#scuderia ferrari is soooooo back

[leqclerc]

First of all, all of the support I've gotten was amazing.

[3one3]

The Sequel - 831

Scuderia Ferrari 

André Schürrle, Juan Mata, other Chelsea/BVB players, and random awesome OC’s (okay they’re less random now but they’re still pretty awesome)

original epic tale

all chapters of The Sequel

“So Voutilainen watch, vintage Jaguar, or brand new Ferrari? Those are the choices?”

“Mhm.”

“And it can only be one?”

“Mhm.”

“If it were me, it would be between the cars, obviously. I don’t care about watches. I wear this badass one some dude gave me.”

“Mhm.”

“Aaaaand I don’t think I’m really into the Jag. Certainly not enough to say no to, like, an F12tdf. My god. It’s sooooooo sexy. It’s soooooo fast. It has variable-geometry intake trumpets from Seb’s engine. B-T-dubs, can we watch the Spanish Grand Prix after this? Oh and back to the car- It has an active rear axle. Do you even know what that means?”

“Not really, no, and I wouldn’t get the hardcore car.”

“I would. In fact, if I win a gold medal in Tokyo, I’m gonna get one. I just decided. Wait, if you win the FA Cup too, can you pick two things?”

“You tell me. Is that a worthy trophy?”

“No.”

Juan and Christina went for a stroll along the Thames in front of his building after dinner. It was just warm enough out to be a pleasant night, and they talked about how the player would reward himself for the league title. There were a couple of things he’d been telling her about for years- expensive, exclusive things that he could gift himself at any time, really, but claimed he needed to earn. Finally, a token was deserved for his season-long work. Christina concurred. The FA Cup, still up for grabs for the Blues, wasn’t significant enough to warrant a second major reward though.

“Get the Ferrari, and then when I get mine we can go to Ferrari owners’ club events together and stuff. We could go to F1 races in Ferrari gear and not feel like tools,” the rider suggested, hands in the pockets of her varsity jacket. She felt all-over better after having a shower and getting into fresh clothes. The water helped wash away the disappointment of her weekend, and the frustration of the heated discussion with her friend when she got to England. The clean outfit conditioned her for the next thing- for having a nice dinner at one of her favorite restaurants, catching up on the little things that didn’t make it into texts or calls with her best friend while they were apart for nearly a month, and hearing more stories from the title celebrations. Juan, usually so adept at reading her and knowing what she wanted and needed, was poised for an after-dinner error.

“I like that you have so much confidence in your getting this Ferrari,” he chuckled. “You only just thought of it, and now you speak like it’s definitely going to happen. You must be very sure of the gold medal, eh?”

“No, not at all, but you would lecture me about it if I said “if” too many times,” his friend shot back, flat and frank. She really just wanted everyone to leave her alone on the subject of performances, expectations, and confidence.

“How do you know I won’t “lecture” on over-confidence instead?” he teased. “It’s just as dangerous!”

“I’ll throw myself in the river just to get away from you if you do.”

“Hey...” The message was quickly received. Traditionally he understood her thoughts before she even broadcast the message, but he was just as good at absorbing them once they were out there. His face morphed from smirky to concerned, and he looked over at her instead of at the walk ahead. There was more than a hint of warning in his tone to urge her to rethink being so short, or having that snappy attitude she’d just displayed.

“I’m sick to death of talking about all the things to do with riding that aren’t riding. I’m sick to death of thinking about them. I never had to before. I just didn’t.”

“Which things?”

“My mental condition. My expectations. My failures. The schedule. The prospects. How I feel about it. How I want to feel about it. How everyone else individually thinks I should feel about it, or think about it, or plan. Just shut up, all of you. Leave me alo- In the words of Kimi Raikkonen, leave me alone. I know what I’m doing.”

The Spaniard stopped in his tracks, also with his hands in his pockets, and looked at Christina like she was recently abducted by aliens and replaced with a pod person.

“What is wrong with you?” he asked incredulously. “Did no one remember to wish you a happy Mother’s Day? Did you just hit the cranky wall because it’s getting late? What did I say? What did I do? What ever have I done to invite such a sour thing?”

“You said the word “confidence”,” the grumpy girl grumbled. I know I was obnoxious just now, and I’m sorry, but I’m so fucking sick of...just...everything.

“So? I know you dislike a lot of words that start with “C”, but since when is that one banned?” Juan still appeared massively confused, and annoyed, but a little bit sympathetic too. His eyes softened the second hers dropped to the concrete.

“So I just can’t keep hearing people try to talk to me about me, and what I do. André keeps telling me I’m unhappy because of my riding. Everyone keeps checking to make sure I’m not having a well-contained meltdown because of what happened this weekend. People keep trying to advise me how to think and feel about the Olympics. I’m not even in the fucking team yet, so can we all just cool it with that?”

“You brought it up! Chris...you’re losing it, cariña,” Juan remarked with a rueful sort of snort-laugh. “I was just trying to tease you a little about how sure you were of getting the Ferrari, which I know you were just playing around about. I know you didn’t say it because you think you’re definitely going to win. It wasn’t a serious moment. I thought we were just playing. Relax. I won’t even say that anyone who reacts this badly to hearing the word “confidence” must be so short of it that-“

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Christina warned with her pointer finger. “Don’t say “I won’t even say” and then say exactly what you’re thinking. That’s like when people say, “I’m not racist, but”, and then proceed to say the most racist shit ever. I know what you’re thinking. Don’t.” He’s going to say I am obviously lacking confidence like whoa if I can’t even stand to have someone bring it up or accuse me of having it, or not having it, or, I don’t even know. But no. Just...nuh-uh.

“Okay!” Her dinner date put his hands up and kept laughing. He was no longer taking her outburst seriously, and she wasn’t sure if she appreciated that or found it patronizing. “What are some words you rather hear? Which words are good ones?” She folded her arms at his continued teasing, but she was leaning towards appreciating his attempt to deescalate with humor instead of just shutting his mouth and letting an uncomfortable silence engulf them and keeping up the tension.

“I like “effervescent”, and “lobster”, and “I love you”, and “I’m sorry”, or something with a rolled “R”.” I can be cheeky too. I’m not all sour pickles.

“I love you, my effervescent lobster. I’m sorrrrrrrry,” the Blue in tan wool told her, his effort to trill the apology failing a little bit because his smile interfered with his physical ability to do it. It made her smile too, nonetheless, and step closer to hug him. Just like that, bad feeling gone. That was what she was referring to when she thought about how Juan erased her problems and her stress and her unhappiness with a snap of his fingers and André kind of soothed them away somehow by not necessarily doing anything remarkable but just existing and being part of their relationship that made everything better.

“You know when chefs get gross and make lobster foam? If you mixed a little lemon and ginger into a lobster foam, you’d probably have effervescent lobster.”

“That sounds disgusting.”

“I know.”

“Let’s go home. Have you seen the race result already or did you manage to avoid it?”

“I haven’t been on Twitter allllll day. Did you watch it live?”

“No. I said I’d record it to watch with you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m a man of my word, cariña, even when you don’t like the word,” the Spanish footballer joked. His girl glared and pouted at him simultaneously, so he checked their immediate surroundings to make sure no one was there to see, and then graced her with a rare public kiss.

“Mmm-I love you,” she told him when his lips left hers. They switched the direction of their walk and took their time getting back to the towering apartment complex. He kept her talking about Formula 1, and Ferrari, and her favorite driver and hero. That was the kind of thing he was good at- knowing how to fix an unforced error, and how to help her save herself from herself, her own conscience. That was the kind of thing she sometimes didn’t notice he did. That was the soothing she didn’t pick up on and thus didn’t credit to him.

He got a new, bigger TV for his living room, so after Christina called André to say goodnight, they settled on the couch with her to-go box of rainbow cake cookies to watch that afternoon’s Spanish Grand Prix from the Circuit de Barcelona. Lewis Hamilton started from pole, and her man Sebastian passed him to take the lead in the first corner. So began a tactical battle between the Ferrari and Mercedes pitwalls. It was less about outright pace than timing their decisions. Juan fell asleep around the first wave of pitstops, and Christina fought her tiredness to stay up. The race was not a forgone conclusion at any point, so her adrenalin kept pumping. Formula 1 races were elaborate experiences for her. She couldn’t just watch and listen and wait to see what happened- not surprising, really, given her inability to be patient about virtually anything but her horses’ development. She had to use the live timing information, with the gaps and intervals, the tire data, and the sector times, to try to figure out the race the way the engineers in all the teams did. Sometimes she saw things happening or knew what was coming before the commentators did, or predicted what they would say about a decision, or a consequence, or a likely outcome. The races were an interactive thing for her. Ultimately her favorite part of watching and calculating was seeing her driver change the circumstances by exceeding expectations, either in terms of delivering raw speed or with his racecraft in making daring and difficult overtakes, and seeing him make a questionable strategy work that could only possibly happen if he was perfect behind the wheel and unyielding in his self belief. His personality shining through on the radio was a secondary highlight, and then the narrative and drama of the rest of the field third. All of the drivers and team figures were almost as familiar to her as Sebastian Vettel, and she had different types and levels of emotional investment in them. Nearly everything that happened in a race held some significance for her. A Grand Prix was one of her only true self-indulgences in life that delivered, even when the action and competition on the track was lacking. The Spanish round didn’t end the way she wanted- Lewis Hamilton got ahead during the final stint after reaping a lucky benefit of the timing of a virtual safety car period, and the Ferrari pilot came second- but it definitely helped her forget anything and everything she could do without.

Aww look at him, Christina thought when she finally looked away from the TV and the iPad on which she was able to play back the live timing of the race as if in real time. Juan was on his side with a couple of pillows and a blanket up to his face. He’s so cute. I bet he’s still tired from Friday night. Last night I had this whole fantasy about tonight. I wanted to put on that amazing song from Brody’s that I tracked down- that one I found on YouTube and I can’t even figure out if the title of the video is the song or the artist- the sexy one that sounds like a Placebo song about drugs mixed over a sexy piano-based electro beat, and- well, anyway- She pulled her legs up under her on the couch and covered herself with another blanket while her stream of consciousness wandered. Her body kept itself so pumped during the race that her temperature went up and it was too hot for the blanket until the adrenalin and stress receded. The post-race coverage was still playing, but she was more interested in watching the sleeping player.

I wanted to play that song and do something scandalous, like fill his room with white rose petals and candles- probably at least one of those to-die-for Tubereuse ones I have at home- and fluff up his pillows and the feather bed and the duvet, and just, you know, treat him right. I was going to be naked and well moisturized, and serious! I would be serious. And seductive. I’d take his clothes, one article at a time, and kiss him everywhere, and I wanted it to be intense. I was thinking about it being all dark, and intimate, and forget-the-rest-of-the-world-is-happening. I wanted passion. Like one of those rare nights where you have sex for hours and it’s actually exactly like it is in the movies. In reality you do still have awkward moments, and stuff tastes funny, and you probably don’t look nearly as good as you think you do, but you don’t notice any of that because you’re too busy being obsessed with each other. The touching. The kissing. God, the things his hands could do if he had all night. I haven’t had that in forever, with either of them! I pictured us a little sweaty even though we were moving slowly, and I wanted to be overwhelmed. I wanted my lips to be chapped in the morning from all the making out and worshipping him, and- Yeah, I know, she smiled to herself. It was completely normal to her to be telling herself a story. I know his body isn’t like boyfriend’s. It’s not as sexy when he’s just laying in bed. He’s sexier when he does things. But still. He reacts the same when you kiss everything, or you leave a hickey somewhere weird. He tenses, or mutters something, or groans even, and it’s sooooooo hot. I love that. I love making them do that. I do get more physical pleasure from putting my mouth and my tongue on some of boyfriend’s parts, like his stomach, for example, and his thighs, because he’s more...muscley, I guess- and he’s less hairy in those place, but I totally die for their reactions just the same. With Juanin it’s like...what can I do to him to make him want to squeeze me? To hold my neck, or hang onto my waist like he thinks I don’t feel pain. I got off last night, literally, planning that all out. I still want to do it. Just not tonight, I guess.

The rider crawled closer to her sleeping friend on her hands and knees and then settled near enough to be able to pet his head. He needs rest. He has a match tomorrow, and he can’t really be match fit now. He’s only played a little since coming back. I kinda wish I hadn’t just reviewed that whole fantasy though. Between that and his cruel, cruel, inexcusably unfair teasing when I was trying to get in the shower and trying to get him to get in it with me, I am now feeling deprived. But... Christina tilted her head all the way in one direction, and then back the other. She was being as delicate and careful as possible about touching the longest of his hair, at the top of his head. His eyelashes- long, voluminous, and chocolate brown- were the biggest draw for her gaze. There was a desire within her for more than just some sexual gratification. She felt deprived of more than just that. Her connection to the Spaniard was missing. That thing he talked about, that he only got with her, and only when they slept together, was real for her too, and she missed it. The one she had with André was nearly restored but it couldn’t take the place of the other. Watching Juan sleep on the back of a weekend so full of extreme emotions for them both made her want to connect. She thought absently about what happens when you connect two things that are at opposite extremes. She thought absently about the possibility that connecting with his wonderful high from winning the title might lift her from the low of her getting kicked around all weekend by bad luck.

It was hard work to keep her head up and keep trucking on, keep putting in her best, when her hard work wasn’t getting rewarded the way it normally would, or used to. Doing that work, and not succumbing, or giving in and being defeated, actually felt really good to the many times Nations Cup winner, WEG runner up, and World Cup champion. It was satisfying to beat her demons a little that weekend. But the outcome still “sucked”. Christina hated losing, and she hated it when it wasn’t her fault almost more than when it was, because at least if her failure were by her own doing then she could figure out how to improve and do it better next time. Being robbed by her teammates, by some other people being freakishly and out of character good, and by Mother Nature, was frustrating. She knew there was a time when she would have told herself that she’d just have to get so good that no one and nothing could take her down. The mental side of her game wasn’t back to that level yet, and that was disappointing too. Frustration, disappointment, tiredness, injustice- it all stacked up, and Christina just wanted to feel better. She looked at Juan like an alcoholic looks at a bottle. She knew she shouldn’t, but she needed it. She turned a little and leaned down to kiss the Chelsea man’s cheek. Her lips parted wide and stayed there on his warm skin for a moment before slowly pulling together.

“Juanin,” she whispered, still close to his face.

“I’m just resting,” he mumbled, making her smile and sit up a bit.

“The race is over. Lewis won. Seb was second. Dan third.”

“I like when you touch my hair.”

“Mhm.” Christina leaned down to smooch his cheek again, and continued to play with his hair. “Ready for bed?” I was thinking snuggly sex was better than no sex, but he seems so sleepy. I can live with just the snuggles, she decided. I can just pet him in bed while he goes back to sleep, and that’ll be nice enough.

“Come.” Juan ignored her question and opened up his fuzzy dove gray throw to invite her into his space more comprehensively. It was clear he intended to spoon with her. She chewed her lip for a second while considering the options. I wanna sit on him and kiss him though. I want him to lay on his back and let me...do stuff. I wonder if it’s okay to sit on him yet? While she considered, the Spaniard opened one eye to find out what was taking so long. “What’s wrong?” he questioned when he saw her pensive expression.

“I really wanna kiss you a lot. Like all over. But I also want you to get your beauty rest.” The wavy haired brunette touched his right cheek with her palm, her eyes blank. There was something unique about being with Juan just then. She didn’t have to think about what she did or said, or how she looked. There was no worrying about how something she said would be understood, or how any actions would be interpreted. It was so very easy to forgo all secondary considerations. She could just do or say whatever she wanted. Her natural instinct was to kind of stare blankly at him while she thought about what she wanted to do, and how she wanted to do it. It was okay to do that. There was no urge to worry that he’d think she wasn’t being truthful, or was exaggerating or something because her blank stare could be read that way. It was okay to wait and get lost in her thoughts for a minute instead of hurrying under the blanket. That wasn’t so with André. With André there was always a voice in the back of her head reminding her to fear his reaction or understanding. He could take it the wrong way if she didn’t jump to get cozy with him. He could read it incorrectly, and assume it meant something significant. Whether he would do that or not didn’t matter, because her first instinct was to worry about it. That was what mattered. Christina wasn’t 110% comfortable with him for the time being. She felt she could do or say anything with his ex-teammate in that moment and it would be fine.

“I only have one night with you. You actually think I’m going to sleep without making love to you?” he laughed sedately. “You know I’m not a morning person, cariña.”

“I like when you’re a make love to me for the entire night person,” the equestrian mumbled back, empty eyes still fixed on his. The truth was, she was incredibly tired too. The main reason she was stuck in that stare was that she was exhausted and it was easy. The secondary reason was the ongoing conversation in her head. It wasn’t about side effects or implications or body language. It was a mishmash of memories and wants.

“Have we ever done that?” Juan asked back, one eyebrow up and one down, such that Christina couldn’t actually figure out if he was being sarcastic or not. “And when did you stop hating the phrase “make love”? You used to hate it.”

“I grew out of that I guess,” she shrugged, letting go of his face to pull her legs closer to her upper body. The first question he asked was far more relevant to her. “The first time, we stayed up the whole night. I was trying to think just now if we’ve ever had morning sex. I can only remember the first time. The sun was coming up when we finally stopped.”

“Oof.” He puffed out his cheeks. “You want to beat that? That’s a big ask!” His ex shook her head and then let it fall over and back onto the cushion behind her. “Then what?”

“Guess.”

“Are you solemn looking because you’re finally going to let me fu-“

“Absolutely not,” she snorted, laughing. “No butt sex, Juanin. Not happening.”

“Then what is it? What are you wanting?”

“Just to be with you.” Her countenance stilled with seriousness again when she righted her head. “I want to be in the little bubble with you, where there is nothing but me and you and the minimum amount of air we need. Do you know what I mean? When nothing else is happening in the entire world because we’re in the bubble and all that matters in the bubble is like...kissing, and touching, and not being really sure if feeling good feels better than making each other feel good? I wanna be with you and only you, no rest of the world.” The blue-eyed Blue beckoned her back to his personal space with a wave of his hand inside the blanket. She leaned down again and got face to face with him, cradling his head. Kiss him or wait for him to kiss me, was the debate.

“You have a beautiful way of thinking about things, angel.” The footballer lifted his head from the pillows just enough to push a rather delicate kiss into the middle of her mouth, and then a second of similar aspects into the right corner of it. Christina wanted a third kiss, and readied her lips for it so that she could “catch” his, and engage them. They were needed to make words instead though. “I love you.” She took it upon herself to get them back into the kissing after his declaration. Her nose rubbed his and she closed her eyes and pulled just more than gently at his lower lip. That’s the most flattering thing he’s ever said to me, she was thinking. I go to him to find out how to think about things. He always tells me how to do it differently. That’s one of his best merits for me. He shows me the right way to think. I love that there is finally something he thinks I think about the right way- or a “beautiful” way, as he said. I love that. I’m not entirely sure he thinks the beautiful way of thinking is smart, or well reasoned, but I’ll take beautiful. Beautiful is better. If you’re talking about feeling good, beautiful is better than smart. No one truly admires another for being smart. You admire what their smarts enable them to do, like solve math problems, or speak powerfully. Beauty is art, and you envy the artist for making the beautiful thing, or you envy the person that owns the beautiful thing. He’s told me before that he envies my attitude on certain things, and how I take care of myself, or used to, I suppose, but this is different. This is the first time I know for sure he admires me for something I do, because he didn’t say it that way. It wasn’t explicit. He didn’t say it to flatter, or lift me up. He said it because it’s real. I love that. I love him.

“Love you too,” Christina whispered hoarsely when she had to give up the liplock because she needed to see the mosaic of shades of blue she trusted would be looking up at her. She needed to see Juan’s eyes explode the way they only did when he was truly very happy and content, and not just happy in a moment. They were right there, resplendent in periwinkle, azure, royal, sky, and even indigo. Some gray and silver lurked among all the blues to give the collage a touch of luster, and the whole thing was contained by what looked like thick, gleaming glass, a bit like a marble. She loved that she could make them look like that, or that they did their explosion thing just for her. The midfielder was enjoying her eyes too.

“This face you make when you actually know what you want...” he muttered, thumb on the side of her chin.

“Make the bubble with me.” That’s what I want. To be alone in the world with him, she clarified to herself as he nodded and slid his fingers around more of her face to bring her closer. That’s what will make everything fine.