somewhere in brooklyn ; marco asensio

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Marco's POV

"ASENSIO! HURRY YOUR ARSE UP! WE NEED TO LEAVE!" The one and only Cristiano Ronaldo yells from the hotel room doorway.

"Wait, I'm coming," I shout back from inside the hotel room, quickly tossing the last of my clothes in my bag.

"That's what she said," Toni calls out and Cristiano high fives him. I try not to laugh, but I do a little stifle.

"How long away is the stadium?" I ask Sergio, who was apparently standing right next to me, not that I notised.

"Uh, about an hour or so, I think? Not really sure though. I didn't even know they had football stadiums in New York City. Yankee Stadium, I think it's called?"

"Actually, Red Card Ramos, it's only about half hour away. Get your damn facts straight," Cristiano says.

"Fuck you," Sergio rolls his eyes and flicks the Portuguese guy's forehead.

"Ooh, time and place baby," he gives him a playful smirk. "Ow! The fuck?!"

"Okay, time to go. Zindane is starting to get pissed," Marcelo announces, poking his head in the door. I zip up the bag and we all head down.

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"Goal de Marco..." the annoncer says.

"ASENSIO!" The crowd cheers back. It truly is one of the best feelings in the world. I love being out on the field, scoring goals, making the fans happy. Especially hearing them call out your name when you score. Hard to top that, I'd say.

I do a little sum-sum and go high five some of the people in the front to celebrate my hattrick goal. I return back to the match pretty quickly, though.

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"That was some goal you scored out there, Asensio," Isco comments.

"Hell yeah, what a hattrick," adds Nacho. I pretend to wipe a tear of joy from my eye and pat them both on the back.

"Fabulous, fabulous match! Great teamwork. You guys looked fantastic out there! I was super proud. Okay, team dinner. Where should we go?" Zidane comes into the lockerroom and claps his large hands loudly. "You guys talk it out, I have to go make a phone call. Our dinner reservation cancelled on us, roach infestation. Good thing we're not eating there anymore, innit?" He says, leaving the room.

"I heard there's a really good Indian place not to far from here," Benzema suggests.

"And deal with Marcelo's gas? Um, no," I say, and the guys laugh. The Brazilian gives me the 'Really?'  look.

"Fine then, if you guys are going to be like that, then how about we go to a different place that doesn't give me flatulence." Marcelo rolls his eyes. "So how about Italian?"

"Yeah, but we just had that," Nacho says. Marcelo throws his hands up in frustration and heads for the shower.

"Hey, you know that KBBQ place down by the street that's across from the street that's across from the store called Soccer Planet?" Isco mentions.

"I just had a brain aneurism listening to that," one of the guys, Karim I think, said.

"The one with the revolving door?" He says, as if it was absolutely obvious, but Francisco, it absolutely wasn't.

"Yeah, I'd go there. I'd love to see Marcelo try to get out of the revolving door," el capitan Ramos snickers.

"I'm not deaf, Sergio!" Marcelo calls out from the shower. "But yeah, Indian sounds great. Let's go there."

"Keep it down, boys, I'm on the phone!" Zidane hollers, poking his head in the room. We all immediately pipe it shut and the only audible sounds are the running shower water, rustling clothes, and our coach's side of his phone conversation. "SHIT! Really? Are you sure? There's no replacement? None at all?" What the hell is he going on about? "Well, I guess we could take the— yeah, I was just about to suggest tha— okay, must you interrupt me all the time? Okay, I understand. It wouldn't kill us to— okay, I'm done talking with you. Bye."

We all look at each other in confusion. What was that all about?

Finally Zidane comes in. "Okay, well, apparently our ride to dinner cancelled on us, and I can't seem to find us a replacement, but I'm hungry so I don't really care. So, let's go to the New York City metro!" Some of the guys groan. "Hey, jugadores, it's an experience! Now come on, let's go to the Indian place!"

We finish getting dressed and showering and all that and file out of the locker room.

"Last one out has to bunk with Marcelo and his gas tonight!" Ramos calls. We all quickly scamper out of the locker room. Benzema is the last one out, after Vallejo.

"Why am I the butt of all the jokes tonight?" Marcelo says, as we're all walking out towards the exit. Thankfully most of everyone has left at this point.

"Because we love you, baby boy. Come here," CR7 puts his arm around him and gives Marcelo a peck on the cheek.

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Bonjour, choux! It's Anya. Or Amelia, whichever you like. Welcome to my Marco story! I think for this one, I'll tend to keep the chapters pretty short.

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