The playlist in Ronaldo's car was monotonous—just a single Spanish children's song on repeat. But as the Ferrari 599 GTB Fiorano roared back to life, neither of the two occupants spoke.
Ronaldo focused intently on driving, though the occasional sideways glance at Claire betrayed his unsteady emotions. If not for that, Claire might have thrown his water bottle at him.
Because, for some reason, the atmosphere in the car felt... weirdly intimate?
Thankfully, they arrived quickly. Both men stepped out and, as if by unspoken agreement, let out a long exhale.
A British bar called "Panda & Sons" stood before them.
"Huh, the name sounds very Chinese," Claire joked before stepping inside.
But the moment he entered, the bar's interior stunned him.
From the outside, it looked unassuming—but inside, it was another world.
A massive LED screen and dazzling colored lights crisscrossed the space. A tiered stage dominated the center, surrounded by scantily clad women.
Claire rubbed his nose uncomfortably, only to find the overpowering mix of perfume and makeup growing stronger. He ended up scrubbing his face with both hands.
"First time here, huh?" Ronaldo slung an arm around Claire's shoulders. "I know groundskeepers at Old Trafford only make like $4,000 a month, but don't worry! We're friends now—you'll get used to places like this. Trust me, I come here so often it's like my second home."
Claire side-eyed Ronaldo's arm on his back, suddenly feeling itchy all over.
"Your second home, huh?" he muttered under his breath. "Then why don't you take off that hat and mask? Bet the fans here would rearrange your face."
Ronaldo, however, seemed to relax the moment they stepped inside. His attention drifted toward the bar and VIP booths.
Claire followed his gaze and nearly choked.
Rows of long legs and curves in every size.
The men? Automatically filtered out.
The real showstopper was the bartender—a stunning woman who dazzled the crowd with flashy drink tricks, earning cheers every time.
At some point, Ronaldo had slipped on a baseball cap and sidled up next to Claire.
"Nice, right?"
"The owner's cool. Famous models and celebs hang out here. If you can stand on that stage at midnight and sing something decent, I guarantee you won't be sleeping alone tonight."
Claire licked his lips but stayed silent, obediently trailing behind Ronaldo.
Because, let's be honest—his current salary and the £100 in his pocket wouldn't cover their tab.
Watching Ronaldo confidently order, Claire couldn't help but envy the ease with which he handled prices that would make most people balk.
A waitress led them to a booth. Ronaldo kept his face hidden under his cap, and Claire approved—football fans these days were as rabid as celebrity stalkers.
Pitch invaders, death threats, hurled objects... Claire himself had once received a letter demanding he "stay away from Ball" because his presence was "ruining Ball's performance."
So yeah, discretion was key. If someone recognized Ronaldo here, a beer bottle to the head wasn't out of the question.
As Claire zoned out, Ronaldo broke the silence:
"You sure you don't want to eat something?"
Claire flipped the menu to the back, nearly choking at the $120 price tag on a plate of pasta.
"Uh... maybe next time. I'll cook for you at home—my noodles are great. Let's just drink tonight!"
He wasn't sure if Ronaldo got the innuendo, but the waitress certainly did—she snorted before bending over to take the menu.
Claire's eyes involuntarily followed the generous view before he quickly rubbed his eyes and adjusted his pants.
The waitress—chestnut waves, red lips—had no shortage of admirers.
Meanwhile, Ronaldo popped open a beer bottle with a "Pfft!"
"Hey, she's into you."
"Yeah, well, she's way out of my league."
"Cheers!"
"Nice!"
Claire downed his craft beer in one go, then flipped the empty glass upside down in challenge.
Ronaldo responded with a middle finger before chugging his own.
As the rich, hoppy flavor lingered, Claire smirked.
This old alcoholic soul of mine isn't losing tonight.
"Come on," he grinned, "let's warm up first."
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