Football Smuts

Traitor - Neymar

You try to take deep, shaky breaths as you watch your fingers loosen and tighten around the cup of tea you're holding, your heart beating fast in your chest, your throat tight. It feels like you're not getting enough air to fill your lungs, but the deeper you breathe, the dizzier you become, and you can't be bewildered. Not with Neymar sitting on the couch across from you, not with what he'd just told you.

He has his head down like he can't look you in the eyes. His shoulders are slumped while his underarms rest on his knees, his fingers intertwined with their tips, kneading the backs of his hands nervously.

He doesn't make a sound. Neither do you.

It is so odd to sit in silence with your favourite person — the one guy you always have something to tell, always laugh with, and always can turn to. Now the mere idea of forming sensible thoughts seems unattainable.

Exhaling deeply, you bury your head in your hands. Loose strands of hair that have somehow fallen out of your messy bun tickle your neck with the movement, but you're too tired to retie your hair, too tired to move in general.

"Are you still talking to me?" Neymar says, his voice shaky and soft after a while like he's hesitant to speak. You don't look up at him, but you can feel that he has, the weight of his stare heating your body.

You're not sure what to answer. Of course, you will still talk to him, but if you are ready to do so, you're not sure. So many questions rush through your mind, causing your head to throb and dizzying you. You long for something to hold on to and take your thoughts somewhere else, but you know there's no escaping this situation now. You can't flee; you can't let this be the end of your relationship. Or at least not end your relationship like this. Honestly, you're not sure you can go on now, sleep by his side every night, kiss him good morning before he has to leave for training, and wear the shirt with his name on it to every game you can attend ...

"Yeah," you mumble into the palms of your hands, your eyes shut tight but tears still finding their way out of them and streaming down your cheeks.

"I'm so sorry," he says, his voice breaking. You can hear the soft scroop of the pillows when Neymar shuffles over to where you're sitting. He's not coming close — thank God — but he is here, next to you, and his presence calms you down immediately. This is strange, considering he's the reason you are feeling this way in the first place.

You take another deep breath. "How far along is she?"

"Couple weeks."

"How many?"

His voice is hardly more than a whisper now, "Sixteen."

A sob falls from your mouth, shakes your body, and makes your heart pull and pinch. You can feel your energy drain away, leaving you weak and your muscles slack; continuing to sit upright becomes more complicated with every minute.

"I'm so sorry," Neymar repeats. You know he means it — it's apparent in the way his voice sounds, evident in his hesitancy and unease — but what you don't know is what to make of it. So you keep crying.

"You're such a fucking asshole."

His hand curls around your knee, squeezing gently, soothingly. "I'm so sorry, babe. Please, I—"

"You cheated on me," you say, the words barely audible as they're being swallowed by the sobs that still shake your body. "You seriously cheated on me? Why? Why did you do that? God, I hate you so much."

This time, he doesn't say anything. You let your hands drop from your face and slap his hand, resting on your knee, away. Neymar flinches but doesn't protest. Instead, he bit his cheek and stared out the window. You watch his eyes well up with tears, watch as he presses his lips together, but you suppress the urge to comfort him even though it hurts to see him like this.

And suddenly, his silence pisses you off. He doesn't have the right to cry, not with what he's done to you, and he does owe you answers. Furious, you slap his arm. Not hard enough for it to hurt, but he flinches again before he runs a hand over his face, dashing away tears.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I was drunk." With furrowed eyebrows and rapid breathing, you look on as he bows his head and starts sobbing. His fingers run through his blonde strands of hair, keeping them out of his face but tugging on them slightly. You have no clue what to do, so you just let him cry to himself as you do the same.

"Did you even go with her to see a doctor?"

Neymar doesn't answer, only shakes his head.

"You're an asshole."

"I'm so sorry, Y/N. Seriously. I'm so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you; that's the last thing I'd ever want," he rasps, still crying, still shaking, still not looking at you. "I love you, babe. I love you. I do. Please, just—"

"Please," you interrupt as you try to control your breathing, "Please, just ... shut up."

He does. He presses his lips together again and looks away, setting his eyes on a spot above the TV screen.

Everything Neymar told you today is hard to process. Obviously. Your boyfriend of two years has admitted to cheating on you and getting pregnant with the woman he cheated with. And, well ... sixteen weeks. You know what that means. Even if she had wanted to abort the pregnancy, it's too late for that now. So, your boyfriend will become a father to a child that isn't yours. It's hard to think about that, but there's nothing you can or would do about it, anyway. That's his thing to work out now, not yours.

For the ten-thousandth time today, you take a deep breath, let the oxygen erase all the dizziness inside your brain, and stand up.

Neymar, with his eyes red and cheeks pale, looks up at you, panic glistening in his gorgeous golden eyes. "What are you doing?"

You wipe away a tear and shrug. "I need to think. Don't call me Ney, please."

Instantly, he jumps off the couch, too. When he's standing in front of you and has his hands on your shoulders, he asks, "What?" Again, his voice breaks.

You can't answer. It is almost like his troubled expression, and that look in his eyes paralysed you.

Softly, he shakes you. "What are you talking about?"

You feel another tear roll down your cheek into the corner of your mouth. A second later, you taste the saltiness. "This is a lot to handle, and I can't deal with this right now."

At that, Neymar freezes. "Are you — are you breaking up with me?"

The question makes your head hurt, and your heart tighten. "I don't know."

Neymar stares at you. You see his jaw move when he clenches his teeth, his Adam's apple bopping up and down as he swallows hard. His breathing becomes heavier, therefore, more audible, and even though he averts his eyes from yours and turns his head, you notice the tears.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N."

And then you hear he's crying. He sits back down, rests his underarms on his knees and bends over to bury his head in his arms as the sobs start to make his body tremble again.

"I love you so much," he blubbers between gulped-back sobs.

But because you can't listen to him say those words right now, you leave.