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The Madrid locker room was, for a single, fleeting moment, a picture of tranquil domesticity. In one corner, Sergio Ramos was meticulously braiding a small, intricate section of Leo Messi’s hair, his fierce concentration at odds with the gentle task, his chest pressed against Leo’s back in a way that was both possessive and profoundly comfortable. A few feet away, Luka Modric was attempting to steal a sip of water from Ivan Rakitić’s bottle, a silent, playful tussle that ended with Ivan capturing Luka’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. It was a scene of two marriages in their natural habitat: one a study in intense, fused fire, the other a testament to sun-dappled, gentle devotion.
The peace was shattered by the door flying open with the force of a hurricane. Neymar Jr., resplendent in a neon orange tracksuit that hurt the eyes, stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips, his expression one of profound, academic frustration.
“Okay. I have questions,” he announced, his voice cutting through the calm like a siren. “And I need answers. And for the love of God, everyone, do not spiral. I don’t have time for one of Leo’s existential crises today.”
All activity ceased. Sergio’s hands stilled in Leo’s hair. Luka and Ivan froze, their hands still linked. They all looked at Neymar, the designated agent of chaos, with a mixture of wariness and fond exasperation.
“Good, you’re all here,” Neymar said, marching into the center of the room as if it were his personal stage. He pointed a dramatic finger at Sergio and Leo. “You two. We all get it. Enemies to lovers. Very hot, very sexy. The tension could power the Santiago Bernabéu for a decade. The whole ‘I’ll break your legs on the pitch then kiss it better in the showers’ thing. A classic. We are all on board.”
Sergio’s lip curled into a slight, proud smirk. Leo just blushed, focusing on a spot on the floor.
Neymar then swiveled to point at Luka and Ivan. “And you two! The cute Croatians! Blowing kisses during matches, finishing each other’s sentences, sharing your pre-match yogurt. It’s adorable. It’s sweet. It gives people diabetes. We understand the assignment.”
Luka offered a small, confused smile. Ivan just looked wary, sensing a ‘but’ of seismic proportions.
Neymar clapped his hands together. “So with that established, can someone please explain to me the new, baffling sub-plots that are threatening to derail this perfectly good narrative?” He turned his full attention to Leo, his eyes narrowed. “Leo. My brother. Why, after the Champions League match against Liverpool, did I hear you tell Pique, and I quote, that Virgil van Dijk is a ‘beautiful, immaculate wall’ and that ‘in another life, you could have been Leo van Dijk’?”
The effect was instantaneous. Sergio’s head snapped down to look at the top of Leo’s head, his entire body going rigid. The gentle possessiveness evaporated, replaced by the predatory stillness of a wolf that has just heard a rival howl in its territory. “You said what?” Sergio’s voice was dangerously quiet.
Leo squirmed. “I… it was an aesthetic observation! A professional appreciation! His positioning… it’s like geometry! It’s… beautiful!”
“You said ‘beautiful’?” Sergio repeated, the word a low growl. “You said you could be ‘Leo van Dijk’? Do you have any idea what that does to me? To my blood pressure?”
“It was a hypothetical!” Leo protested, his voice rising an octave. “A different life! A different timeline! It doesn’t mean anything!”
“It means you were thinking about a life with a last name that isn’t Ramos!” Sergio countered, his hands now on Leo’s shoulders, turning him around. “A life with a… a Dutchman!”
Before that could devolve further, Neymar whirled on Ivan. “And you!” He jabbed a finger at the blonder Croatian. “Don’t think you’re off the hook! Why is my source telling me that you are one step away from being seduced by a twink Croatian ball boy from the Dinamo Zagreb match? That you called him ‘a sprightly, eager young fern’?”
This time, it was Luka who went preternaturally still. He slowly released Ivan’s hand. His calm, blue eyes, usually so serene, sharpened into laser points. “A… what?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft. “A sprightly fern, Ivo?”
Ivan Rakitić looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. He paled, then flushed a deep, mortified red. “He… he was just very enthusiastic! He handed me the ball with… with a certain zeal! It was patriotic pride! I was appreciating his national spirit!”
“You appreciated his spirit so much you almost followed him off the pitch like a bewitched puppy!” Neymar added, fanning the flames with glee. “Luka was blowing you a kiss and you were making eye contact with a child holding a ball bag!”
“He was nineteen!” Ivan cried defensively, then clapped a hand over his mouth as Luka’s eyebrows climbed towards his hairline.
“Oh, you knew his age?” Luka murmured, taking a step closer. “You inquired after the age of the… sprightly fern?”
The locker room had descended into pure, unadulterated chaos. Sergio was now looming over a flustered Leo, demanding to know if he found Virgil van Dijk’s defensive headers “aesthetically pleasing.” Ivan was sputtering, trying to explain the difference between professional admiration and actual seduction to a Luka who was radiating a quiet, terrifying possessiveness.
Neymar watched it all, a satisfied smirk on his face. “This is what I’m talking about! The narrative is getting messy! We have established tropes! We can’t just introduce random new characters and potential surname changes willy-nilly!”
It was Karim Benzema, who had been observing the entire spectacle with detached amusement from his locker, who finally spoke, his voice a dry, calming baritone. “Ney, you are causing problems on purpose.”
“I am a scholar of relationships!” Neymar declared. “I am conducting field research!”
Benzema shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. He looked at Sergio, then at Luka. “Ramos, he is not leaving you for a windmill. Modric, he is not running away with a ball boy.” He then looked at Neymar. “And you. You are a menace. Go cause chaos in Paris.”
The simple logic seemed to puncture the tension. Sergio sighed, the fight going out of him, and he pulled a still-pouting Leo back against his chest, resting his chin on his head. “You’re not allowed to appreciate other defenders,” he muttered into his hair. “It’s in the marriage vows. Look it up.”
Luka, meanwhile, slid his arm back around Ivan’s waist, pulling him close. “No more admiring the ferns, Ivo,” he said softly, but with a firm, underlying edge. “You have a perfectly good, mature oak right here.”
Ivan nodded vigorously, burying his face in Luka’s neck. “No ferns. Only oak. Strong, Croatian oak.”
Neymar watched the couples re-entwine, the chaos subsiding into murmured apologies and possessive touches. He sighed, a little disappointed the show was over. “Fine. But I’m watching you all. The second one of you looks at a German midfielder with a nice smile or an Italian chef with good forearms, I’m blowing the whistle.” And with that final warning, he flounced out of the locker room, leaving a trail of neon and emotional whiplash in his wake. The two couples were left holding each other a little tighter, the peaceful domesticity restored, but now with a newfound, Neymar-induced vigilance against the perils of beautiful walls and sprightly ferns.