Ronaldo finished getting dressed, deliberately leaving his phone behind—switched off and tossed onto the bed. He chose a muted, understated outfit before heading out the door, only to bump straight into Claire, who had been loitering outside for a while.
"Oof!"
"Sorry, I'm running late!"
Claire was taken aback by how polite Ronaldo was. "So much for the 'arrogant young Cristiano' the internet keeps talking about," he thought.
"Nah, it's cool. I just got out here myself."
"There's a bar in the outskirts of Trafford—I've been before. The owner's like us, dark hair. Figured we wouldn't get recognized there. Plus, there are plenty of people like me around!"
Claire nearly rolled his eyes at Ronaldo's "people like me" comment, as if he were some elusive A-lister. But then, his heart suddenly started pounding—hard. The word "bond" flashed in his mind. "Wait… were you a Ronaldo fan too?"
The moment that thought crossed his mind, Claire's heart hammered even harder, as if trying to leap out of his throat. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out: "Hey, when we get back… can I get your autograph?"
Ronaldo turned, eyes lighting up with amusement. "Hah! I knew it! No way someone could be this calm after finding out they live next to me. Sure, no problem."
Just like that, the distance between them vanished. Ronaldo slung an arm around Claire's shoulders, chatting animatedly as they walked to the apartment's parking garage. The conversation was hardly profound—mostly about which teammate had just dated a supermodel or bought a new sports car.
Claire plastered on a dumb grin, but internally, he was roasting Ronaldo from head to toe. "Yeah, because supermodels and Ferraris are totally in my budget right now."
Then he saw the car.
A Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano.
Claire's eyelid twitched.
"Come on!" Ronaldo waved him over from the driver's side.
Claire sauntered up, trying to play it cool—only to realize he couldn't find the damn door handle. If Ronaldo hadn't silently unlocked it, Claire would've demonstrated how toes could literally curl in embarrassment.
The ride was quiet at first. Ronaldo drove smoothly, much to Claire's disappointment—he'd been hoping for some G-force adrenaline.
"So, are you a player's relative? Or do you work at Old Trafford?"
Claire turned, face scrunched in disbelief. "Do I really not look like a footballer?"
But he held back and just smiled. "My uncle works at MUTV. I kinda ended up here by… coincidence."
Ronaldo nodded before he could finish. "Makes sense. You're a bit slight for the pitch—wouldn't hold up in tackles."
"Oh, I'm the one who wouldn't hold up? Sure, buddy." Claire kept his mouth shut, staring straight ahead. The silence thickened until he finally broke it.
"Do you regret what happened at the World Cup?"
Ronaldo didn't flare up. Instead, he exhaled slowly, lips pressing together before answering. "Yeah. But it's too late now. I wanted to apologize to Rooney, but… eh, never mind. You wouldn't get it."
Claire stayed silent.
"He's the captain. I respect him. But that day…" Ronaldo's grip tightened on the wheel. "I wanted to prove myself. I needed help, but the team… nobody was there. I read Churchill's book recently. Felt like it was written about me. This is my darkest hour."
He glanced at Claire through the rearview mirror. Strangely, he felt compelled to confess to this kid—the only person connected to Old Trafford who hadn't treated him like a pariah.
Claire, oblivious to Ronaldo's inner turmoil, mulled over his words. He knew getting a young, prideful Ronaldo to admit fault outright was like asking for a public humiliation.
But then—
A sudden, overwhelming urge to help Ronaldo surged through him.
So strong that Claire slapped himself across the face.
"What the—?!" Ronaldo slammed the brakes, staring in shock.
Claire knew what this was—the "bond" acting up again. He curled into a ball, face contorted in pain, forehead pressed against his knees. His legs, moving on their own, dug into the Ferrari's pristine leather seats.
Ronaldo froze.
He'd seen this before.
Because he did the same thing.
Every time the British tabloids tore into him, he'd huddle in the dark, avoiding lights, TV, phones—anything that reminded him of the world outside.
"Hey… are you okay? Do you need help?"
"Talk to me. Should we go to a hospital?"
Ronaldo's voice grew more frantic, but Claire stayed motionless—until, finally, he lifted his head, voice hoarse.
"My dad told me something before he left." Claire met Ronaldo's gaze, dead serious. "We're all gonna die someday. So why waste time caring what others think? Why not just… live a life worth remembering?"
Ronaldo just sat there, stunned.