TITLE : Growing Pains
SERIES : Untitled
AUTHOR : Anguisette
PAIRING : Nesta/Totti
RATING: NC-17 for eventual violence and sexual activity
DISCLAIMER : This is entirely fiction, it never happened. They don't do things like this with each other, more's the pity!
SUMMARY : Nesta keeps a promise.
AUTHOR'S NOTES : Totti loses his temper and...eventually must deal with the consequences. This is set during the summer break of 2003. Juve and Milan played a few matches in the USA and, in my imagination, Roma went with them.

I glare at the retreating backs of the rest of the Roma squad filing slowly out of the changing rooms, back to the pitch to face Milan for the second half. Cande pats my shoulder sympathetically as he passes but it doesn't help. I push my shoes half off and kick them in the direction of the lockers. The clang they make as they hit is particularly satisfying.

So perhaps I wasn't at my best today. Down two - nil at the half was evidence of that. I muse as I meander to the showers, strewing clothes in my wake. It was only a damn friendly in a foreign country for God's sake. So what if I still hurt from my recent hip injury! So what if I'd been thoughtless and reckless and got sent off! My anger subsides a bit as I wait for the shower to heat up. And so what if I'd also barely roused the Milan back four into breaking a sweat on my behalf. Though at least one of the four had definitely had me hot and bothered. I try to push that thought away for the time being as I step under the steaming spray.

Screw everything else, this was Heaven. My eyes flutter shut as the water courses over my naked body. I soak myself thoroughly, arching my back, tilting my head to the ceiling and running fingers through my hair. Taking advantage of my solitude, I release a sound I wouldn't care to have my teammates overhear; a throaty, growly purr of pleasure. Hot water could always coax that noise from me! Hot water and lately, Alessandro Nesta. And there lay the problem.

As usual, the mere thought of Sandro is enough to make my cock stir against my thigh. Cracking an eye, I glare down at it, willing it to subside. It had been bad enough on the field! I shudder recalling the feel of his skin against my own as we challenged each other, his firm grasp as he'd helped me up after dumping me to the pitch with a sliding tackle.

Paolo had cleared the ball and exchanged a long look with Sandro before moving up the field. I hadn't thought much about it at the time. Football was a team sport; the players communicated with each other all the time. But then Paolo had gotten a touch of cramp.

"What does he expect! At his age," I mutter spitefully.

We'd all had to wait as Sandro helped Paolo work the cramp out. I'd watched as Sandro's strong fingers stretched and kneaded the afflicted muscle, eyes fixed on Paolo's face in concern. Paolo had squirmed and sighed under the touch; in a mixture of pain and relief I'd guessed but it looked like exquisite pleasure. I knew precisely what Sandro's gifted fingers could do to willing flesh and I'd been grateful that my shirt had long since come untucked.

Sandro had pulled Paolo to his feet afterward and Paolo had ruffled the taller defender's hair in gratitude. The gesture annoyed me, as had the smile Sandro offered the Milan captain.

"Lovesick." I mutter, grabbing the nearest bottle of shower gel and filling my palms. "Pathetic too!" Pathetic because Sandro would never admit his real feelings to Paolo. Pathetic because Paolo would never look on Sandro as anything more than a valued and respected teammate and friend. Pathetic because Sandro had never once smiled at me like that, like I was special, wanted...

"You occasionally share a bed," I point out to myself aloud, "not undying love."

Things had been different since the gift of the mobile though, I muse as I lather myself. We'd talked at least once a week; keeping up with each others' lives and discussing trivialities mostly. Sandro had blasted me for some of my more outrageous statements to the paparazzi, especially the ones about joining Milan that had them bothering Sandro for confirmation or denial. Sandro preferred to avoid the press as much as possible; it was a running joke amongst sports journalists that he opened up to them exactly three times a year.

We hadn't discussed our relationship, involvement, whatever it was. But it had felt like Sandro cared in his own way. This was new territory for me, caring what other people think. I'm attractive, talented and rich; people have run after me all my life. Most of them valued the prestige that came with being friends with a football star far more than my scintillating company, my relationship with Ilary was proof enough. But, as much as I hated to admit it, knowing that Sandro cared had somehow become important to me; Sandro had become important to me.

"Funny way I have of showing it," I mutter. I shut off the shower, wrap a towel round my waist and flop down full length along one of the benches. My anger at Sandro had grown and by the closing minutes of the first half I'd been furious. We'd had won ourselves a corner and Milan's defense and I had milled 'round the box, waiting for the ball to be played. It had been raining lightly for the past several minutes; just enough to make the pitch slippery under our feet.

I could feel Sandro behind me, a hand holding onto my hip, the other wrapped in my shirt. The corner was taken and Paolo and I surged skyward to head the ball. Paolo won and cleared the ball. The slippery pitch and Sandro tugging was enough to dump me to the ground. Enraged, embarrassed and confused I'd had viciously kicked out behind me. A grunt and a thud let me know I'd been successful. I'd turned on my side and glanced up to see Sandro on one knee, a hand pressed to his shin, bare where the socks and guard had worked their way down. He'd given me a look of disbelief before turning away.

I had little memory of what had come immediately after that. The referee running up, waving the red card had barely registered. I'd gotten up and walked off the field without giving Sandro another glance. I'd been vaguely aware of a few of the Milan players yelling at me and someone had nudged my shoulder roughly. The whistle for the end of the half had gone a minute later.

Capello had lifted the daze for me by verbally ripping me a new one in the dressing room. I'd been too angry at the time to care but my mind is clearer now. Dirty tackles, reckless ones, lashing out in petulance is nothing new for me but it had been different today.

I'd been angry and hurt by the attention Sandro had given Paolo and the obvious affection Sandro had for the older man. I'd intended to hurt Sandro with that kick, make him feel some measure of the pain he'd caused. "But I've been fucking him for almost a year now," I reason aloud, "and I've always known how he felt about Paolo. Why should I be jealous now?"

I groan and cover my face as I answer my own question. The fact that I feel jealous at all explains it. You can't be jealous if you don't care and care a lot.

"Fuck! So am I in love now?"

I am distracted from this disturbing train of thought by the clang of the dressing room door. I push myself up, puzzled, the second half can't be over yet. I realise that I only hear a single pair of feet; just someone subbed. I stand up and turn away, intending to get dressed. The footsteps stop and I toss a greeting without looking 'round.

Receiving only silence in return, I turn round and swallow hard. Alessandro Nesta stands a few feet away from me. His hair clings damply to his scalp and neck, he's pulled off his shirt and the white singlet he wears beneath hugs him like a second skin. His limbs are bathed in sweat and rainwater, right shin bearing a dark bruise and scratches where my boot caught him. I moisten my lips and fasten my towel more securely. Alessandro looks tired, wet, sexy and, I realise as my gaze sweeps upward to meet the dark eyes focused on me, very, very angry.

On to Part 5