Football: Maxed Out The Wrong Stat

The knock came before the doorbell, which was how Mateo knew it was Vardy.

It was Tuesday, two days after the derby, and the city of Gelsenkirchen had finally quieted down enough for someone to hear a kettle whistle. Mateo cracked the door open in a navy training sweatshirt, holding a steaming mug in one hand. Vardy was standing on the porch bundled up in a thick winter coat, balancing a taped cardboard box on one hip with a canvas kit bag slung across his shoulder.

”Morning, mate,” Vardy said, giving a quick sniff in the cold air. ”Do me a favor and do not make a massive drama out of this.”

Mateo blinked, looking him up and down. ”A drama about what exactly?”

Vardy jerked his chin toward the driveway behind him. Carvajal’s black sedan was sitting near the curb with the engine idling and the trunk popped wide open.

”I’m packing up,” Vardy said. ”Moving into my own place.”

Mateo glanced past him at the car, then looked back at the box resting against the Englishman’s hip. ”Right now? You didn’t mention anything at breakfast yesterday.”

”Well, it all came together fast,” Vardy said, hoisting the box a bit higher so it didn’t slip. ”Grab your shoes and help me bring out the rest, you big lump, before Carvajal starts whining about idling his motor in your driveway.”

They carried everything out together, which barely took ten minutes. Vardy had arrived in Germany with very little to his name, and his inventory was remarkably light: two cardboard boxes, a canvas kit bag, and a pair of match boots that had been drying by the radiator since Sunday. Everything fit into the trunk with room to spare. It felt strange seeing a professional footballer’s entire life packed into such a small space.

”You really didn’t need to rush out,” Mateo said, leaning his hands against the warm metal of the car frame. ”The room was fine.”

”Nah, it was definitely time,” Vardy said, leaning back against the rear bumper. ”You’ve been putting a roof over my head since October. That’s a hell of a long stretch to have an older lad crashing on your sofa, finishing your milk, and smoking out your kitchen with burnt eggs.”

Mateo gave a faint smile. ”You’re twenty-three, Jamie. You talk like you’re forty.”

”Twenty-four next month, which makes it even worse,” Vardy chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. ”Look, jokes aside, the club paid out the derby bonuses yesterday. First time in my life I’ve looked at an ATM screen and seen that many figures sitting in an account. I found a decent little flat two minutes down the road from the training ground. Two bedrooms, quiet street, and a place where I’ll actually have to pay full rent myself.

He tried to keep his tone light and breezy, but there was an unmistakable sense of pride beneath it. He had spent years in lower-league non-league football being told he was too skinny and too rough around the edges. Now he was holding the keys to an apartment he had leased with his own wages in a foreign country.

”It makes sense,” Vardy added softly. ”You know it does.”

Mateo nodded quietly. He had known it was coming eventually.

Carvajal leaned out from the driver’s side window, checking his watch with an impatient grimace. ”If you two are going to stand around having an emotional goodbye, wrap it up. I have a conference call in twenty minutes.”

”That man literally lives on a conference call,” Vardy muttered under his breath. He turned back, held out a right hand to shake, then abandoned the formality entirely and pulled Mateo into a brief, solid hug, the sort teammates share when the cameras are nowhere in sight. ”Thanks for everything, mate. Really. For giving me a place to sleep and not treating me like a total nuisance when I landed on your doorstep.”

”You put the ball in the back of the net,” Mateo replied, clapping him on the shoulder. ”Keeping you fed was just me protecting my assists.”

Vardy burst out laughing. ”Look at him. Cold-blooded business to the very end. Make sure you come around once I get some proper furniture delivered. I’ll cook us a proper dinner, I swear. I’ve been working on it.”

”Working on what?”

”Never you mind. You’ll see.”

Vardy hopped into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut. Mateo stood on the gravel driveway with his lukewarm mug, watching the sedan back out onto the street and glide away toward the main road. Once the red taillights vanished around the corner, he stepped back inside and clicked the front door shut.

Mateo walked down the hallway and looked into the guest room. It still felt like Vardy had just been there, with the unmade bed, an empty hanger on the floor, and a phone charger left in the wall outlet. Mateo unplugged the charger and set it on the windowsill so he could hand it back at training.

Standing alone in the doorway, the house felt strangely quiet.

Maybe things really were moving forward, he thought quietly to himself, though he couldn’t quite pin down what that meant. Still, he let the thought rest.

Carvajal came back just after lunchtime. He let himself in without knocking, kicked off his shoes by the door, and dropped a leather folder onto the kitchen table with a dull thud.

”Did Jamie get everything settled properly?” Mateo asked, pouring himself a glass of water at the counter.

”Two bedrooms and a view of an asphalt parking lot,” Carvajal said, loosening his tie as he pulled out a chair. ”He looks like he just bought a mansion. But I didn’t drive back here to talk about Jamie’s flat.”

”Yeah, I figured,” Mateo said, leaning back against the counter.

Carvajal flipped the folder open and slid a single sheet across the table. Mateo looked down at the familiar soft-drink logo printed across the top header.

”Their team called the agency last week,” Carvajal said. ”Right after Valencia, before the derby. Then Sunday happened, you scored three against Dortmund, and the offer doubled overnight.”

He tapped the bottom of the page.

”They want you for their summer campaign. A full global release. The shoot happens here in Gelsenkirchen, so it won’t touch your training schedule ahead of the Champions League. I made sure of that before letting them send the paperwork.”

Mateo picked up the sheet, looked at the final figure, and set it down.

”That’s a lot of money just to drink a soda on camera.”

”It’s a lot of money because people in forty countries are watching your derby goals on repeat,” Carvajal said, closing the folder. ”The pitch is the job, Mateo. This is the business that follows it. You don’t have to love being on set, but it comes with the territory at this level.”

Mateo looked at the closed folder on the table. ”And if I say no?”

”Then I call them, say no thanks, and we leave the money there,” Carvajal said, standing up and tucking the folder under his arm. ”The world keeps spinning. But you won’t say no, because you’re too practical for that.”

He headed toward the hallway, then stopped at the door and glanced back.

”Sleep on it. If you’re not sure, ask Raúl after training tomorrow. He’s done dozens of these over the years. Just make sure you rest up, because after the draw on Friday, things are going to get loud.”

The front door clicked shut.

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