wickerpark | Hello Mate, Nice to meet you...

Hello Mate, Nice to meet you...

Gael wasn't sure this had been his best idea since the moment he'd boarded the plane in London. His manager had tried to keep him from reading the news, but it was just a matter of time before someone said something. His blissful ignorance had lasted until he stood up to board and someone screamed out 'wanker!' at him. When he'd turned to look back, the man was wearing a Chelsea jersey and pointing at him aggressively before straight out flipping him the bird.

Things hadn't gotten any better by the time he'd landed. British Airways had Sky News on as their default entertainment, and forty minutes into the flight Gael had the chance to relive the worst game of his career at Chelsea followed by a break down of the 'American' being called up for the USMNT. That was followed by what seemed endless speculation about just why he wasn't playing for England. 'Sure, he was born there. But lets be honest, The Americans have offered him something to get him to play for them,' the man had said. Followed by endless talk about the World Cup qualifiers that detailed how he'd probably made the worst choice in going to play for the US. England was on a bloody tear.

The US...not so much.

Still, with the plane headed straight on to California there was no turning back. He'd agreed to play for the US, and even if he could go back to London and sign up for the Lions- they wouldn't take him.

Getting off the plane, he immediately felt out of place. Sure he'd been back to the US across the years, but the sun was high and bright in the California sky. It was almost alien to him, as he couldn't even recall Chicago being that bright and sunny. Or maybe it was that he spent most of his time indoors, or surrounded by buildings as tall as mountains.

Pushing it back, he grabbed his bags and headed out into the heat of the west coast summer. It only took him a moment to find the car waiting on him, and 2 hours later- he was walking into the newest USMNT training facility.

"Alright, your gear is stored in there, we'll have shuttles pick you up from the hotel and take you back every night. But you're the last one here, so get changed and get out to the field. They've been waiting for you." The trainer said, before leaving him alone and looking more than a little out of place.

"Great, not a problem." He muttered to himself.

Getting changed, he made his way to the field, and looked about. It only took him a few moments to make his introductions, get his marching orders, and again wonder if he'd just made the worst decision ever. So far, no one seemed overly pleased to see him. And to make things better, his first task was apparently to help the keepers warm up.

"'Ello," he said as he came up to the group, "was told to head over here. Shaw, Gael Shaw." He held out his hand as he looked at the other men- all looking at him oddly. Right.

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"Ugh," muttered Michael, the senior keeper, and Carlos glanced at him. "It's the British invasion." Which, really, just made Carlos roll his eyes. It was Michael's last year - too many injuries, and he wanted to retire semi on top of his game - and Carlos knew for a fact that he was going to be the keeper in most of the matches. His grandfather Felipe, of course, loved to point out that if he'd gone to Mexico he could be on senior by now.

"Sánchez," Carlos said. "Carlos. Michael Olson, Keegan Jones," he said, pointing at the college sophomore from Indiana who was tying back his curly black hair. Keegan had been doing plenty of muttering about Shaw's fancypants Chelsea background, but Carlos figured it was mostly jealousy. Keegan had university to finish, and skills to showcase before he got recruited by either one of the MLS teams or one in Europe. Carlos, on the other hand, was finishing up at Stanford, and scouts from Arsenal, Barca and Monaco had been talking to him already.

Of course, same went for Ty Kagan, and he'd started in on Shaw before he even got here, but Ty was kind of just an asshole.

"Well, let's see what you've got." Carlos glanced over at Michael, catching the way he was rolling and stretching his knee, and then headed to the box himself. "And remember, kid, the tales of how much we suck are greatly exaggerated in the Daily Mail."

Gael didn’t know which was worse, being referred to as ‘British’ or ‘kid’. Which, fine. He know he was the youngest man on the pitch at 18, just like he’d been the youngest when he’d been promoted to Chelsea’s first squad at 17. But seriously, he liked to think he wasn’t a kid anymore. Not when he was making the salary he had for club...and country. He was getting paid decently to come play for the US.

“I don’t read Daily Mail,” he said though, rolling the ball across the grass slowly. He’d stretched a little, but wasn’t really keen to start a full on work out today. His legs still felt a bit stiff, and his body was insistent that he ought to have been in bed and fast asleep by now. “You want to work on penalties?” He asked, trying his best to sound as American as he could. It wasn’t particularly easy, but he tried. “Or....warm up?” He wasn’t really sure. He was sure that the coach was keeping him out of the mix with the other strikers for a particular reason at the moment, however, and probably just wanting to see what a jet lagged, exhausted 18 year old could really do.

It was probably best not to mention the club salary, at least not in front of his teammates near his age. Sure, there were professionals on the team, many of them - Michael was the keeper for Atlanta United, one of the other forwards was on Man City across the Atlantic - but soccer wasn't like American football or basketball in the U.S. yet. Unless you got picked out by a European club when you were fourteen, you played in high school, you played in college, and then maybe - if you hadn't fucked up - you went pro. The average nineteen to twenty year old was going to desperately pretend not to be impressed with Gael's enviable status as a pro.

No matter what his American father's opinion on the whole thing was.

In any case, Carlos exchanged a look with Keegan - if Shaw couldn't take a joke as mild as that it was going to be a rough time - and shrugged his shoulders. "We can do penalties," he said. "If you don't think the jet lag has you off your game."

“Oh, who knows.” Gael said, shrugging a little as he settled the ball on the penalty line. Keegan leaned against the goal on the left side, looking at him with what Gael assumes was mild contempt. He glanced at the man, wondering if he was always so disgusted with new players, or if it was because he hadn’t earned any caps for the team, and wasn’t likely to earn them for a while yet. Olson was still stretching off to the side, giving him the most mild and bored expression, but at least had kept whatever smart ass sarcasm he had left to himself.

“I read up on him,” Keegan said suddenly, stretching his arms up as he rolled his shoulders. “Left winger, so he’ll always go right. Specifically, top right. It’s his favorite spot.” The other man smirked at Gael, smug in this apparent knowledge. Which, okay...it was not wrong, exactly. Gael was left footed, he did prefer the top right in his penalty kicks. It was a hard ball to catch, which made it a good shoe in. It also had a high chance of missing, though, because it was easy to put too much on it.

“Oh dear,” Gael said, shaking his head as he moved back to line up for his shot. Keegan was still leaned against the left post when Gael made his choice, running up and striking the ball with a solid right footed kick. It spun up, Sanchez jumping for it before it banged into the left post close to Keegan’s head, before spinning into the back of the net.

The other man jumped back, looking surprised at the ‘near miss’, before looking back at Gael who just smirked at him.

“I’m also pretty good with the right foot too. It’s why I sometimes play as a 10.” He said, resting his hands on his hips as Carlos picked the ball out of the net. “But, I’m sure you knew that.”

Carlos rolled his eyes, and it was hard to tell if it was at Gael or Keegan (probably both, if he was honest with himself). He resettled himself in the center and muttered "Va a ser un largo día," under his breath. Keegan had picked up enough Spanish growing up L.A. to catch that much, and the next bit too: "No es pelota callejera contra un niño rico. Back off."

Before Gael decided to show off the other star feature of international play, It'd probably been a while since Keegan's nose had been broken.

In any case, Gael had gotten one past him, and he wasn't going to be cocky enough to say it was a freebie, but he wasn't going to let another one through. This time, Gael did go for the right corner, and he was right - it was hard to get there. But then, Carlos hadn't gotten where he was with a pretty face, and he pivoted and threw himself at the ball. It made a satisfying smack in his hands, and he tosses it back. "I like the top right corner, personally. Every striker thinks he can get past me there."

Well, that was cute. Carlos wasn't the tallest stopper he'd ever met, but the man could jump like no one's business, that was for sure. He juggled the ball a little as Carlos fed it back to him, thinking as the ball bounced off his boot and then knee a few times before he settled it down on the ground again. Right, so not the right corner. Keegan was quite at least as Gael stood with his hands on his hips, looking at Carlos contemplatively.

His Chelsea manager always warned him that he had to learn to adapt faster. It was one of the problems with his game, even if it was getting better slowly. Gael fell into patterns easily, it was comfortable for him, but also made him somewhat predictable. It was clear just how predictable that was now. When some punk kid in the US could name out his preference on a shot, and there was an ocean between them.

"Alright," he said, finally. He threw out his right hand as if to concede some point, though it wasn't clear if it was Carlos' statement or some inner thoughts of his own. His next strike was a crack of a shot to the right, Carlos dove for it, and punched it up and out, the spin on it causing the ball to spin a little wildly out to the side.

"Alright," he said to himself again, ignoring the look on Olsen's face as he picked up a new ball from the bag of balls off to the side. "You're good."

"Good?" Keegan asked, snorting. "He's one of the best in the country. Show some respect." The youngest Keeper waved Carlos off, taking up a spot in the center. "So am I."

"You're a right twat, aren't you?" Gael snapped back suddenly, letting his irritation with the keeper get the better of him for a moment. How much, he wondered, would they fine him for punching a ball right into the little twats face.

Keegan would be one of the best in the world when he learned to grandstand a littlle less, Carlos thought as he settled onto the grass with Michael. That was why he was there; no matter what the world tended to think, after all, there was plenty of soccer talent in the U.S. They weren't Germany, maybe, but there were years where England definitely fell apart first. In Keegan's case, his ego was to make up for the fact that the sport that had gotten him to college and the national stage - well, it wasn't what people expected from him.

"You're just going to get him aiming straight for your face," Carlos said. "And then Mike and I are going to have to explain to the coaches that you and the striker they've been crowing about behind closed doors for two weeks tried to kick each other's ass in the first twenty minutes. And then I'm going to be pissed." All of this was said in the calm, pleasant tone that Keegan, at least, knew brooked warning. Carlos might not be senior keeper yet, but they all knew which way the wind was blowing there.

Keegan looked like he'd been ready to say something else before he stopped and settled. His eyes were glued on Gael, and Gael in turn was watching the way the man leaned from side to side as if trying to determine which direction he'd go. Carlos was right, though, it wasn't going to do to actually hurt the keeper. They were on the same team, or at least trying to be. And there were qualifiers coming up- they might not need three keepers, but they needed to have options if one got hurt.

And Gael rather did like to think of himself as calm and level headed.

It didn't stop him from smirking broadly as he punched a kick straight up the center as Keegan dove to the right while wildly trying to bat the ball away. "Oh, sorry. I was aiming for your balls, then you jumped." He said in a rather amiable way, enough so to make Olsen bark out a laugh for the first time.

Keegan glared daggers at him. They were not, Gael thought, going to be mates any time soon. The guy had a chip, that was for certain. "You think you're some sort of hot shot just because you play in England, but you couldn't make it onto their team? You're just some punk kid, trying to be English and no one buys it. You better check yourself, you lost that Champion's league game for Chelsea the other day. Probably come runn-"

He Keegan's head snapped back violently when the ball hit him square in the side of the head. Gael threw him the V sign as he watched the boy fall back, ignoring Olsen as the man jumped up to his feet to make sure Keegan wasn't seriously hurt as Gael turned to walk off. "Fuck this shit," he muttered to himself, finding it harder than ever to remember why he'd agreed to this.

Edited 2018-06-26 03:03 (UTC)

"Well, that was fast," Carlos said dryly from behind Gael, and after a moment he grabbed the back of the forward's practice jersey. "I would have figured that bitch fight would have lasted longer." But then again, he thought, Keegan's mother was in the hospital, and Keegan might have a full ride to Indiana University and a potential spot on the USMNT, but that didn't mean money wasn't tight and that another returning American from one of the European clubs wasn't going to piss him off.

Not that Gael needed to know that; most of the team didn't, but Carlos and Keegan were two of the few who didn't come from middle class to privileged backgrounds. He figured Keegan thought he'd get it.

"Have they given up hazing in Europe?" He asked. "Amazing. I'll have to let my agent know, he keeps telling me I'm too soft for Ligue 1."

Gael wouldn't say he hadn't been raised with privilege. He had, most certainly, but he'd also worked damn hard to get to where he was. There had been no easy path to his spot, and he'd put up with his far share of ribbing and jokes- for the most part he'd even laughed with them. But that didn't make him immune to having his buttons pushed.

"Reculez, connard." He snapped as his jersey was tugged back, and barely held back from through an elbow back at Sanchez before thinking better of it. Looking back, he could see Keegan sitting up, a little dazed and a little red in the face. He should have felt bad about it, but he just...couldn't be bothered.

"We don't haze each other, that's what fans are for." Gael said in a tight tone as he tugged his jersey free and looked up at Carlos. "And he asshole had it coming. And I swear to God, the next person who brings up that fucking game- I'm going to put more than a ball through their head." It was, really, a particularly sore point. His love for Chelsea was dying painfully. They all seemed to expect so much from him- even comparing him to Messi or CR7 with such regularity that any one mistake he made was thrown at him full blast. He wasn't the only player on the pitch for Chelsea, why was it his fault that no one else had put the ball in the net either?

"Why would you ever play in Ligue 1?" He asked, taking a slightly calmer breath before he glanced back at the other two. "The Premier is more balanced. Bundesliga is competitive on a good year, and La Liga has two teams that play minor league teams for fun." Sort of. Real Madrid and Barca just had more money was all. "PSG is the only team worth it."

Probably not the point of bringing all this up, though. "Whatever. Not like everyone gets on in a club. But, for the most part- everyone tends to have your back." Chelsea had super stars on the books, all of whom had told him it was alright after they'd lost. His captain had even made a point of saying they'd all missed opportunities that night. Still, fans were dicks. A month ago they'd been in love with him, now they'd be happy if he was benched for the rest of his life.

"I suppose I deserve that," Carlos said, and it's in response to the French. It's not his best language, though he'd taken it at Stanford since he already spoke Spanish and didn't feel like cheating his way through the language requirement.

"Real Madrid's a good team," he added, though, tilting his head to one side. "Tight squad, sharp offense and defense like a wall. The fact that it got down to penalties means that neither one of your teams let anything through." He shrugged. "That's a good game, in my opinion, even if the drunk arses in London might think it differently."

It was probably best to talk about either his career prospects or team dynamics than touch on the emotional mess that is Keegan, so he crossed his arms over his chest and shrugged. "I haven't decided where I'll go after graduation," he said. "Could throw myself into the MLS draft too, and stay closer to home. But we both know Europe's where to go if you really want to get your game up. And Monaco's interested, and they beat PSG last year. Still, their keeper's getting tired." His eyes gleam a little with amusement. "But then, Arsenal's talked to my agent too. You think I should go there instead, Shaw?"

He nodded a bit, though. "There are very few benefits of soccer not being the top sport here, that's one of them. The asshole fans are usually into American football. Except, of course, the Latinamerican immigrant base." He tilted his head to one side. "I've been cursed out in Spanish a few times when I've gone back home."

Edited 2018-06-26 23:57 (UTC)

“Really? Arsenal? Mate... I can’t even.” Gael said, though he smiled just a little while shaking his head. “Fucking hell, I can’t in good mind advocate that one. But some advice? Don’t play for the club you love most. That ruins it a bit- especially if you end up being some ‘star’.” Not that he needed to dump all that grief on Carlos.

“Come on, let’s just get this practice over with.” He said, moving back toward Keegan and Micheal with a slightly calmer attitude about him. He even made his apologies, and Keegan seemed to accept them, albeit begrudgingly. By the end of the day, though, the other boy was peppering him with questions about how he even got to play with Chelsea at such a young age.

“Seriously?” Keegan asked as they finished changing and grabbed their bags. “My mom wouldn’t let me join a club across town let alone another country at 14.”

“Well,” Geal started, shrugging just a little. “Doubt they would have if my grandparents hadn’t lived in London. My parents had a bit of a row over it. Sort of why...this happened.” He waved his hand a little, as if to indicate the whole situation was the result of parental bickering. “World War Three might have broken out in my parents’ home if I’d gone with England. Or France. Definitely if I’d gone with France.”

“Wait... you could have played for France?”

Gael wasn’t sure if Keegan was annoyed or awed by his tone, and opted to just sort of shrug. “Technically, but it wasn’t likely. They’ve got better strikers than me already, and besides...never really wanted to play for them. Grew up watching Chelsea, England and the US though.”

“Man, some people just got all the fucking luck.” Keegan said with a slight grumble as he moved ahead of Gael then, leaving the striker to just sort of stare ahead. Yeah, he supposed, he had some of that.

“Don’t think it has occurred to him, yet, that when he retires he’ll at least have a degree already.” Gael said after a moment, causing Micheal to snort a little in agreement.

Carlos kept quiet during most of it, letting Keegan dig himself out of his hole and just taking his turn with Michael with the drills until practice finally came to an end. Then he waited until Michael went ahead with Keegan. "Are you going to college at all?" He asked, squinting a bit at Gael. "Never thought I'd go myself, and here we are." Not just Stanford's star keeper, but about to graduate with a degree in psychology - not with honors, but with better grades than most people liked to attribute to student athletes.

"And by the way, my favorite team's Club Monterrey. It's where mi abuelo came from before he and Abuela emigrated." He kicked a stray ball over to where one of the ball boys was rebagging them. "Don't tell Keegan, but he still hasn't forgiven me for not picking Mexico. Papa was born there before I left, so as far as Abuelo is concerned, I'm more Mexican than not. Either way, probably not going to Mexico to play."

Gael turned and looked at Carlos with a bit of surprise, as though he'd forgotten the man was even there. "Ah, well...I never took the exams for it. Barely had time to graduate Sixth Form, honestly," he relied, frowning a little. "Don't even know what I'd study if I did. School wasn't really something I excelled at. Kicking a football around? Pretty good, making top marks? Eh." He shrugged then, before smiling a bit sardonically. "Another reason I'm here. My Dad considers it the least I could do. My other dad doesn't think it'll hurt me too much to wait, either."

Leon was, perhaps, a bit more optimistic about Gael's educational future. "Besides," he went on after a moment. "I'm not an English national, and there are rules about working and studying. It'd just be mad."

As for the rest, he almost laughed. It was probably a better thing to play for the US than Mexicon, but Gael was bias. "Monterrey? Heh, well...could be worse. You could be from Canada, just imagine how sad that Training camp must be." He smiled a little more freely as they turned toward the locker rooms and started across the field. "I get the feeling you don't have to work as hard to convince people you're really American at least. I've been labeled a traitor to my nation in England, and I still haven't understood how."

Carlos had to laugh at that. "Really?" He said, raising his brows. "Well, I don't have as much of an accent, maybe, but trust me - go certain places in New Mexico or Arizona or California while looking like me, and you're going to have people acting like you're not American. But not people who follow soccer, that much is true."

He shrugged, though, because that was something of a fact of life.

"USNWT's in Cleveland," he said. "So just be happy: at least we're where it's warm and there's a few things to do." He tilted his head to one side. "Where do your dads live?" He asked. "I guess they're thrilled for you to be back, and ultimately that's probably at least as important as some assholes in the crowd, right?"

"Chicago." Gael said, nodding a little. "And...it is. It wasn't that hard to talk me into it. I miss the US. I don't miss not being of legal age to drink- but I do like that I can legally drive here." He'd gotten his license while on holiday when he'd been sixteen, only to be politely reminded that he wasn't old enough to drive in England when he got back. "And apple pie. I miss apple pie. Not really a thing over there."

And while he didn't look as foreign as Carlos, he sounded it. Which was accompanied with all sorts of annoying 'oh can you say...' statements.

"Learned to kick a ball in Wicker Park, actually. When I was like two. My sister played too, until she got tired of me asking her to kick balls with me." He said, looking over at Carlos. "So, honestly- I would be fine with anywhere that had less sun. Why'd you pick the US? I mean, other than they qualify more often than Mexico."

"Now that's just factually wrong," Carlos said dryly. He had no idea the Anglo anti-Mexico bias had extended past the border states, but then most of their teammates didn't really go for it. There were plenty of Mexican players, after all, in the MLS these days, and a few Americans who'd gone south to Mexico. Talking shit was mostly the province of fans, especially if the star striker on Mexico's team also happened to be the man keeping butts in seats for your MLS club, and vice versa. "But I was born here, and I've only really gone back to Monterrey a few times. The U.S. is home."

But really, he didn't feel like getting into a discussion about it. Abuelo aside, he'd never even considered the Mexican team. They hadn't asked him before he'd been called up by the U.S. "One of our mids is from Chicago too," he said instead. "Tyler Kagan. He went to Stanford too. Oh, and there's Greg Matthews, who's back here on defense. He and the women's team's star center are Chicagoans too, but both of them went to USC."

He was a fan, really. He was as American-ish as the next ex-pat in England, and 18. He liked his version of history better. And Mexico was obnoxious, in general. "....no. I don't count history past the history I can remember." He said, with a small laugh. Scrubbing his hair, he looked at Carlos sidelong. "Feels good to play for home, and all of that."

Yawning, though, he scrubbed his face as they neared the lockers. "I'm sensing a theme- that theme is am I the only one who hasn't gone to uni." He said, shaking his head a little. In the grand scheme, he was getting a fair trade off. He wasn't the highest paid player, but he was young and just starting to grow. "Man, I don't know if I want to eat or sleep more right now." Though, going to sleep right away was likely to end with sore muscles in the morning.

It could equally be, Carlos sometimes thought, that the guys didn't want to annoy the one among who could actually order tacos at the good stands without being mocked. Either way, usually they left it alone - even if they were thinking that Mexico was the worst, the most obnoxious. Personally, Carlos was pretty sure Italy would be mortally offended if they knew.

"Well, getting recruited straight into the pros doesn't really happen over here. Just in basketball. Keegan thinks of college as a way to get the attention of the Chicago Fire." He inclined his head a little, though. "You should probably stretch some if you're going to crash. If you can make it a little longer, the hotel restaurant's not bad."

Tacos. Tacos were not a big thing in London- though it was catching on slowly. 'Mexican' in London was a strange thing that Gael still stared at like it was a three-headed monster. But he probably could have agree with Carlos' opinion of Italia. They were drama queens, the whole lot. Even one of his Chelsea teammates fell into that trap, always trying to pull fouls off the other team- dramatically, of course.

"Well, it isn't really the same process, though. You have to get into the Academies, you play for the junior leagues as you are coming up- it's a fucking lot of work." Gael said, nodding a little. "US Leagues probably would never allow for it, I mean- isn't there age restrictions or something?" He honestly didn't remember, but he also had never asked Daniel deep, probing questions about how one became a basketball star. Not even reaching six foot seemed to prove that he was better off having never fancied the other sport.

"You strike me as a motherly sort," he said after a moment, given Carlos' advice about stretching. It wasn't wrong, but it was a little funny. "I can make it back to the hotel, I doubt I'd get to sleep with my stomach growling at me."

Still, he did at least stop to stretch his muscles out. Something that felt amazing after a long flight and a long day working out. "You really thinking of playing for Arsenal?" He asked after a moment, looking up at Carlos as he stretched out his legs.

"I've heard how it goes," Carlos said as he sat down next to Gael. "My parents wouldn't have been into the idea, but then we didn't see that many scouts in our neighborhood. I'm lucky that the colleges sent scouts out to the Catholic schools, really. It's how I got into Stanford." He stretches out his leg, loosening the muscles he'd used on several of the sharp pivots he'd used. "But if you mean basketball, some people sign at seventeen. Not many, you basically have to be a walking god."

He rolled his eyes, though, at the mothering comment. "Excuse me, have you met Keegan?" He said. "That wasn't just you, you know, that's everyone. Someone's got to keep him from getting a concussion before we even get to do a friendly versus Iceland."

Anyway, when it came to Arsenal...he was thinking about it. He was thinking about Monaco, too, and Barca, and really - his dream would down in Mexico, some place like Guadalajara. Even though the money and the fame wasn't there, it was, in the end, the football Carlos had grown up with. "Yeah," he said. "Nothing's for sure, of course." He raised his brows. "Chelsea isn't knocking on my door, so you can't really judge me for it."

"Chelsea isn't knocking on anyone's door right now," Gael said with a sigh, leaning back on his hands as he looked at the stadium seats. "They're paying too much for the stars they have now. Conte says they are pulling for the Academy, setting people up to make big transfers- so hell, I could be playing for Arsenal next season. I didn't cost them anything to sign, but they'll play me up to get big money in return."

Conte had prepped him for it before the Champions League final, actually. Mentioning Madrid, Bayern, and even Liverpool were interested. None of that made for him being overly excited about things- and he'd needed to play well for him to have any power in trying to stay. Not that someone he just met needed to here him whining about how his life was over, or whatever nonsense he was bemoaning.

As for Keegan, Gael just sort of kept quiet. Every team had someone like him, someone who had problems off the pitch and somehow managed to drag them onto the pitch without really knowing they were doing so. It was tiresome.

"Is there Mexican near this hotel?" He asked suddenly, looking over at Carlos. "Because, fuck me...I miss having a fucking taco that isn't, that isn't whatever it is they make in London. Actually, I just miss food that doesn't make me think a dog barfed it back up."

"Mm, well, Arsenal's always got money." That was what his agent said, and what Carlos read seemed to indicate it wasn't just sports agent bravado. Of course, he wasn't the flashiest recruit - not unless he made it onto the field during the Cup and did some spectacular saves - but Emery was trying to build a solid squad behind his flashy strikers. "Doesn't mean even if I go if I'll stay for long. Only if I'm not more valuable on the market."

He listened, because if this was going to be his career, he needed to play that game as well as soccer.

"It's SoCal, there's Mexican everywhere," he said, and then laughed. "Dude, you're supposed to convince us all that the continental lifestyle and cuisine is beyond anything America has," he said. "It's really that bad? I assumed it was a myth." Not that the tacos were bad - that was a given, there were so, so many ways to fuck up a taco - but that all the food looked a little like his mama's cat's post breakfast hork.

"It isn't all bad, but it is all kinda sad. Just, sad. Possibly because my Grandmother's a terrible cook, but she's French- so she thinks she's amazing." He said, laughing as he pushed himself up out of the grass. "Honestly, I don't go out eating that much. Have to mind the figure, you know...but the Mexican is pretty sad. Which is to be expected, they don't have many Mexicans."

Gael grabbed his bag off the ground before offering Carlos a hand up off the grass too. It was an easy sort of feeling, chatting up the big stopped. He was a lot easier to get on with than some of the guys back home, but that might have been a cultural thing. It was more or less all business at home.

"And you're right- you won't cost a lot of money. Won't even probably make much until you get a good season under you. Keeper's got it brutal, man. Hard to shine." He said, shrugging a little. "My goal is just to convince everyone that I benefit Chelsea with staying. I'm just starting to get my groove, and honestly- the man who is costing them the most is always fucking injured. Better deal to keep me around, eh?"

Maybe. It was a strategy, at least. "Besides, I don't speak Spanish or German, and I would be devastated to move to Liverpool." So clearly, he needed to stay in London. At least one more season.

"I'm sure your dads remind you that Chicago has a club as much as mine remind me of clubs that are a little closer than Europe," Carlos said. He didn't know, obviously, about the rabid Chelsea fan who raised Gael, or that his other dad usually headed to a bar to watch the Chicago Bulls instead.

"When your job is preventing flashy strikers from making cool-looking shots, you aren't the most popular player on the pitch." For the fans, at least, although it was a bit different on the national team. Then, there was no one more beloved than a keeper that keeps, oh, a Brazilian from scoring on penalties. For example. "I don't expect I'll make much. But I should do okay."

He stretched his arms over his head and the led the way out of the training center and around a few maze like corners. "So tell me why Liverpool is the end of the earth," he said.

"Sister." He said, smirking a little as they headed through the building. "My sister is the one to remind me there are clubs in the states. One father does care much for football, unless I'm playing. And the other? Lets just say it is practically written in blood that all Shaws are Chelsea fans- no matter the country they were born in." But that was the life of a boy who had a foot in two different countries.

"And it isn't that you aren't the favorite, man. You stoppers are just ridiculous in how long you can keep going. I'll be lucky if I can run like I do now at 33, you? You'll be hitting your peak then. God, it is enviable. Though, Arsenal's keeper looks like he might be on his way out." That was player hear-say though. It was a small world, and people talked- a lot.

"As for Liverpool? You've clearly never been to Liverpool. I don't even...it isn't the club, it's just the city. I don't think they speak English there. They speak something else entirely." He teased, but it still wasn't where he wanted to end up. "Honestly, it probably has more to do with me, than them. I do like the color blue. It matches my eyes, and red just...clashes with everything."

"It's because we aren't spending our career getting our knees kicked out," Carlos said. "I can practically read a book back there." That is, of course, pure bullshit. Keeping hasn't been that level of boring since he graduated from little league. But it was true that it wasn't quite as injury prone as the forwards. It gave him a longer career, as long s he could be patient for it.

"Stanford did a tournament in Edinburgh last year," he said instead. "And I've done a few USMNT matches, once in London, once in Manchester." And several across Europe - though he'd liked Seoul best. "But no, can't say Liverpool and I have had the pleasure." He waved Gael into a tiny storefront. "Hola, Paulina," he says. "Te traje un hambriento."

There was something...sexy about Spanish, no matter who was speaking it. It made Gael slow a step as he watched Carlos speak to Paulina, and she in turn looked him over with smiles and greetings. She even glanced between him and Carlos for a moment, before Gael waved and stepped closer to counter.

"Uh, hi." He said, "Um..." He looked over the menu with glazed eyes for a moment, quickly trying to adjust to the Spanish before settling on a particular sort of taco. Al Pastor. And a soda. God, when was the last time he had a big soda? And chips....and queso. Carlos only seemed to find it amusing before he ordered.

He was going to get fat at this camp.

They sat as they waited, Gael listening to Carlos as he spoke to Paulina in Spanish, memorized. It was only after the tacos arrived, and he thanked her that he looked up at Carlos again.

"So- you are graduating Stanford soon, looking to sign in Europe. What's the girl....friend think?" He asked, curious as to what the answer was going to be. Gay footballers were not common, no more so than Bi ones. And they all tended to get the piss taken out of them for it.

Carlos skipped the queso for the verde salsa and chips, and a carne asada tostada and a Topo Chico water. He raised his brows a bit, though, at Gael's comment. He supposed it was fair, though; probably if he scoured the internet he could pretty quickly find out if Gael Shaw was dating. The press was reliable that way. Ty had some kind of occasional thing with an actor and it seemed like they were always dodging rumors of whatever.

"I don't have a girlfriend," he said. "Or a boyfriend, which is a bit more likely. Either way, makes it pretty easy to just pick up and go."

Accurate. Not having attachments did make it easier to go. It was going to make whatever possible transfer Gael was going to be asked about go....easier. or something to that degree. But he could wait to ask more as he started to eat. It was easy to pack away the amount of food he'd ordered.

After a while, though, he was finished, and staring at the wall as Carlos spoke with Paulina more, very nearly falling asleep in his chair, head against the wall. He didn't even move really until she asked him if he was alright.

"No, no I'm fine." He said, smiling as he sat up in the chair and looked at Carlos. "Do think my day has caught up to me."

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