Manuel Neuer One-Shots

K.O.

“So basically, you got K.O.?”

     The girl frowned, her head feeling like it had been ran over by a truck - a heavy and loud full on sirens fire truck, scratch that, make it three fire trucks -, and she didn’t have a clue about what the hell was her best friend saying on the phone.

     ”K.O.?”

     Her voice was hoarse and her throat was so dry it hurt to speak, and as she started to sit up on her bed, her stomach began to churm, so she laid down again.

     All of the curtains were open, there was a mid afternoon breeze entering - she couldn’t believe it was almost three PM, oh God, she hadn’t slept for over twelve hours since she was a teenager -, and by that she knew her little (six foot four) morning bird boyfriend was already up.

     ”K.O. Knocked out. Duh.”

     Chloe Becker had to agree with her friend. She did get knocked out - with a big ass punch from mister Jack Daniels and his best friend, Johnnie Walker.

     Her friend laughed loudly when Chloe voiced that and it only made her head hurt harder, so she hung up the phone, hiding her face on one of the fluffy white pillows and groaning.

     She felt like she had died and someone forgot to bury her. She felt like death.

     Chloe actually wanted to die because even death sounded nicer than her dizzy head and aching stomach, and if she closed her eyes she could almost feel her liver working to filtrate all that alcohol and wanting to get revenge at her by making her feel abominable and atrocious pain.

(She could be a real drama queen sometimes, but this time she meant it.)

(Serious.)

(She wasn’t faking it like two weeks ago when Manu accidently stepped on her foot and she made him give her piggy back rides all over their house for the next six hours.)

     ”I’m assuming Nina’s bachelorette party went well.” His voice echoed around the room, but unlike her friends, his would never cause Chloe a headache, and she took her face off the pillow slowly just to look at him, in hopes it would make her feel better.

     And the sight of her shirtless boyfriend leaning by the doorframe didn’t make her feel any worst, and she wasn’t sure what seemed more appealing: his toned chest or the glass of water and headache pills he held in a single hand.

     Perks of dating a goalie: massive, skillful hands.

(If you know what that means.)

     ”How are you feeling, drunky?” He teased, sitting by her side on the bed and giving her a kiss on top of the head, chuckling at the eargerness his girlfriend drank the water and swallowed the pills.

     She snuggled on his him, voice muffled by the curve of his neck “A little bit better now.”

     He hummed, pleased, fingers running through her damp her, saying with a tiny smirk “No offense lieben, but you’re exhaling alcohol.” Chloe gasped, offended “And that’s because I even gave you a cold shower once you got home. You’re welcome, by the way!” He added, receiving a slap on the chest.

     ”Manuel Peter Neuer, let’s not forget that unforgetful night after the World Cup celebration in which I had to drag you through two flights of stairs because your good old friend Thomas Müller dropped you passed out drunk at our doorstep, and I had to give you a shower.” Chloe hissed with a raised eyebrow.