rosie | griezmann

5

Of course, Antoine didn't tell a soul about his condition. He didn't really know how to go about living with it, either. He didn't feel depressed. He just felt useless and exhausted. Only was it after an off game for the Frenchman did Simeone force his best player to fess up to whatever was happening in his personal life, since clearly it was enough to rub off on his playing, too.

"I've been seeing a therapist." Antoine simply'd stated, feeling almost too embarrassed to admit that he was depressed. "Maybe you should call her."

So, Simeone then called Rosie, who told Simeone about Antoine's depression—only because Antoine gave her permission to—and then Simeone concluded that it was better if Antoine just took time away from the team in order to deal with his own personal life and keep it off of the pitch.

It only made Antoine even more lost. The thing he'd loved the most on the planet—next to sweet, blue-eyed Angel—had been taken away from him. "Have you been working on the things I suggested?" Rosie inquired, as she sat across from Antoine. Antoine nodded, staring at today's outfit of choice for his therapist. A burgundy pinafore dress over a white, long sleeved t-shirt and heeled black ankle-boots. She looked like a grown up child, but not in a bad way. It was just what popped into his mind first.

"I like your haircut," He commented, absentmindedly. His actions and words were zombie-like. He hadn't even noticed the haircut until the words regarding it were leaving his mouth. 

Rosie smiled. "And I like yours."

"Thank you."

"So, tell me about your daily routine." She stated, moving to sit next to him on the couch. Not really next to him—they were still at opposite ends—but it felt better for Antoine, like Rosie was a friend and they were discussing this all over a cool glass of wine on a Friday evening.

Antoine opened his mouth and spoke. He woke up at nine or ten every morning—nine if he was with Angel, because she made too much noise from her room for him to sleep through it all, ten if he was alone because he knew he had nothing to do—and then went for a walk in the park across the street from his upscale apartment. Sometimes, if he felt out of shape—which was often—it was a run.

Then he went back home and made breakfast or skipped it if he wasn't hungry, which was also often. He straightened up his apartment, watched a match, tidied his apartment again, and recited Our Father or even drove to the Cathedral for mass or confession. After his religious time, he made lunch. The rest of the day—the evening—was a complete blur. He had nothing to do after around noon. Which was unfortunate, because he had a whole 'nother twelve hours waiting for him.

Rosie had been listening to Antoine from the point of view of a friend and no longer a therapist. She pitied him, but she knew there was so much hope for his recovery. Almost all of her patients were like Antoine, minus the handsome and famous factors. She thought this as the Frenchman spoke and felt her cheeks grow pink at the fact that she'd finally internally acknowledged how good looking he was, especially because it was inappropriate.

A few strands of her dark her fell before her eyes as Antoine spoke. He'd noticed it moments ago, but figured she wouldn't just leave them there. Eventually, however, when he realized she didn't seem very likely to do anything about them; he paused, leant forward, and tucked them behind her ear for her.

Rosie drew in a gasp of surprise. Antoine's face turned red as he froze, his face in such close proximity to hers. So, there they sat, quiet and frozen, both burning hot. Antoine's hands grazed her cheek as he slowly brought them back to his body, where they belonged. It fell onto his lap and he spoke, meekly. "Sorry."

Rosie pulled the hem of her pinafore dress down and crossed her legs. "It's alright." She responded, wishing the blood in her cheeks would just evaporate already.

Antoine blinked. She was blushing. Did I do that?

The phone rang, sending Rosie to practically fly over to her desk as she answered it. "This is Primrose Valentine."

Antoine's ears were alert. Primrose, like that girl in the Hunger Games? No wonder she goes by Rosie. But what a cute name was that, also? Primrose Valentine. It sounded like something out of an eighteenth century romance novel set in the American revolutionary war, or whatever. Again, that was simply what popped into Antoine's mind. He was probably wrong about it.

He watched Rosie as she frowned and spoke, yet again. "I'm not permitted to speak on these matters, so I can neither confirm nor deny them. Thank you, have a nice day." She then hung up and made her way back to the couch, plopping into her same spot. Her hair fell before her eyes yet again. Antoine parted his lips and Rosie quickly shoved it behind her ear as her face turned red yet again and she spoke, her voice slightly weak in comparison to the way it was on the mysterious phone call. "Alright, Antoine. Um...where were we?"