taking up with the enemy.
for the amazing colourreporter, 8 months late and not at all what she requested (sorry, ♥):



standing on the shoulders of giants


in london the crowd growls like a living breathing thing.


five years ago this wouldn’t have made a difference; if anything, it would’ve been a call to arms: the old andriy Shevchenko would’ve kept his balance and steadied his shoulders and hooked every loose ball into the top of the net. his eyes would’ve been sharp, sharper still: he would’ve seen the possibilities before he even saw the pitch. that growl would’ve shaded into silence, the steady flicker of support.


this new person, this stranger: he dreams of fluorescent rooms and bones that jackknife, the pull of cuts that will not heal. always he is running from it, the stillness of those blank rooms, until his heart catches fire and his legs turn boneless and he can’t run anymore. in the morning he wakes up to four different vitamin supplements and three different doctors and most of the time he has to remind himself to forget.


his shrink says he’s making progress, he’s really starting to turn things around: she says it with such conviction that he almost believes her, sometimes, even though he knows the truth.


he knows too what kaká would say: the sly curve of his lips as he slips his glasses off and examines the lenses, patiently wipes them clean with the tail of his shirt. Sheva, he will say, and andriy will think there is more coming, he will be left waiting and hopeful and anxious, but in the end kaká will shake his head and slip his glasses back on and say no more.


(you’re beaten, he will mean: finally you know what it is like.)



*


this is how it used to be, before—


andriy likes the fluidity in milan; there is always space to work with: he fishes for loose balls and taken ones, and he has the entire san siro at his back. every now and then the faces around him change, but the years tick by so steadily he hardly even notices. he keeps scoring until he has something to show for it—afterward he continues because he doesn’t remember how to stop.


you played well, kaká tells him one night (four years later, though it doesn’t feel it), his face flushed and fingers still trembling. his words hitch and stumble into one another like he’s just sounding them out, the consonants all elbows and the vowels turned the wrong way. it’s funny, kind of, or maybe just a little sad: he’s already broken into the first team, already has the rossoneri singing his name, but he still seems to have trouble with his tongue.


it’s true what they say about you, isn’t it?


andriy towels his hair and offers a vague sort of smile. that depends. what have you heard, exactly?


(four years later means it’s near the beginning then, or closer, at least; he has not yet palmed the veins in kaká’s wrists or the dip between his shoulder blades, has only watched him smile and thought idly about the squares of his teeth, the pull of his hands, the symmetry of his bones. it’s near the beginning and they aren’t friends, not really. they play alongside each other and afterward they meet the team for drinks, but kaká always orders water and they never talk unless they have a reason.


this lasts weeks, maybe months: polite conversation about boots, tactics, the curl of paolo’s lip after he scores a goal.)


kaká smiles. they say you’re the next pelé.


really? but you’re the one from brazil.


(this is the beginning, he’s sure of it now; this must be how it all started.)




Sheva, kaká starts calling him, never andriy, as if he is trying to make sure all of this is real. andriy does it too, sometimes—before and after—maldini, he says, and later, mourinho.


the truth is, it’s the coward’s way out, relying on the names they give the press: it’s only every now and then that the man you meet on the pitch is exactly who he claims to be. kaká whose feet flash one way and then the next, kaká who always knows how to sky the ball just right, kaká who blames his good luck on jesus and feels guilty enough to pray—that kaká is just for show. the real one is much less certain.


Sheva, he says stubbornly, never andriy.


so andriy indulges him, almost by accident: ricky, he starts saying to his voicemail(, never Kaká), it’s Sheva—. it is an adjustment he will find hard to reverse.




it turns out he’s pretty good for a christian boy: his hands are always hungry. it’s a one-time thing at first (of course it is; of course it never was), but Sheva quickly finds it’s not the cause that matters, it’s the effect: he brings him back to his hotel room and kaká bites his lip, his neck, his shoulders, says please please please with his hands his hips his eyes.


he stops when Sheva tells him to: Sheva says (very carefully), your god wouldn’t like this.


He doesn’t have to know—


so Sheva rests a hand against his thigh and presses a whisper into the side of his neck and it’s like before but slower, cold hotel room sheets and high glass windows and his lips on kaká’s wrists, kaká’s shoulders, kaká’s chest for all the world to see: it’s like before but different, the scratch of skin and heat and latenightearlymorning, kaká’s breath against his jaw can You see and are You watching, their hearts turned paper thin and shallow, Sheva, with his hands pushpulling then and now, Sheva,


wait.


the pause is deep enough to drown in and Sheva grips kaká’s shoulders, hears the echo in his veins as he turns his fingernails white, white to match his smile,


do you want—?


andriy closes his eyes and presses his forehead against kaká’s. yes, he says, and then yes—


of course it wouldn’t be the last time; of course.




the football suffers, though Sheva is never quite sure why: his feet start to slow and his heart starts to falter, but it is nowhere near as bad as it will be, one day. andriy is certain it has nothing to do with kaká, kaká whose fingerprints stop washing away.


it doesn’t matter until things with kristen start to concrete; it’s just something to pass the time: but then the text messages and phone calls become expensive dinners and short holidays and grocery lists. it is different than what he has with kaká, with ricky; she calls him andriy, never Shevchenko—


(except when they meet for the first time: she is wearing something expensive, something with glass or diamonds instead of buttons—not armani, he hears her assure a pair of faceless strangers, i’m classier than that.


when she sees him seconds later, she grabs his wrist and spills her champagne and says, andriy Shevchenko. is it really you?


so he smiles and says, not unkindly, you’ve missed a button on your blouse, by which he means yes, i think so.)


—she says she is a fan, but he doesn’t think she loves football quite the way that he does. it’s not a bad thing, it’s just different: with kaká he always has something to talk about; with kristen sometimes he has to stretch.




when they get married, kaká says he is happy for them. he does not mention hotel rooms or away games or the shape of the ceiling above Sheva’s bed. does he even think about it, any of it? Sheva isn’t sure, but maybe it’s better this way: he listens as kaká says, i think caroline would like us to be next.




Sheva watches with fascination as kristen’s tummy swells: he presses his ear close and listens for tapping, for kicking, for some kind of morse code. she laughs and swats him away, calls him impatient. when will he ever learn the wait is what makes it special?


he’d forgotten what it was like to worry about her, the tightening of his stomach and the echo in his hands: the what-ifs and how-abouts, the answers slick then slicker. he remembers now, every minute of the day; he doesn’t think he will ever be able to forget again.


it is hard not to be more careful with himself on the pitch, but he thinks she must understand: it feels like every week he must show up and not let the entire world down. with kaká feeding him passes that fall perfectly at his feet, the san siro crowd makes it difficult to remember there is anything else.




it’s around this time that kristen gets a new friend, isn’t it? the blonde with her exact english and careful hands: she makes him want to find his books, the ones kristen gave him months ago now: master the english language and the little brown handbook. he swirls his wine lazily and wonders where he put them last.


mr. Shevchenko, she says, i can’t seem to go anyplace in this city without hearing your name.


which one? he says. i have several.


kristen laughs, but he is not sure she gets it.


irina says, my husband is a very big fan.




istanbul takes something out of them. when it’s over they sit in kaká’s room with the lights turned off, nothing but the steady hum of the air conditioner and the tapping of Sheva’s foot against the headboard. it is some kind of spiritual cleansing, except kaká’s left his bible in his suitcase.


Sheva can’t stop thinking about it; he can’t figure it out: he needs to pick things apart before he can forget about them. so what happened? what happened—he got lost in too much red, too much color, he felt the ground crack beneath his boots, beneath his fingertips, thought: this is like before, this is like then, short mornings and sunburnt ankles and shoulders too splintered to keep tidy. it felt like this earlier, it feels like this now, something too big, too vital, too substantial for him to fix. everywhere the same anthem spread like wildfire, like faith, reminded him what he was up against.


fuck, he says now (very carefully), and he stops tapping his foot. fuck.


he feels kaká shift on the bed, feels his hands snake around his waist. what happened—they collapsed into a jittery back line, a sloppy midfield, they let the scoreline draw even until they were pairing off for penalty kicks and the pitch became too big, too wide, a world Sheva couldn’t find the courage to roam. the stands turned heavy and full with witnesses, too many expectant eyes trained on them, on this, on him and he felt his heart beat beat beat faster and can you hear it, can’t you fucking hear it?


it should’ve gone in.


kaká’s lips find their way to the space beneath his chin. andriy thinks about kristen, about jordan: he says (very quietly), ricky—


hmm?


how do you justify this to god?


he pauses; his breath coasts down andriy’s neck. he says, the same way you justify it to your wife.


(of course it would be the last time; of course.)




after istanbul kristen starts paying closer attention. you’re not eating right, she points out, and you’re not sleeping right either.


he presses his nose to jordan’s and smiles. no, he says: maybe. i’m fine.


she catches his wrist. it was just a game, she whispers, it’s over now.


andriy nods, even though he isn’t sure she’s talking about the final anymore.




it is two years before kaká makes good on his word: he finally marries caroline in december. the morning before andriy sits with his back against the bathroom door. he calls and gets his voicemail. Kaká, he says, it’s andriy—.


he tries not to say anything stupid.




it is useless hiding things, kaká repeats, a stubborn set to his eyebrows: he folds the paper neatly in half and uses it as a coaster. he says, that’s funny. you always were so happy to do it before.

in the silence Sheva watches the condensation smudge the ink. he forgets sometimes how young kaká is, how ignorant: he still takes time and weather and business personally; he still shouts at the television, no matter how old the match. maybe that’s what Sheva used to like about him, the way he kept his eyes too wide to actually see.

what if we are better without you? what if you leave and we win it all. the cup, kaká says, the league—

ricky, Sheva finally says, and he does not put his fork down, this is something you don’t understand. (don’t, he says; can’t, he means: not ever, not likely, not now.)

you’ve turned into your wife’s lapdog, is that your big secret? you’re a coward, always running after her.

that stings, a little: he wonders briefly if it’s true, wonders if maybe it’s the best sort of coward anyone can be. it’s politics, he says after a moment; his words are very even. it’s not about you or me or kristen. football isn’t just about scoring goals and winning titles, it’s about—

money? kaká offers. he straightens. you’re right, how naïve of me. how could i forget?


ricky—


kaká slips his glasses off and examines the lenses, patiently wipes them clean with the tail of his shirt. Sheva, he says, you win, alright? you won.


won?—this isn’t a game, Kaká—


i hope you have a good umbrella.




he watches the first half from the stands. everything looks different until Kaká hits his penalty: afterward it looks much the same.



*


this is how it is, now—


in london the crowd growls like a living breathing thing, but still andriy does not think of going back; after a while, he stops dreaming about plane rides and istanbul and tickertape parades. the truth is, he’s stuck here, in england—and not just because his pride is keeping him tethered, not just because he made a promise to come good, not just because kristen’s already found a new best friend and a new favorite radio station and a new church.


there are other reasons, too.


so he buys more vitamins and changes his diet and tries to grow used to the snarl of the crowd. sometimes when he has his eyes on the ball he thinks it almost sounds like home: he imagines they are playing inter with only seconds left to go. on those days faith skims the surface of the stands and it is ricky feeding him passes instead of lampard.