet player barged into the reception area and, leaving a trail of watery footprints on the stone tiles, strode purposefully and without listening to what the mother hen of a receptionist was saying to him (he hardly understood her anyway, she had a worse accent than Carra and Gerrard thrown together) towards the changing rooms.

Opening the door, he was suddenly rooted to his spot. He could hardly believe his eyes – there was a half naked GIRL (no, woman from the look of it, not that he was staring or anything…) inside their dressing room! And changing in front of his locker as well (Number 9, the tenth on the right wall, the one which always had a bar or two of hazelnut chocolate in the back of the top shelf – luckily for him, Stevie hadn’t found that secret stash yet!)!

Almost going back outside to have a look at the sign on the door (maybe today was the women’s team training day and he’d missed that they weren’t supposed to train here) he quickly decided against it, when he saw her bend down gracefully to pick something up.

She had her very bare (except for a black bra) back turned to him and he couldn’t help but stare, entranced at the way her dorsal muscles flexed under her creamy white skin, while she moved to put on a shirt (it looked like the standard LFC staff polo, red and black, with the Liverpool crest over the heart). All of a sudden, she halted in her movement (with the polo still only half way down her torso) and slowly turned her head to the side to look over her shoulder.

Neither of them said anything for a few moments (he at least had had the grace to blush profoundly at being caught), their quiet breathing was the only sound that reached their ears. They knew that he was staring at her like she was an exotic animal, but neither made a move to change it.

“Are you going to stand there all day or are you actually going to use this room?” Her voice reverberated in the room. It was eerily familiar, as if he had heard it recently… oh no, joder! It was THAT voice, the one who had so rudely yelled at him just an hour before. What had he done to enrage the gods (it definitely wasn’t only his, it must have been a conglomerate of gods!!) to deserve being punished this way?

Staring blankly at her without saying anything, his mind a thousand miles away, he almost missed her leaving the dressing room if it hadn’t been for her saying, “See, I’m finished. Now you can have this,” she gestured with her hands around the room, “all to your pretty self, oh shy one!” And with that she passed by him (he was still standing frozen in the middle of the dressing room) and was gone, her light perfume still in the air.

He blinked. Qué demonios sucedió justamente?

Vocab:

Qué borde – how impolite

Su pequeño parque infantile – his little playground

Por qué ella no dijo nada? – Why hadn’t she said anything?

Dictadorzuelo – little dictator

Joder – Damn

meilleur temps – better weather

Au secours – help

Merci mes ancêtres – Thank you, my ancestors

Qué demonios sucedió justamente? – What on earth had just happened?

Loved how she just finished changing in front of him like whatever. jeje

**BUMP**

I love this story!! Grin

I am so glad that you updated, and I loved some of the comments in the story they were great!

Like this one

Quote

(He definitely didn?t want his legs to bitch at him again, they were worse then women during their time of the month?)!

that one was great, I was laughing my bum off LoL

And the way you portay the carachters is amazing, I wish I even half as good at it as you are Embarrassed

Can't wait for another update Wink

I love this story, too

And I like your characters =)
But poor Fernando really has to suffer here... Sad

Bump soon

Thank you, everyone who commented!

I'm still writing, but it may be finished tonight, at the latest tomorrow evening (I'm in the OR all day tomorrow)!

Dear readers,

I've changed the name of the team's doctor, the real one is called Dr. Mark Waller, you can look him up on the lfc's website.

Enjoy. Grin

CAPITULO TRES

The staff meeting began punctually at nine-fifteen, with Rafa Benitez, Liverpool’s residing manager, presenting her to the crowd of people sitting in the room: “This is the newest addition to our medical personnel, Dr. Valerie de Vilancourt. She will be working part time here at the club as well as follow her residency at the University Hospital in Aintree. Welcome to the UK’s best club, Doctor.”

After she had shaken the hands of seemingly very important people at the club, she could finally sit down. All in all, it went rather quickly, as – at least it seemed so to her – no department had come across a vital problem for the players or the club and so they could go on as planned.

Dr. Waller, a man in his fifties with a beginning receding hairline, came up to her and introduced himself again, obviously having forgotten that he had already done so 20 minutes ago, albeit hastily.

“Well, young lady, off we go! I’ll take you upstairs to the treatment room – I like to call it my “player’s haven” – there I’ll explain some of the machines we have there. It’s all gotten pretty modern over the last five years,” he made small talk while they were heading up the stairs in the reception area to the first floor.

On the upper floor, it looked just like any other office building, except for the red carpet and walls (she ignored the green-turquoise painted wall of the staircase; the combination was really hurtful to the eyes). On the left hand was a grey double sofa, directly next to a steel-and-frosted-glass door, on which there was a name plate with “Rafael Benitez” written on it. If she remembered the geometry of the building correctly, the room behind that door should be overlooking the entire training grounds outside.

In front of her was a small landing with two balustrades (and space to the left and right to look downstairs to where the players exited the building towards the pitches) leading to more doors, probably all administration offices were behind them. Then farther to the right were the lift and another set of glass doors leading to an undisclosed location.

Dr. Waller leaded her to the far right, through a set of double doors right into the heart of the Melwood training facility. He explained to her, while they were walking down the hall, that on her right hand (with windows to the outside grounds) was the rehabilitation pool, where players could recover from injuries and be guided back towards their former fitness or just relax after a stressful training session (not that something like that existed here at Liverpool Football Club, of course… OF COURSE....).

On her left side, only separated from her by a light yellow wall, was her new working place, the Liverpool club’s own treatment centre. Entering through a wooden door, she stood still for a moment, taking it all in. It was a enormous room with five examination tables (with dark blue mattresses, at least she didn’t have to look at that bright Liverpudlian red all day long, or she would soon feel like a Taurus, just like her Zodiac sign said) on the left.

There was a spare one at the back of the room right next to a leather armchair, mostly used for recovering after injuries; the patient would be sitting up, which was good for the cardiovascular system, but could still relax. The wall opposite the door wasn’t a wall per se, but a glass window looking directly into one of the three (Dr. Waller explained to her) gymnasiums this facility had. On the right side were cabinets along with a hanging closet between two windows leading out into the hallway.

All in all, it looked like every other treatment room she had seen up to now, but there still were some differences. For example, not every one of these rooms had had an own CT scanner and x-ray machine in the next room, or the newest ultrasound machine with coloured monitors. They were really up-to-date here… “Dr. de Vilancourt? Are you following me?” Dr. Waller asked a little concerned. He saw a blush flitter over her face, before she recovered and said sweetly, “Absolutely, Sir.” She would remind him to call her by her first name later (she hated how the English pronounced her name, it was as if their nose was congested).

Fernando had finally gotten over the astonishment that a girl (and not any girl, but ESA chica he didn’t want to have to talk to ever again, but unfortunately he had the feeling that he might see her more often than he wanted to) had just changed in their dressing room and was currently on the way to the training pitch outside (why they couldn’t use the indoor pitch, was beyond him. They would be getting quite wet in all that rain…).

Opening the doors leading to the green grounds, he quickly put on his white beanie cap and the hood of his white training jacket to avoid getting drenched again (he’d had already got wet enough for the day). After searching the area for a minute, he finally saw his colleagues at the far end of the grounds and ran up to them to join in on their “let’s warm up before Rafa starts bitching” run.

Training was in full swing, with Rafa shouting out to them what he expected them to do and them trying to ignore him the best they could while seemingly doing what he wanted (didn’t help though, they would get caught and admonished for it. He was worse than the KGB). Fernando wasn’t concentrating on what was said to him though, his mind had had the brilliant idea to replay what had occurred just hours ago over and over in his head. It was enough to drive a sane person mad.

He was so deep in thought that he didn’t hear the other ones throwing comments at him and snickering while one of them was getting ready to… SMACK – a ball had rather rudely made contact with the back of his blond head (had there always been that many funny coloured estrellas in front of his eyes?).

Spinning around, he stared at the perpetrator with narrowing eyes and came face to face with a broadly grinning Pepe Reina.

“Relajate, tío, it was just a joke,” he said, laying a hand on the taller one’s shoulder. “Yeah, a very hurtful one,” the blonde retorted, rubbing furiously at the hurt spot with his sleeve, the anger within him slowly dissipating.

He knew Pepe was not at fault, he couldn’t blame anyone but himself and HER (oh no, here it goes again…). “What’s with you today anyway, mate, you don’t seem like yourself,” Steven Gerrard asked his voice laced with concern, as he jogged up to the two Spaniards standing in the middle of the pitch.

“Nothing,” the young blonde mumbled, not wanting to worry his captain. Granted, the Capitán always had been there for him when he needed someone to listen to (especially when he didn’t want his Spanish friends to know, they were real cotillas sometimes), but he just didn’t want to worry Stevie, who already had enough on his hands with the team’s mediocre performance on the pitch during the last match two weeks ago (before the international break), his problems would probably only distract him.

Running away from his friends, who were gazing at his retreating back with apprehension, he didn’t see the wet puddle of mud pooling between the green blades of grass…

“It’s all your fault, you know,” Fernando pressed out between clenched teeth still feeling the after-effects of the washing lotion she had used to clean his wound from the dirt. Spinning around, Valerie moved gracefully towards her victim… eh patient, with narrowing eyes. To him she looked like a cat focussing on its prey before catching it – he shuddered involuntarily; she downright scared him right now.

When he had come up to the treatment centre, he had expected to find Dr. Waller, but found her instead. Her, Dr. (who knew?!) V. de Vilancourt (he had looked at her name tag on her polo – no, not her breasts – and wondered what the V. stood for – vixen? “vitch”?), the team doctor’s new assistant.

When he had heard last week that Dr. Waller was going to get a new assistant, he had thought that it was going to be a man – this definitely wasn’t a man (he just hoped she hadn’t noticed checking out her backside; for confirmation only, he reassured himself). But he’d never thought it would be HER.

In one gloved hand, he saw, she held an non-alcoholic antiseptic solution, in the other sterile compresses. With one leg she wheeled a swivel chair in front of her and sat down on it, then she brought a movable table close to her and setting her things down. At last, she placed both her legs to the side of his injured right one.

There were two very important rules that needed to be applied when attending patients and which were imprinted in every doctor's mind from the beginning:

Rule number ONE in the medical rulebook: “Never sit in-between the legs of a patient unless you’re a Urologist” – something she certainly wasn’t – closely followed by Rule number TWO: “Never sit with your legs open in front of the patient, he might kick you somewhere it hurts” – thank God, she wasn’t a guy…

The young doctor then inched closer and slowly applied the antiseptic on the compress before setting it down on the little movable table next to her and carefully removing the temporary bandage she had wrapped around his knee after cleaning the wound with a gentle washing lotion. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it had bled pretty badly, requiring him to come up here – which bugged him quite a lot, because he was missing out on their training session.

“If you hadn’t hung…” he tried again, although stopped to all but scream out in pain, when the antiseptic solution made contact with his raw skin (his day really sucked so far). At that exact moment she chose to look up from her position and directly into his eyes. “Eh, non, non, non, ce n’est pas ma faute. You were the one who called me bitching about something or another.

“I didn’t know then and I really couldn’t care less now about who you are, and that fact really wounds your pride, doesn’t it, Mr. Torres?” He was stunned. How dare she talk to him like that! He hadn’t done anything to her, okay, except snap at her the moment he entered… (he didn’t think that she took his comments – “What are YOU doing here? Are you stalking me? You were downright impolite this morning on the phone” – too lightly)

Her French side was now slowly taking over her professional manners, making her open her mouth once again: “So, don’t blame me for your bad mood and lack of concentration during training! You tripped, you got a scratch on your knee – it’s not the end of the world, so stop whining!” She was on the verge of losing her cool (the nerve of him to blame her for his mistakes!), but she had still spoken in a quiet, almost conversational voice, which shut him up effectively.

“Hold this,” she all but commanded (meaning the compresses) after some minutes of silence and swivelled around in her chair to get adhesive dressing. Cleaning the wound one last time, she opened the packing and first took out a small patch (Hydrocoll®, the doctor’s new best friend), which she carefully applied to the lesion, and then masked it with the dressing (which was more of a water resistant plaster, but it would do).

Watching her well-rehearsed movements, he silently admired her skills – she was really gentle (but he would never admit it, not over his dead body!). When he was just about to say something (and it would not have been something unpleasant), the door opened with a bang and a grinning Daniel Agger walked in.

“Good day, Val, I see that you’re busy, but in case you’ve forgotten, I have my Cardio evaluation at three. I just wanted to remind you before going to lunch… oh hello Nando,” the Danish player greeted evoking a grumble from both.

Fernando could hardly keep from shaking his head at his friend, sometimes he was way too direct – he already talked as if he’d known Doc Val (Valentina? Val-kyre?!) his whole life.

“Well, Agger,” Valerie said, casting an amused glance over her shoulder at the lanky man at the door while putting finishing touches on the wound dressing, “ever heard of knocking? You can’t just stagger (Dani grinned at that) in here, it’s a breach of confidentiality between me and my patient.”

“Relax, Doc, that’s just mi Torrecito, we share everything!” Daniel replied animatedly, to which she grimaced. “Ok, this is being filed under “Things I don’t want to know”, Dani…” Glancing one last time at the young defender, she turned towards Liverpool’s number 9. “Mr. Torres, you’re all set. You can go, but don’t overdo it today! Try resting your knee as much as possible, the wound might open up again, if you don’t.”

Valerie then stood from her chair and wrote something down on her Din A4 PDA (which was directly connected to the computers in Dr. Waller’s and her offices) while walking to the cabinets on the opposite wall to put it down in its recharger.

Fernando knew he was being dismissed, but somehow he didn’t want to leave just yet (he was dying to know how the “Doc” and Dani knew each other). The Red’s no. 5 walked over to where the Spaniard was sitting lost in thought on one of the exam tables and whispered loudly (well, loud enough for Valerie to hear), “If you keep looking at her like that, I might get jealous – she’s all mine now…” (Coño, caught in the act! Not that he was really checking her out….)

Flushing brightly, he virtually jumped from the table and got out of the medical treatment centre as fast as she could. But wait, now he knew what the connection was between them – they must have been lovers, Agger wouldn’t have said anything otherwise. He had completely missed the stupid grin on his friend’s face and the partly annoyed, partly amused on of the French girl who just shook her head at her friend’s joke.

“He’s irritating the hell out of you, isn’t he?” Agger asked, looking curiously at his friend, as he sat down on the same spot Fernando had just vacated seconds ago. She sighed and stopped clearing the things away to sit down beside him. “I frankly don’t know what his problem is. First, he stares at me like I’m the eighth world wonder while I’m changing…” Dani grinned at that comment; Fernando surely hadn’t seen too many girls in his lifetime, only having been with his current girlfriend as far as he knew.

“… and then I get snapped at and childishly accused to have caused his injury… I even don’t know what I did to him, except for not being overly friendly and compassionate on the phone… and I don’t even know why I’m telling YOU all of this,” she concluded scolding, but smiling at the player anyway.

“It’s just because you love me dearly, darling,” he smiled smugly, to which she just raised an eyebrow.

“Well, Agger, don’t get to comfortable. After lunch it’s off to your Evaluation!” “Yeah, yeah, I know, where do we meet? Here?” “No, it’s that way.” Following her outstretched index finger with his eyes to where she was pointing, he found himself groaning loudly.

Not the gym… it meant work for him and endless mocking from her – he was glad, though, that she had got the job – and she wasn’t the only one, he knew the other new assistant at least as well as the young girl in front of him, if not better. This was promising to be an interesting year!

Vocab:

Esa chica – That girl

Estrellas – Stars

Relajate, tío – Relax, mate

Capitán – Captain

Cotillas – Gossipmongers

Eh, non, non, non, ce n’est pas ma faute – Oh no, no, no, it’s not my fault

Coño – Crap