DELAYED WARNING: This story contains of suicidal scenes, self harming and eating disorders. If you are not at ease with these types of scenes, please read at your own risk. Warnings have been strongly mentioned. So please, enjoy the book and read at your own risk. All the care and love,
Yasmine.
"I witness the fact that you've changed your decision, Miranda," Gerardo said, sitting at his desk in his office. He was looking at a few sheets and files while speaking to me. "Out of the blue, I see you here. Miranda, dear. FIFA isn't your aunt's house to just come whenever you feel like it and leave whenever you want. It's an association. It's a company. A worldwide one. Don't mess with it. But since you're a really good player and Marc Bartra is your brother, I'll give you permission to play for our team, as in the boys' team for a while until I locate a suitable team for you."
Marc stands there next to me, holding my hand so tight, it's sweating. We both were nervous for Gerardo's reaction and reply. I feared the moment where he would deny my return and decline me. Just like a phone call.
"You're in," he says, as if it's the last thing he said. I squealed and hugged Marc tight, who was sighing happily on my shoulder. I whispered 'thank you' many times into his ear. He planted a kiss into my hair and I ran to hug Gerardo. He smiled and after a while, he responded to the display of affection. I thanked him and got a cab and went home. Marc had training so I left him behind.
~The Next Day~
"It's amazing how some people are so careless, they arrive late on the first day of training," I say, folding my arms at Neymar. He chuckles and mumbles apology vocabulary and I huff humorously. I raise my right leg and fold it from behind, stretching and warming up. I do the same with my other leg and do a few laps around the field. I hear some of the players (notice players as Alves, Piqué and Messi) snicker and make 'oohs' and 'aahs'. I glare at them and they just have a fit. I laugh along, but it comes out weird because I'm begging for mercy from my lungs. When I'm done, I walk to Gerardo and Neymar and announce that I'm done with stretching. He nods and pats Neymar on the back, motioning for him to join the circle where we will start training. I scan the field for Marc and find him on the benches, fast asleep. I ask Gerardo if he could spare us thirty seconds and with hesitation, he agrees. I grab Piqué, Alves, Xavi and Messi, leading them to where you will observe a mouth-drooling, sleeping Marc.
"Guys, when I say 'now', you guys grab a chunk of grass without Gerardo noticing and when I nod, you throw it at Marc and yell 'Take that you brat'. Okay?" I whisper the plan. They nod and Messi gives a thumbs up. I smile at him and mouth 'now'. We all bend and make sure Gerardo isn't watching. Grabbing a chunk of the green grass, we all stand again and I make sure they're all looking at me. I nod and we all raise our hands and throw the heaps of grass on him, yelling,
"Take that you brat!" in unison. We burst into laughter as Marc jolts up, a shocked look on his poor face.
"Holy soccer balls," he gasps. He breathes heavily and I run to hug him.
"I'm sorry, brother-poo," I say, in between laughs. He glares at him and shakes me off. "Guys, Marc just rejected me!" I say. We all pout and Marc calls us pathetic idiots and walks to Gerardo. We follow him and start training.
Standing in a circle, Marc stands in the middle, kicking the ball to all of us. We have to return in whether by using our head, feet or knees. After a while of doing that, we start a mini match and finally, we all head home after the game.
I made my way to the changing rooms and looked for Marc. I found him taking a shower with his boxers and I chuckled to myself before turning away. Suddenly, history mentally repeated itself to me, creating a dark cloud over my eyes. I was depressed again. One minute, I'm the normal, happy Miranda. The second, I'm depressed and desperately want to self harm, have eating disorders. Two minutes ago, I was hungry. Even now I'm hungry. But I don't want to eat. I want to starve. I feel like I've become fat since I didn't play soccer for who knows how long. I want to make myself suffer. I look at Piqué and don't see a blue eyed gentleman. Instead, I see him as the one who hurt me. He was one fourth of the reason I stopped playing football. I look at Alves and see the man who never talked to me. The person who treated me like air. Felt my presence, but never saw me. And he's not here for me to see him. But I visualise him. Gareth. The very Gareth Bale. Ignorant, selfish, anti-society, foolish and cunning. He was two fourths of the reason I stopped football. And finally, Miss Tasha. Tasha the Bitch. She broke me into pieces. She broke my back, legs and arm. And more importantly, she broke my soul. My aspiration. My life. She's nearly the whole reason I stopped football.
