Chapter Text
"Go visit the cities of the clubs that made you offers, Sergio," they said. "It’ll help you decide which one you like best."
Except it didn't.
At least, not the first city.
It was June, and spring was giving way to summer. Sergio decided to start with Paris because he had never been there before, and everyone said it was unmissable in the spring. He also preferred to go alone because he knew his family's reactions would influence him somehow, and he didn’t invite Rúbia because… well.
He didn’t really know why.
But thank God he hadn’t brought any loved ones with him, because the city was overrated. Sure, the Eiffel Tower was beautiful, and the food was extraordinary — though not better than his mom’s paella, or any Spanish food, really — but the people were so rude that none of those qualities made up for how he was being treated. He knew his English wasn’t the best, but he was paying for what he ordered — couldn’t they at least try a little harder to understand?
The weather was too cold for summer— Spanish summer, at least — and it was always cloudy. The neighborhood PSG offered to house him in if he transferred, Neuilly-sur-Seine, was just too confusing: too many historical buildings, too many modern ones, too much organized traffic, too many tourists.
And no one spoke Spanish. Like, really no one — not even in tourism. The nightlife sucked; it seemed like everyone was more worried about waking up early for work than having fun. There was no flamenco dancing or botellón in the public squares — not even on weekends, not even near art schools.
Paris wasn’t Spain.
Sergio cut the trip short and came back three days earlier than planned. René called PSG without his brother needing to say a word.
He was a little upset, and once again doubted Doña Sofía. Paris was supposed to be the city of love, the city of lovers. The place where people lock padlocks on bridges and swear to love each other forever, where couples get married and spend their honeymoons. If he wasn’t going to meet the love of his life there, then where?
That’s why he headed to Madrid without much expectation. Screw it. He didn’t need to change teams if he didn’t want to — honestly, he never really wanted to. He had played in Madrid a trillion times already and had never felt anything special about it.
But he tried, you know? He started by staying in a nice place, downtown, near the Prado Museum. He wanted to stay in a hostel, one of those trendy shared-room hotels, but that would’ve attracted too much attention. It felt like the entire country of Spain was watching his possible transfer — even people from other European countries, to be honest. Even his national teammates seemed curious about where he was going.
That was confirmed when Sergio entered his suite, opened his laptop, and saw the flood of emails from Fernando Torres over the past few hours.
“Hey Ramos, how’s it going? I saw some news saying you might transfer to Real Madrid. Can’t wait for that to happen! Cheers!”
“Hey, Ramos. I mean, I don’t want you to move to Real. Would be weird if I did — you’re a great player and you’d wreck me in the derbies haha — but I dunno… it’d be nice to have you around.”
“Hi again, Ramos. Sorry to bug you hahaha. Just wanted to say if you’re in town anytime soon, let me know! I’d love to show you around. You won’t regret it.”
"Wow, what’s with all the disclaimers?" Sergio muttered to himself, skipping to the next message and praying it wasn’t from Torres again. It wasn’t — just junk mail about iPod deals and erectile dysfunction meds. So he decided to call Torres, because he didn’t have anything else to do in this city where he knew no one.
"Hey! So glad you called," Fernando answered, way more excited than Sergio expected.
"Hey, yeah… I got your emails. Felt like I should call."
"Yeah, it is important." Silence. Sergio had known Fernando for four years, since their first U-15 call-up. They’d always been close — sharing rooms, going out after games. But lately Fernando had been… off. Always too close, too smiley, trying too hard. He even skipped a date with his gorgeous girlfriend just to hang back and play video games with Sergio during a La Roja training camp. "When are you coming to Madrid?"
"I’m already here, actually," Sergio said, stretching out on the hotel bed. "Staying near the Prado."
"Oh, nice! That’s close to La Moraleja. We can meet up anytime if you want."
"La Mora-what?"
"La Moraleja. It’s where we players live — lots of the Real Madrid guys, like Raúl, Guti, Ronaldo… and Casillas."
"Oh cool! You live near any of them?"
"Near Casillas?"
"What? No, man — any of them." Sergio sat up on the bed, suddenly uncomfortable. He had a lot of admiration for Guti and Iker, and he figured that was obvious to his teammates, but he didn’t expect such a weird reaction just for mentioning one of their names. What the fuck , he muttered to himself, hoping Fernando hadn’t heard and wouldn’t get even more dramatic.
"He has a daughter, you know."
"Who?"
"Casillas, duh! Didn’t he tell you? You guys seemed pretty close during the last national team camp." — Sergio thought about saying he had probably done more talking than Casillas ever would in thirty years, and that there was no closeness at all between them. Fernando was pushing so hard, Sergio felt like he owed him an explanation. But then he realized how absurd that was — and didn’t Fernando call him to hang out? — so he changed the subject.
"How did we end up talking about Casillas’ personal life?"
"I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one who seemed interested." Fernando’s tone was sarcastic. Sergio opened and closed his mouth a few times. He had no clue what was happening anymore.
"When are you free to hang out, Fernando?"
"I dunno, you tell me when you’re free."
"Hm, any day. I’ve got no plans — just here to see if I could live in this city."
"Well then, you didn’t need to come to figure that out. Of course you could live in Madrid! Anyone could." Fernando practically beamed with pride. "It’s only 6 p.m., we could go out tonight. What do you think?"
"I think that’s the best idea you’ve had all day." Sergio listened to the rapid-fire directions about where to meet and what they’d do, already eager to get ready and explore the city.
He slicked his hair back and put on tight jeans and a fitted long-sleeve white shirt — he’d been working out, after all, and didn’t mind showing it off. Actually , he had an obligation to show it off. He threw on sunglasses, even though it was cloudy, just to avoid being recognized, and headed to the nearest Starbucks.
Fernando was leaning on the counter with his back to the door, hair even blonder than usual.
"Torres?" Fernando turned around immediately and smiled, giving Sergio a strong hug.
"Sese… It’s been too long!"
"Not that long, but yeah, I missed you too." He laughed and hugged him back just as tightly. "How’s everything going? And how’s Ollalla? Thought she’d be coming with us."
"She… No, she…" Fernando scratched his head and looked away. "I didn’t even think to invite her, to be honest. She’s been busy with her mom. And… how’s Rúbia?"
"Studying — college entrance exams are coming up. And our relationship isn’t going great, so…"
"Really?" Sergio nodded, frustrated. Not sad — frustrated. Like it was a fight he lost. "Wanna talk about it?"
"No, not worth it. Just feels like I wasted years and she never liked me to begin with, but…"
"Hey, don’t say that. Whatever happens, you tried." Sergio nodded again, feeling a little comforted. Okay, maybe he hadn’t tried all the time, and yeah, Rúbia had been way more patient with his mood swings than she should have. But playing the victim felt nice sometimes.
"Let’s not talk about that tonight, alright? I want to have fun and enjoy this trip."
"As you wish!" Torres agreed, more than happy. Even though Sergio wanted to take the metro, Fernando insisted on driving — Madrid knew El Niño , and public transport would mean anything but peace.
Fernando took him to Plaza Mayor, using the crowds there to keep a low profile. They went to Mercado San Miguel, sat side by side, and got marzipans , those milk-based sweets you couldn’t find anywhere in Sevilla.
Across from where they sat, three street performers played: one man on guitar singing Sergio’s favorite song, Tren del Cielo , while a couple danced flamenco to the rhythm. Sergio felt at home. Almost.
"So? What do you think of the city?"
"It’s nice, from what I’ve seen," Sergio said with a smile. "But it feels like something’s missing."
"Missing?" Fernando raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"I don’t know… It’s warm like Sevilla, lively like Sevilla. The food’s better, I can’t deny it." Torres laughed, proud that his city had won points with Sergio. "But it feels like there’s some spice, some flavor I just can’t find here. And without it, I can’t move anywhere."
"Hmm…" Fernando stayed silent for a few seconds, trying to find an answer. "What do you do in Sevilla?"
"What do you mean?"
"What do you do in your free time there? When you’re not playing?" Sergio stroked his chin.
"I stay home, play video games with my brother. Annoy Miriam. Go out with Rúbia sometimes…"
"Okay, but just you . What do you like to do?"
Sergio went quiet and thought harder. It was tough — he rarely had fun on his own.
"I like listening to music. I love flamenco — as you’ve probably figured out by now. I like dancing too. It’s fun, freeing."
"Perfect! What’s missing is Madrid’s nightlife." Fernando stood up suddenly and left a 100-euro note on the table. "And I’m sure Sevilla will lose that one too."
"Uhh, I don’t know if I can…" Sergio scratched the back of his neck. "I promised René I was just going to check out the city. He’ll kill me if he sees me in a nightclub."
"Which is exactly why he won’t." Fernando grinned. "Let’s go to this place called ‘Oh, Madrid.’ If you haven’t been on TV at least ten times, you can’t get in. No one will see you."
"Nando…"
"Come on, Sese! It’ll be fun!" Fernando clapped him on the shoulder. "I guarantee it. Let’s grab my car."
"What about my outfit? I can’t go like this."
"You’re a right back for the national team. If you wanted to walk into the club naked, they’d let you." Fernando smacked the back of his head playfully and started walking away. "I’m going. Are you coming or not?"
Sergio thought for a moment or two about whether he should disobey his brother and follow his teammate. And he decided to go. Because come on — he was young, rich, and had some power. He deserved to enjoy it every now and then.
"Alright. Let’s go."
Fernando drove the whole way like he was headed to the best night of his life. Sergio didn’t understand why. Torres always seemed like a chill guy, quiet, especially considering he’d been dating the same girl since he was sixteen.
And Sergio even asked about her on the way — where was Olalla, why wasn’t she coming too — but all he got were vague “she couldn’t” or “she didn’t want to” responses.
Funny how he knew that without even making a phone call.
When they got to the club — through the back door — no one asked for payment, ID, or anything to prove they were old or rich enough to be there.
And once inside, Sergio was surprised. Because the place looked like a dive.
He had never been much of a partygoer — they never let him in. Since he was thirteen and his career started getting serious, René and his parents did everything they could to keep him away from drugs, alcohol, and parties. And they were right to. Sergio was impulsive. Any excessive exposure to those things would’ve been disastrous.
“I’ll be right back!” Fernando said in his ear, holding his waist before disappearing into the crowd. Ramos leaned against a wall and watched the movement. It wasn’t as crowded as he expected, and he was surprised by the sofas scattered around the place. Surprised, too, by the upper floor, where a select group of people — probably wealthier than everyone else — looked down at what was happening among the mere mortals.
And then he saw a girl. A gorgeous girl. Green eyes, dark hair, full lips, tall. She didn’t pay him any attention, though. She looked his way for three seconds like she was distracted, lost in thought, and then turned back to talk to her likely boyfriend.
Of course — she looked about 23. It wasn’t like a freshly turned 19-year-old like him was going to spark any real interest in her.
“Here, I brought some vodka.” — Torres returned and pulled him from his daydream, handing him a glass. It wasn’t like Sergio had never drunk or gotten tipsy before. But it was always something mixed with juice, lighter, something he could drink like soda. Always with friends. Always people he knew — not a teammate. Not in an unfamiliar city. Not while already disobeying his brother’s orders.
It didn’t feel right.
“Thanks, man.” Sergio took a long sip of the clear liquid. Like he knew what he was doing. Like he was experienced. So what? That girl from the upper floor probably liked men like that.
“Whoa, slow down! I’m not carrying anyone home tonight.” Nando joked, sipping his drink too. But he was happy. Because it was working. Because everything was going as he imagined.
“Relax. I know my limits.” He didn’t. But he was about to find out.
And they kept drinking. More and more vodka down their throats — and tequila, and energy drinks. The loud reggaeton helped make their movements even more intense: hips swaying, hands up, feeling the beat. Sometimes Torres got too close — way too close — and Sergio would just laugh, a little tipsy, and throw out a “What’s that, dude?” that made Fernando retreat awkwardly, smiling and backing off.
And Sergio started to get turned on. That kind of sudden teenage arousal, the kind that hits just because there were so many beautiful people around and he’d drunk too much. So he grabbed a short girl with cropped hair and kissed her. Then a tall brunette who danced with him for two minutes before getting what she wanted. And then a Black girl with gorgeous brown eyes — he couldn’t let her pass by without taking the chance.
He wasn’t thinking about Rúbia. He couldn’t see Fernando anymore. All he could think about was kissing more and more people, getting more and more of that euphoric rush.
Fernando touched his shoulder again — this time, much less cheerfully — saying he was going to grab another drink. And Ramos followed him this time, realizing his teammate was upset and wanting to make up for it somehow.
But when he reached the bar, he saw her . The girl from the upper floor. Now with her dark hair tied in a ponytail, an easy smile, and a glass of amber liquid in front of her. This was his chance. His chance.
“Hi.” he said in what he thought was a suave tone. But it wasn’t suave at all. His voice cracked, his tone was too loud, and his smile was way too crooked to be charming. That’s why she laughed.
That’s why Pilar laughed.
“Who let you in here, kid?” Sergio’s ego deflated a little. But just a little.
“I’m Sergio Ramos. I play for the National Team.” he introduced himself, kissing her cheek. She looked too tired to pull away.
“I’m Pilar Rubio. Journalist.” she replied, not reacting at all to the fact she was talking to a national team player. Come on. No way she hadn’t heard of him. “Or rather, an escort, apparently.”
“Wait, seriously? You’re an escort?”
“No!” Pilar took a frustrated sip of her whiskey and put a hand to her forehead. “I’m not! I’m a journalist. A professional one. I have my press credentials and six years of experience. I’m not an escort. I don’t deserve to be seen like one.”
They went silent. Because even drunk, Sergio could tell she wasn’t joking — it was a real outburst. And he had no idea what to say to comfort her. Because he would never, not in a million years, not even if his life flipped upside down, be seen that way.
“Hm, alright. I believe you’re a journalist. A serious, competent one. I’m sure of it.” He sat on the stool next to her and put a hand on her back, as if trying to comfort her. She softened at the gesture. “And I’m sure one day the whole world will see that. You just can’t give up. They always want us to give up.”
“Okay. Thanks for the kind words.” She gave a crooked smile, looking just a bit less defeated. “What’s your name again? Mauro?”
“Sergio. My name’s Sergio.”
“Okay. Thanks, Sergio.” Pilar turned to face him, looking at him for a few seconds like she was searching for something. When she found it, she placed the hand holding her drink on his thigh. — “But cheering me up wasn’t the only reason you came over, was it?” — Pilar leaned in and kissed him.
Sergio kissed her back immediately. And the two ended up at her flat.
The next morning, Sergio told René he wanted Real. And when he got back to Sevilla, he broke up with Rúbia.
Because he had found the essence — the flavor. And even with all the nostalgia he’d feel for Sevilla, Madrid was going to be his new place.