Chapter Text
Chuck’s in the shower when his phone starts to ring, busy rinsing away 7 kilometers worth of sweat from his morning run. It had drizzled the whole time because London was just Like That; the pavements slippery, Finsbury Park waterlogged, the sky grey and the buildings looking dull in the weak dawn light.
Getting back to his penthouse apartment in Highbury was like returning to a sanctuary, both in terms of the dry warmth and blessed privacy. When Chuck steps out his front door these days the inevitable attention makes him square his shoulders and puff out his chest, smirk at the paparazzi, smile for the fans. But as much as he revels in the interest paid to him, it would be kinda nice if, just once, he’d be able to go for a walk outside without anyone knowing or caring who he is.
Besides, all Chuck does is kick a ball around for a living. He’s bloody good at it, but still.
A few passing joggers this morning had recognized him; one bloke in a West Ham beanie had done a double take and openly gawked as Chuck had passed him, heading in the opposite direction with his head tucked down, Slipknot blasting his eardrums. It’s all part of the job, being recognized. It’s the staring that some people feel compelled to do, the blatant slack-jawed gaping, that Chuck doesn’t like. It never fails to make him feel like something ‘other’, like an alien, or an animal caged in a zoo to be gawked at for entertainment.
So Chuck has no intention of stopping enjoying the strong jet of spray directed right between his tense shoulder-blades anytime soon. But his phone keeps ringing, over and over. It’s only 6:30am. Not even the super obsessed fans who somehow glean his number ever call this early.
Plus, Chuck’s reasonably sure he knows who it is on the other end of the line, and what the call is about. He’s not sure he wants to answer. He didn’t think it would happen this soon.
Eventually, he decides to finish his shower, though he eyes his phone through the en-suite doorway as it lights up incessantly on his bed. When he finally, grudgingly, gets to it with a towel around his waist and his hair still damp, it bursts to life in his hand again. Sure enough, his agent’s name is there in bright neon glory.
Chuck pulls in a deep breath and hits answer so hard that he’s surprised his thumb doesn’t crack the screen.
“Tendo? I just got out of the shower.”
Normally, Tendo would try to wind him up with a bit of mockery, because he’s a wanker like that the vast majority of the time. But he’s all business this morning. Well, as business as he can ever bring himself to be.
“Charles! Glad I caught you bright and early on this glorious, dazzling morning! Don’t go to training today. It’s done.”
“It’s done?” Chuck echoes, feeling cold all over once more. There's nothing he can do to stop the twist in his gut that sweeps all through him, insisting that he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life.
“Done and dusted last night, Chucky. I’s are dotted, T’s are crossed, all signatures present and accounted for except yours. So, there’s no need for you to head to the training grounds. You’re not a Gunner anymore, you’re a Blue!”
That makes Chuck’s eyes prickle, and he’s so glad the call isn’t video.
“God...”
“I’m bringing the release contract to you now, and we’ve got an appointment with Hannibal Chau and Stacker Pentecost at Chelsea’s grounds in Cobham straight after. Got to get this transfer official before it leaks, Charlie.”
“Yeah.”
“It will be high profile. Well, everything you do is. But the press won’t take kindly, and, well… I expect the Arsenal fans won’t be happy, given…”
“That I’m betraying them for our biggest rivals? That after all the years and effort and money Arsenal spent training and developing and molding me, I walk away for… hey, how much did my old man agree to the release for?”
“That’s the thing, Chaz!” Tendo guffaws like it’s all a big game, a funny joke, instead of Chuck’s life and heart and… “That’s just the thing! He didn’t even ask the fee! I sat down and told him the jig was up, you were ready to move on. I explained that Chelsea had made the initial approach and before I could say anything else, he grabbed the papers off me, signed and told me to get out of his sight! He didn't negotiate. He didn't even ask!”
Chuck hangs up before Tendo can hear his quick intake of breath, and he’s still anxiously pacing about the apartment in just his towel twenty minutes later when his agent arrives, all bowtie, slick hair, suspenders, and grin.
“There he is!” Tendo howls when Chuck opens the door for him to come breezing inside. “There’s Chelsea’s newest number 9!”
He claps his hands onto Chuck’s bare shoulders and appraises him, then decides against a hug. “No, not while you’re not wearing underwear, that’s too weird.”
What Tendo does do is cook Chuck a tomato and spinach omelette, while Chuck fumbles into some clothes at last. When he comes back out into the dining room he finds his release contract on the table, a pen waiting, next to his plate of breakfast.
“Fuck,” Chuck breathes, stunned all over again just staring at the sheaf of papers, as Tendo plonks himself down in the chair opposite and pours himself coffee from the French press. Chuck had made it before his shower, and the face Tendo pulls means it’s long since gone stone cold.
“Yeah,” Tendo carries on airily, heading into the kitchen, probably to scrounge a fresh coffee, his voice floating around the corner. “All went fine last night, leaving the training grounds in the rear-view mirror. I was in and out in 5 seconds, my favorite kind of interaction!”
He laughs hysterically at his own joke, but Chuck barely hears him. He wishes he’d been there to speak to his Dad himself, and now viscerally regrets his decision to stay away and send Tendo in his stead like a coward. He should have looked Herc in the eyes and told him all the reasons why he was doing this. Because it isn’t to hurt his father, and it isn’t to betray Arsenal, and it sure as hell isn’t for the money.
His reason for leaving the club he’s played for since joining their youth academy when he was all of 9 years old all boiled down to the pure and simple fact that Chuck couldn’t exist in Herc’s shadow anymore. Chuck is good. He is damn good. He’s sprinting along in the footsteps of Ronaldo and Messi, on par with the likes of Benzema, Neymar, Lewandowski, and he’s not even 22 yet. He’ll be another absolute legend, another Beckham, another Ibrahimovic, another Pele. Of that there has never been doubt.
But there’s two problems.
One is his father.
The other is everything that makes Chuck himself.
If he was going to achieve his dreams – and no, those aren’t for fame and fortune and dates with models (he’s already got all that on tap) – then Chuck has to get away from at least one of those things.
He couldn’t hide from himself, which left him no options but to turn his back on Herc and Arsenal.
Chuck is a talented striker, but Herc twenty years ago was something else. Chuck’s old man would always be a hero, a household name that was synonymous with Arsenal, as well as the surprising success of Australia’s NT. Herc had been regarded as the best central defender in the world at one time: solid, stalwart, and unflinching. Some strikers even used to turn around and run away from him when they saw him barreling towards them. Herc served as captain of Arsenal for a decade in his prime and was made assistant coach immediately upon his retirement; he’d now been at Arsenal’s helm for almost twelve years as the head coach. He had therefore successfully, dependably, and reliably led the team in some capacity for twenty-five years straight.
His son was supposed to follow in his footsteps. His son, however, could not bear to.
Like most strikers, Chuck was more than a little bit cocky. His arrogance feeds into his confidence, which in turn equals the ability to score plenty of goals. He’s a show-off, selfish, an attention seeker. And what made him so good at his job is that he wasn’t ashamed to be any of those things. He likes himself, likes his swagger, likes the life he leads and the direction it’s heading. He certainly isn’t captain material like Herc; he’s far too mouthy, too aggressive, too prone to answer taunts on the pitch with his fist. Trick shots are Chuck’s forte, when he got them right, as were long runs down the pitch, the ball safe between his fancy footwork. He thrives on every goal and having to share the glory numbs his enjoyment. He doesn’t pass often, and would always choose to score before assist, which he had been howled at by Herc over until he was practically deaf plenty of times.
If he stayed at Arsenal, at Herc’s club, Chuck would never be free and he’d always be held up against his father – too much of a showman in comparison, unreliable, not enough of a team player, always lacking. Always wanting.
But somehow, the Arsenal fans loved him, despite his arrogance, his selfishness, his downright conceitedness. They liked his cocky attitude just as much as they liked his skill. Most of all they liked the goals he scored, the points he put on the board, how high he pushed Arsenal up the League table all on his own. His teammates were good blokes, phenomenal footballers, but they begged him to pass more, to focus, to forget the showmanship. The coaching staff, his father especially, were constantly frustrated by him, sick of trying to control and contain his reactions, his outbursts. And the media, from the commentators on match-day, with their sly digs and critiques, to the fucking Daily Mail, who ran articles every day about who Chuck was dating, what he was wearing, where he was eating out, what car he was driving… the media were parasites.
And they were going to have a field day with this transfer.
Chuck didn’t bother to buy too much into the London derby between Chelsea and Arsenal. It was hilarious to rile up the opposition in the tunnel, or in the press-conferences before and after the matches – Chuck did that just for fun regardless, no matter the crest they wore. Besides, the transfer from Arsenal to Chelsea wasn’t unprecedented. Two of Chuck’s friends, Cesc Fabregas and Olivier Giroud, had played for Arsenal before joining Chelsea. Petr Čech had done the opposite transfer too, leaving Chelsea for Arsenal after 11 years with the former, and both the teams and their supporters still bloody loved him. Petr was just that sort of guy.
Chuck was loved, but he was not loveable.
When Tendo finally returns from the kitchen, the contract is signed, and Chuck is pulling on his shoes.
“You can drink that in the car,” Chuck points to the mug of coffee Tendo is clasping. “But if you spill it on my upholstery, I’ll burn all your bowties.”
Tendo has finished it by the time they reach the street, anyway, and leaves the mug in Chuck’s letterbox.
Tendo is weird.
‘Blue is the colour’ is cranked through Chuck’s car stereo the whole drive down to Cobham, Chelsea’s training grounds in the Surrey countryside. Tendo grins at him from the passenger seat and tries to get him to sing along.
“Get used to it!” his batshit insane agent crows in his ear. “Start memorizing the words, Carlos! They might quiz you!”
Chuck doesn’t grace that with an answer, just clenches his jaw and focuses on the road. The drive takes about an hour – he will have to move closer, out of North London at least. There’s no way he’s doing this commute every day, since getting through London is a fucking nightmare 24/7, even with the ring road.
Tendo waves to the security guy on the gate when they arrive at Cobham, and they’re let through without fuss. Chuck parks outside the main doors – there are practically no other cars about – and before he’s even turned off the ignition Stacker Pentecost has appeared.
Chuck tries to return the smile he receives as he slides out of his car, but he still feels a bit sick and more than a little intimidated. Stacker’s always intimidating. He reaches for Chuck’s hand to shake, his eyes calm and commanding, and the firm grip grounds Chuck a little. He’s known Chelsea’s head coach all his life – Stacker was something of Chuck’s honorary Uncle, being a close friend of Herc’s. Just clapping eyes on him always made Chuck stand up a little straighter.
“Morning, Chuck. Hello again, Tendo. Come on in, I’ll take you to the boss.”
Hannibal Chau – extremely rich and frivolous to the point of seediness – had owned Chelsea FC for three decades. He was the reason Chuck – and in past years the likes of Torres and Arrizabalaga – could afford to be purchased.
“I spoke to your father about ten minutes ago,” Stacker tells Chuck over his shoulder as he gestures for them to follow him inside. The walls are painted Chelsea blue accented with white, and Stacker leads them down a wide corridor covered in prints of former club legends. “You ought to give him a call, Chuck.”
The admonishment is clear, but Chuck just shakes his head, not meeting Stacker’s gaze.
“Not yet, Sir.”
Stacker lets the issue drop and pushes through an ornate set of gold double doors. They are led straight through a waiting room of some sort, with plush blue armchairs and what looks to be an ice sculpture of the Chelsea crest's lion, then into Hannibal’s office.
The room is so stupidly large that it seems to take forever to walk the blue runner that led to Hannibal’s desk at the far end. Photographers are clustered about large windows that look out onto the grounds, but as soon as they spot Chuck they swarm in, snapping photos of his historic arrival to sign his life away.
“Chuck!” Hannibal stands from his desk and embraces Chuck like a long-lost son, making sure to beam for the cameras as he does so. “Welcome! Welcome!”
Chuck wishes he’d dressed a bit better than in a plain black t-shirt, jeans, and a backwards hat. Hannibal’s suit looks terrifyingly expensive and he's scared to get too close in case he causes some sort of damage to it. And his shoes… crocodile skin? Really?
Tendo takes over the proceedings, attracting attention with his wit and banter and jokes, making it so that all Chuck has to do is mug for the cameras, sign Hannibal’s copy of the contract and hand over his own.
After five minutes, Chuck wants out of the room so damn badly, his fingers trembling a little as he picks up the pen, as everyone eyes him. Stacker, behind him, gives his shoulder-blade a brief pat. Once he’s signed the contract, Hannibal hugs him again. As if that could in any way be a comfort.
Stacker hands him a Chelsea shirt, ‘Hansen’ and the number 9 on the back in white. Chuck swallows very hard but hides it by yanking his t-shirt over his head and pulling on the kit shirt in its place. It fits perfect, and then there’s more smiling at the cameras, Stacker a solid presence at his shoulder, Hannibal beaming from his other side.
Then, mercifully, Tendo wraps an arm around Chuck’s shoulders – he has to stand up on his tiptoes to do it – and steers him from the room, calling jokes to Stacker and grinning at the journalists as he does so.
“See you bright and early tomorrow,” Hannibal yells after them. “We’ll get your medical out of the way and introduce you to the staff and the team!”
Chuck nods, not trusting himself to speak, and doesn’t take a proper breath until he’s back in the safety of his car with Tendo blabbering away at his side.
“You’ll go to the Arsenal grounds and get my gear for me?” Chuck cuts Tendo off to ask, running a hand over the Chelsea crest on his chest before he peels the shirt off and puts his streetwear back on.
“Yeah,” Tendo shrugs. “If you want. Are you sure you don’t want to do it yourself, though?”
“No,” Chuck insists, as he finishes re-dressing and replaces his cap on his head. “You go. Please.”
“Sure, sure.” Tendo waves a hand absently, leaning forward to fuck with Chuck’s stereo once more. “Hey, what’s on your Spotify, Chip? I’ve got a hankering for some T-Swift!”
Chuck lets out an audible groan as he floors his accelerator. The sooner he gets home and can kick this wanker out of his car, the better.