La Liga: Violence and Tantrums

Chapter I

    La Liga, respirando rápido, parandose con fuersa, lagrimas, sangre, gritos de dolor, de los goles, los gritos estan resonando, dolor de cabeza, desplomarse, negro, la oscuridad, iluminando, despierto.

    Neymar sat up the second he woke up, he was out momentarily, and he wiped the blood off of his chin. When he fell, he must have bit his lip, because it was sore and the trickle got on his jersey. Tears of anger welled up in his eyes when he realized what happened, but before any of the Barcelona team could get to him, he was already on his feet. He glanced around to see what he could get a hold of, noticed the ball nearby, grabbed it, and glared at any Real Madrid player in his sight. He steadied himself on the turf and singled out Ronaldo, before throwing the ball at the man as hard as possible. The player dodged it, laughing, while someone grabbed him and pulled him toward the sideline, pushing him out of the stadium. He growled and turned around on the ball of his foot, ready to punch whoever it was, except he stopped because this person was Messi, one of his good friends, and the person he secretly might have liked. The game ended and they had lost by one point, simply because Neymar missed the pass as he was shoved to the ground. He was seething by this point, but Messi just kept his hand on his shoulder and said nothing. What was there to be said? Neymar was assaulted in typical game play and he reacted to it poorly, like usual. He was moderately surprised that Barcelona hadn't kicked him off the team by now, what with all of his outbursts. He grumbled and pulled away from his friend and stalked off to go shower or punch something, whatever to calm him down.

   "Neymar," He heard that voice, but he only stopped for a second before he kept walking. 

    His own name sent shivers down his spine as he headed toward the lockers back in the stadium. He took the long way, taking time to breathe and think. He knew he was a good player, he knew he could have scored, but who tripped him? Going through his thoughts, he pinpointed it on Lucas Vázquez, who seemed to have been the culprit. When he came to the part when he was kicked in the head, he didn't recognize who the shoe belonged to, so he wasn't quite sure. He reached back and rubbed the side of his head as he rounded a corner into the stadium again. He was walking among fans, which made him pick up his pace to get away from them. The last thing he needed was to be trampled by all the women who wanted to have sex with him. He ran as fast as he could through the throng of people, sweaty bodies pressing against him, and he nearly vomited. It wasn't what Neymar wanted. He wanted a little piece of Argentina, but that couldn't happen, especially with how livid he was currently. He twisted in an odd fashion to maneuver around a rather tall man who wanted to get his signature and leaped over a few legs or two as he slid toward the rest of his team. He barely acknowledged their existence while he made his way into the showers, slowing to a walk when he arrived at the stall. He stepped in and stripped his clothes off, tossing them over the shower rail and turning the water on full blast, as hot as he could bear it.

    He slammed his fists on the tile and screamed so loud his throat strained, "Odio a ese pendejos , los odios! Esos cabrones!"

    He let himself slide to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them as the water beat against his side. He didn't care that the entire team could see him sitting there, if only the lower half of him. He didn't care who used this shower before him. He was upset and rather pissed and allowed the tears to fall, though he didn't make a sound. His body was shaking and if anyone decided to watch him, it would be rather obvious. Neymar rested his forehead against his arms and closed his eyes, while the water made his hair fall around his face, destroying whatever style he had going on. It was infuriating that the other team thought they could treat him that way and get away with it. He knew every team did that, though, especially when Barcelona had three of the best players around. He just didn't realize how dirty Real Madrid could play. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his arm, allowing the shower to wash it away, steam enveloping him. He heard footsteps approaching, but he ignored them, shrinking to the back of the shower to sit in the corner.