Wasted (Neymar Fan-Fiction)

Chapter Eighteen

Eighteen

 

-Neymar-

I ran my fingers through my hair as I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. Donned in my best pair of (non-creased) slacks and the only formal button-up I have, I looked, to be honest, ridiculous.

Ever since Bruna packed her bags and moved out, I stopped (well, she stopped, but that’s kind of beside the point) ironing my clothes so more than half my wardrobe is filled with creased shirts. I started sending all the clothes to the wash dobby nearby, which meant more expenses.

Sadly, I am quite a sexist man—I cannot the laundry. It would make me look feminine. And a will ruin my manly reputation of being that sexy, non-laundry-doing Brazilian footballer who smirks like a God.

Hey, just saying.

Also, the tie that hung loosely around my neck looked stupid. I had no idea whatsoever how to do a tie. I mean, come on, and cut me some slack. I’m a footballer; I rarely dress up. I had tried fiddling and fumbling with the red tie, but no matter what, I looked like an immature guy with no social life that cannot do his tie without the help of mommy/Bruna.

I groaned aloud and decided to take off the ridiculous tie but shoved it into my pocket before I shrugged on the jacket that was fresh from the wash. Checking myself once more in the mirror, I decided I looked appropriate to go for dinner in one of the finest diners in Barcelona; but barely bordering the line that separated decent and bad.

I went out and hauled a cab, and remembered that once upon a time, I would rent out a limousine, all for my dear Bruna.

Maybe one day I will do that again. One day when I get her back.

Or will I do it with another girl, with another love?

I looked out the window and thought about all that I had done. Well, perhaps not, but maybe in a different life.

But I can’t tell yet. I’m not God. But I do wish I am, because then, I make it up for Gabriela and maybe, just maybe, turn back time.

But wishes rarely come true.

After paying the driver (with a signature for his football-loving son and two daughters—and, of course, playing the role of the influential dad, himself), I stared at the six-starred restaurant and then eyed the menu scribbled out professionally on the blackboard by the glass door.

Scanning my eyes over them, I looked for anything interesting: steak, raw salmon, crab…

Crab!

Excitedly, I rushed into the door, smiling slightly at the maître d’, who obviously recognized me and nodded his head at me, opening up the door for me.

“Thanks,” I barely muttered before rushing off to the semi-full table, looking for any crab.

“They haven’t served yet, Neymar, stop drooling, you look like you just seen a pretty lady walk by!” Pique hollered out, making the table reserved by the players in the game burst out in laughter. Even the ever-so polite and kind Mrs Pique found it hard to suppress her laughter.

I blush before trudging towards the seat with my name on it. Toni sat in front of me and she offered me a kind smile. Apparently, Messi was so angry that he’d forgotten to mention to her about my ‘incident’ with Gabriela.

“Nice to see you, Neymar,” She said charmingly, “You played well today. Good hat-trick.”

“Thanks,” I said, offering a polite smile before I looked to the empty seat beside mine. Frowning at why there wasn’t a name tag placed on the table, I then realized that the person must’ve already come. I hoped that it would be someone nice to spend the night with. Hopefully not Stegen; the stubborn boy hasn’t bothered talking to me since the ‘who doing who’ incident.