rosie | griezmann

4

Antoine had played a good match, scoring two goals and staying on top of things. That was why he loved football. It gave him a sense of complete control, among other things. It also took his mind off of everything. He was no longer the shy, meek Antoine that Rosie—who, indeed, sat in the suite, watching her client—knew, but instead the amazing footballer that the entire world recognized him as. 

When the match ended, Rosie took her time making her way over to the tunnel. Honestly, she didn't know whether or not she should go down there to meet Antoine; she didn't want anyone getting the wrong idea about the type of connection—relationship, if you will—that they had.

She'd also dressed casually, in a pair of wedge heels, tight jeans, and a white button-down blouse. Her hair was in a ponytail and her caramel skin glowed without a trace of makeup, though she would admit she'd tried with her appearance because she brushed on some mascara and made sure to clean up the stray hairs around her arched eyebrows.

"Rosie." Antoine's voice was happy as he spotted her calmly strutting over to him, her hands relaxed in her pockets. She smiled.

"Antoine, great job out there."

"Ooh, Antoine has a girlfriend—"

"Oh, shut up, Fernando. We're just friends." Antoine blushed vehemently and turned back to Rosie. "I'm sorry about him, he's stupid."

Rosie smiled. "It's okay, Antoine."

"So...have you ever been to a game before?" Antoine remembered that hideous Real Madrid pin that Rosie had stopped using after she learned he played for Atletico.

Rosie nodded, slowly. "I used to know a footballer on Real Madrid. We aren't in contact anymore, but—"

"—Who?" Antoine blurted, before quickly blushing. "Oh, I mean, you don't have to tell me."

"Varane, Özil." She stated, mindlessly. Antoine swallowed. He didn't know Mesut, but he knew Raphael, of course he knew him. They were close friends, even best friends when it came to international duties.

"Oh, he's nice." Antoine spoke, shyly. He felt his face burn.

Rosie just chuckled. "Did you want to come to my office later, or maybe have an appointment over coffee? I'd be exhausted if I were you, but—"

"I'll just go home and change before I come to your office." He spoke, eagerly. Her office gave him a sense of privacy, so he liked it the most.

"Okay." Rosie responded. "See you soon."

So, the two parted ways. Antoine found himself sitting before his therapist two hours later, after he had a decent café au lait and changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a black t-shirt with two white stripes on the sleeves.

"Lately I've been feeling anxious." Antoine mumbled, his voice somewhat low and gloomy. Rosie could barely hear him. "When I'm not playing football or scoring a goal, I feel completely worthless. I don't know what makes me happy. My daughter, sure, but she loves Erika more than me. And Erika doesn't let me see her...she says I'm a bad influence, and that she doesn't want my betrayal and disloyalty to rub off on her. So I can only see her on Wednesdays and Fridays, the days when Erika has work and can't watch Angel."

Rosie bit her lip and softly gazed at Antoine. "Have you taken this up in court? She's still your daughter...Erika doesn't have the right to withhold you from your child."

"I know, but maybe she's right." Antoine sadly gazed out the window. "Sometimes I lose focus so easily, or I'm so uptight I forget to do the simple things, like eating. And I keep myself busy by arranging my apartment, but what am I to do once there's no more arrangements left to do?" He paused. That was why he needed Angel, because one year olds were messy. They needed food, and if they didn't get it, they would make sure you knew; Antoine liked to cook.

But twenty-five year olds were something else. Rosie took this all in, and after two weeks of meeting with him, his diagnosis was clear. He described things that should've been fun to him with anxiety or apathy. He often seemed hopeless, like there was nothing he could do to fix the way he was. He either had too much sleep or none at all, but he hated getting too much. He cried easily, but at the same time he could get extremely agitated with the sight of a white feather on a black couch. His thought process was often, and she meant this in the nicest way possible, slowed down.

She was just glad Antoine hadn't showed any signs of suicidal thoughts, and glad that he knew he had something or someone to live for. "You'll need to take our diagnosis test online, Antoine, but I believe your diagnosis is clear." Rosie spoke, softly. Antoine felt comfortable with her around. So, he accepted her news with open arms as she spoke, her voice still relaxed. "You have depression."