New beginnings
Kylian was pretty sure he’d never had a more exhausting day in his entire life. Screw the World Cup finals or any time he broke a record at PSG. All the training in the world could never compare to the day he finally transferred into Real Madrid.
He hadn’t even made the decision today, obviously. He’d just boarded a plane destined for the Spanish capital (which he’d done multiple times before for meetings to discuss his future at the club) and posed for pictures.
Yes, there’d been quite a ceremony prepared for his arrival, but it’d been nothing compared to what Cristiano Ronaldo had gotten at al-Nassr, or even Messi at his very own PSG. He thought it was fair. He could feel the club’s audience’s reticence towards him, but it’d not come as a surprise.
Just a couple years before, he’d humiliated their team in front of the entire world. He’d always wanted to play at Madrid, he was nothing if not a lifelong fan of them, so when opportunity had struck, he’d been willing to make the move, one which he knew would be the most impactful of his entire career.
However, PSG had been ready to fight for him. They’d basically dragged themselves through the mud for him. They’d offered him so many things to get him to stay, that it’d been nothing short of overwhelming. Staying at PSG had meant giving his brother the chance to train with the professional team, and also having it centered completely around him. It was quite a deal. And then, of course, there was the money. Oh, the money. He was sure he was never going to see numbers like that again in his life, and yet, he’d regretted staying.
Not a single collective significant trophy had come to him during his time at PSG. Not a relevant one, at least. Winning Ligue 1 lost its charm quite quickly, and despite having become PSG’s top scorer by far with his hundreds of goals… it’d had a stale taste. He’d known staying in Paris had been holding him back. That last year, the stadium had felt like a prison.
At least he’d had his teammates. Or so he’d thought when he’d signed again in 2022. Little had he known that his closest confidante, the man who’d unknowingly seduced him with his skill and charm, would not be there for him his last few years with the team.
And that, as much as he’d refused to admit it to himself, had been one of the main reasons his experience as captain, his golden years at Paris, had turned into more of a nightmare than he ever would’ve expected.
It’d been the Mbappé Show, just as his stupid, immature 23 year-old had wanted. Instead of being the hero, though, he’d starred as the villain.
To be fair, things had eased up after that infamous World Cup in which he’d lost to Leo. People had overlooked the drama in favor of his skills, and things had gone back to normal: he was the star of the team, the young face of the triple threat, the iconic trio that no one stopped talking about.
Except… that hadn’t been the case at all. He’d lost everything. Everything that mattered, at least. His brother, his best friend… his Neymar. Messi had arrived and swooped him away when their relationship was at their worst, and Kylian couldn’t say he blamed Neymar from turning his back on him.
It’d been his ego, once again, his unsatiable greed, that had destroyed everything. The story always repeated. That driving need to always be the best and prove it, had cost him so much that he’d lost track. It’d been losing his bond with Neymar that had finally made him aware of just how far he’d let his selfishness thrive.
He knew, however, that it’d not only been his ego that had caused them to break apart. He knew Neymar’s wounded pride had also cost them, well, them. He knew the media had victimized Neymar and painted him as the bad guy to an unfair degree.
And yet what had he been supposed to do about that? Nothing. He sure as hell couldn’t respond to the bad press and he knew Neymar too well to try to change his mind. All he could do was reflect on his own actions and try to improve.
Maybe the one reason he couldn’t totally regret his stay in France was how much he learned to control himself. The sheer effort he put into trying to wash away some of his toxic traits showed him just how much it’d been affecting the team. The moment he laid the fuck off, he realized how much of the dressing room’s tension had been his fault. How much he’d affected the other players. Maybe he wouldn’t have learnt that if he’d left earlier.
And of course, there was Hakimi, and there was Ramos, there was Ethan, and surprisingly to everyone, there was Messi. He hadn’t been fully alone. Maybe he hadn’t had Neymar, this man that he’d hyper fixated so much over, but he’d had friends.
People who he’d believed had seen over his fame, his name, his reputation. That was no longer going to be the case.
He’d been SO expensive. Just with the price Real Madrid had paid for him, he knew he was going to get scrutinized to make sure he was a worthy investment. If that had been his only presentation letter, he would’ve been fine. But no. The intense gazes from the fans gathered at the stadium, the weight of Florentino’s hand shake... He wasn’t expected to be good, he was expected to make history, to make such a difference at the club, that he’d become a legend. If he wasn’t up to the task…
He sighed. What a day. And yet, as he laid in the bed of the overly sanitized apartment that he’d bought without much second thought (he’d had other priorities. Now, of course, he regretted it. Quelle nouveauté.), he couldn't seem to fall asleep.
He could've invited Sergio or Achraf. They’d both played at Madrid and they would’ve been ready to accompany him and make sure he adapted well to his new club. It wouldn’t have been right, though. He may’ve awakened some unwanted memories from them, and to be honest, he believed it was about time that he faced real life by himself. He’d been so sheltered for so long that he didn’t even know if he knew how to walk on his own. This was his challenge to face.
He turned with worry in bed. The right side of his pillow was colder, it felt nice, and still the forward didn’t feel soothed. It’d been so long since he hadn’t been the number one priority of his club…
To be fair, he knew he was probably going to benefit from a certain degree of favoritism, he had, after all, made a name for himself as one of the, if not the best current player. But it wasn’t going to be as easy, starting with the fact that he’d been playing on the left side of the field for years and Florentino had already made it clear that Vinicius held an absolute monopoly over the left. That meant greatly adapting his style, to play more in the center and right. Not to forget that with Benzema’s retirement, he had incredibly big shoes to fill, just the final straw to add to the mountain of pressure that Kylian was supposed to endure. He bit his lip at the uncertainty of it all and turned again. He should’ve taken up on Eduardo and Aurélien's offer to get a beer.
The two people on the team he actually knew, despite not being close, might’ve been able to take some weight off his back. Probably not, though.
He let his hand run through the textured wall, far from smooth, apparently a traditional Spanish way to decorate the inside of their houses. He wasn’t sure he liked it, but he supposed it was his new reality. It’d been his choice after all. That was how everything in his life felt at the moment.
Why didn’t he feel ecstatic? Why was there a knot in his stomach? Why did everything have to be SO. DAMN. HARD?!
He took a deep breath. Tomorrow was a big day. It held a certain weight. His first time training at Real. His first day with his new coach, his new team. The first day of his new life.
After another hour, his eyelids finally started feeling heavy and his breath slowed down. His mind wandered, for a fleeting moment, what Neymar was up to. Kylian remembered his eyes, so beautiful and complex, so genuine. He remembered his hair, weak and damaged from the dye which he loved so much to apply. He remembered the good times. The bad times. The day Neymar retired, unfairly early, body prematurely torn from all the injuries. The tears shed. The words left unsaid. The way Neymar had pouted in resignation, not anger, when Kylian hadn’t been able to utter a goodbye. The way he’d turned back and left. They hadn’t spoken since. Kylian closed his eyes and drifted off definitely. He was a man of many regrets.