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sports-on-sundays · 18 days

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football in the rain / Antoine Griezmann

Summary: Antoine x female!Spanish!reader - You met a celebrity before he became a celebrity.

Warnings: running away from home, angst I suppose, missing home, sad ending, melancholy vibes, bit of Spanish (sorry if it's not correct), slight parasocial relationship?

Author's Note: I'M BEGGING YOU. PLEASE READ THIS! I wrote this because I'm a huge fan of his, okay, but listen, I know a lot of you couldn't care less about this but it was an idea I had that I needed to write down. It's not even romantic at all, so you don't have to worry about that! I'm just super proud of this and it would make me so happy to know someone read and enjoyed it. Please, if you don't enjoy it as a fic, then enjoy it simply as a story! Anyway of course I know after this mega long author's note I'm going to get 0 notes anyway.

Requested: Be real.

The year was 2006. The rain beat on your head, soaking through your clothes, as you walked, carrying nothing but a backpack on your back, in the middle of the night.

You stared down at your shoes as you walked, watching as water squished out of them with every step. You let out a deep sigh.

But suddenly, a football gently ran into your foot.

You looked up just in time to see a soaking wet teenage boy, running towards you, saying quickly, "¡Lo siento!"

His wet hair was plastered to his forehead, and his clothes were also soaking, hanging from his body. He had no shoes on, which you found strange.

You picked up his ball and held it, saying, "Who are you?" A part of you assumed he was just some homeless guy who had come across a ball and decided to start playing with himself.

"Mi nombre es Antoine," he said, and it became clear Spanish wasn't his first language. He eyed the ball, waiting for you to hand it back to him.

"Are you French?" you asked.

He nodded, looking at you with his big eyes. "Can I have my ball back?"

You frowned, and, being merely a teenager, asked bluntly, "Are you homeless or something?"

The boy blinked in surprise. "No! I play for Real Sociedad." He gestured, and you were surprised to see you were right by the academy, and you hadn't even noticed.

"Really?" you had asked, sweeping a wet strand of hair out of your face.

He nodded.

"How come you're out practicing in the middle of a rainy night, then?"

You watched as his jaw tightened a bit, but he responded back simply, "I want to improve. I practice whenever I can."

You laughed a bit at that as you asked incredulously, "Don't you get any sleep?"

He shrugged. "Of course I do."

You nodded, and stood there. You glanced at his ball, before rolling it back to him. He stopped it with his foot, which compelled you to ask, "Why aren't you wearing any shoes?"

He shrugged. "They got too wet on the grass. It's easier without."

"Won't you slip?"

He shrugged for about the one hundredth time.

"Well, it makes you look homeless."

"I don't care."

You nodded, shifting your backpack strap on your shoulder, as he said, "But what are you doing, walking in the middle of the night, like you are?"

You shrugged. "I'm running away from home."

The boy blinked in shock as he began kicking the ball back near the field. You followed, somewhat intrigued by this guy, Antoine, with his bright eyes, as he asked, "Why would you do that?"

"I don't know. I'm sick of my home," you said, shrugging off your backpack.

"Want to play?" Antoine offered.

You nodded, slipping off your coat, too. You started playing, just going easy on each other, before Antoine said, eyeing the jersey you were wearing, "Atlético? Are you from Madrid?"

You stood a little straighter, proud of your club. "No, but my uncle is. He's who I'm running away to. I'm sick of my parents."

"You said that," Antoine said as he intercepted your dribble.

"You're really good," you complimented.

"I'm going to go professional, soon enough," the boy smiled proudly.

You nodded. The two of you kept playing, until the score was 3-2, Antoine winning, and you flopped down on the grass next to your backpack, both covered in not only water, now, but also sweat.

"Fernando Torres?" Antoine asked, glancing at the back of your jersey. "Is he your favorite player?"

You grinned, nodding. "He's the best."

He nodded back, and you sat silently in the grey night together for some minutes, before Antoine asked softer, "Why do you want to run away from home?"

You frowned. "I don't know. I want something new. My parents expect me to do so much, and then they never even care about me. They're so controlling. I mean, I'm fifteen! They treat me like a little kid."

"Oh..." Antoine nodded again, trailing off. "Do you think they love you?"

You blinked in surprise at that question. "Of course they do!"

He nodded, and said simply, kind of suddenly, "I'm from France."

"You said."

"My parents are still back there, and my siblings. In France. I hardly ever have gotten to see them... Since... I moved here, for football."

"Well, why didn't you join a club closer to your home, then?" you asked. It seemed fairly obvious to you.

"No clubs would take me."

"What? Why?! You're good!"

But Antoine shrugged, a sad tinge to his voice, so much so, that for just a moment, you thought he might cry. "Apparently, not good enough... What's your name, anyway?"

You told him your name, and he nodded. "Mucho gusto."

You sat there for a while, together, silently. The rain subsided a bit, and finally, you stood up, grabbing your backpack. Antoine stood up with you as you said, "Well, I better get going."

Antoine nodded and said, "Bye. It was really nice, to..." he trailed off, because neither of you really knew what had just happened.

"Yeah," you smiled, understanding. "You too. Antoine."

He grinned back a bit as you turned on your heel to get walking.

But suddenly, he grabbed your wrist. You turned to face him again, your eyebrows scrunching together. "Wait," he said.

You stared.

He let out a shaky breath, before saying, "If your parents love you... I don't think you should run away... I know it's hard, but I don't think you'll regret it in the end."

You saw the glimpse of all the sadness in his eyes. The loneliness.

He knew how it would feel.

His heart was aching for his family.

You assumed it was just a stray raindrop that slowly rolled down his cheek.

You swallowed, and slipped your hand down to squeeze his. "Thanks, Antoine. I'll think about it."

"I don't think I'll ever forget you," he said suddenly, softer.

You blinked in surprise. "W- Why?"

He grinned suddenly. Those sparkling sad blue eyes shining. "I've had a nice time with you, practicing."

You nodded, smiling a little back. "Yeah I had fun, too. Well... bye, Antoine."

He let your hand slip out of his as he called, "Thank you!"

At that time, you didn't have any idea what he was thanking you for as you walked away.

Sometimes, today, you think about it. Now you figure he was just lonely. A boy in the world striving for success, but couldn't see the bright path ahead of him, at the time. Someone who kept going simply because he was a dreamer. He never let go of hope.

That night, you didn't walk to the station and get on a train to Madrid. You went home, took a warm shower, and went to bed.

And after that, things got better for you, slowly but surely.

And you thanked Antoine for that, partially.

And you hoped things would get better for him, too.

Well, you saw that with your own eyes. You saw him get older, and get a place on the first team.

And though perhaps you didn't realize it at the time like Antoine did, the same went for you.

That night, a strange connection you would never forget was formed.

There was no way you could ever forget that lonely night with Antoine, playing football in the rain.

You stand in line, holding two jerseys in your hand. All around you, you, people gushed and huffed and jabbered and pushed in mostly excitement.

Ahead of all the people, somewhere, was Antoine Griezmann, sitting at a table, signing fans' items.

Antoine, who years ago, you played football with in the rain.

You're sure the fame, the money- it changed him. You assume that's something that happens with everyone. But there were so many moments when your heart pounded, and all you could think was, Once upon a time, I stood in the rain and talked to that boy. In that moment, on that one night, we were connected.

Now, eighteen years later, you're determined to let your paths cross again.

He's a famous footballer, with everything anyone could ever ask for. Practically all the money in the world, and a beautiful wife and children.

You're just you, a woman in her thirties who has had a generally alright life, but remain middle class and alone in the world.

But there's a connection you don't want to let go of.

There were moments.

When your uncle phoned you to tell of the news of the young Real Sociedad hotshot who was signing for Atlético Madrid.

When you watched him walk off the pitch crying, after a loss to Germany in the 2014 World Cup.

When you stood up from your sofa and screamed for joy when he scored his first goal for your club, Atlético de Madrid.

When he won the World Cup for France in 2018, and you watched him smiling in the rain with the glimmering golden trophy in his hand.

When you watched him go off to Barcelona, and still stayed his supporter through that mess.

And then you saw him come back to his club. Your club.

And become it's top goalscorer.

And now you're determined to see him face-to-face again.

It seems to happen so slow, and so quick, and the same time. You're not sure if it's tedious or sudden, but either way, at some point, you step up to the table with a lump in your throat.

He looks up and meet your eyes.

He won't recognize me, will he?

"Could you sign two things for me? Antoine?"

He nods, "Of course," and you lay down your jersey of his, with the number seven on the back of it. His Spanish is a lot better now, but you know that. You watch as he scribbles his signature on the shirt and hands it back to you with a smile.

You swallow down the lump in your throat as you lay down the second jersey.

"Fernando Tor-" his voice falters, "Torres," he finishes.

He glances back up at you.

A hint of uncertainty.

Does he really recognize this old jersey?

Is it really ringing a bell, or am I just imagining things?

You breathe deeply.

Come on, Y/n. Say something. This is your chance. This is your one moment, your mind screams as he signs the second, ragged, quite older jersey.

He hands it back to you, but his eyes linger on you longer.

You blurt, "Mi nombre es Y/n."

His bright blue eyes become slightly wider as he opens his mouth to speak.

But suddenly a fan pushes your back in annoyance, and a security guard says, "Miss, we've got a lot of people to get through, and Griezmann doesn't have a lot of time."

And just like that, you're swept away by the crowd. The moment is lost, and you stare at your shoes, clutching your jerseys. You stare at all the other shoes around you, your brain drowning out all the noise.

Your heart pounds.

He remembered me. He did.

Your head aches. All you needed was another moment. All you needed was-

What did you need? Did you really expect anything? Could you even have expected anything?

You feel dizzy, as your stomach drops, and the whole world seems to spin.

You should just be happy you got your jerseys signed, by a star like him.

But to you, he feels like more than just a distant star.

You walk out, swallowing the newest lump forming in your throat, not even taking a moment to look back and see the blue eyes still glancing up and burning into your back.

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