The 100 metres between the bakery and the bookshop was a daunting distance to cover for Jordi. Only after 8 minutes, which contained a brief break, did Jordi reach the store. Both his crutches landed on the step, after which he pushed himself inside the store. The grunt that escaped him prompted Señor Garcia to rush forward.
"Caram! What are you doing, you donkey?"
Señor Garcia wrapped his arm around Jordi and guided him to the stack of books. Once he settled Jordi, he grabbed the crutches and propped them against the wall. He then carried over his stool and sat down next to Jordi.
"Now explain to me why you are walking all the way here in your state?"
Now, the normal Jordi would shrug and smile away the question. To Señor's dismay, he did not witness what he expected. Instead, Jordi stared out the door, his azure eyes shining under the sunlight falling inside. Never had those beautiful eyes seemed so melancholic. They were usually a still lake, always thoughtful, always focused, but never like this. To Señor Garcia, the eyes that shimmered under the sun appeared… quite dull.
"I don't know what is happening. I- Why are they doing this to me, Señor?"
Señor Garcia pulled his stool right next to Jordi and placed his hand on the boy's head. As he ruffled Jordi's hair, his heart beat fast, and his thoughts fled his grasp. The tears that escaped Jordi's eyes struck directly at Señor's paper heart. Señor Garcia was so used to little Jordi's maturity and calm, he had forgotten that Jordi was still a child. How could anyone hurt a gentle boy like him? Who dares hurt little Jordi?
"What's wrong, my boy?"
"Señor, they won't let me get surgery. Their stance was so firm that they wouldn't even consider surgery. Even- even after Dr. Cugat's letter."
"Oh… But multiple doctors have said the same thing. You— "
"Uncle Ferran insisted that we can't even delay the surgery to avoid the permanent effects of the injury."
"Yes, yes. Little Layla updated me with everything. Little Jordi, I— "
"Why, Señor? Why won't they listen?"
"Little Jordi, they are all animals up there. Bartomeu and his friends, they have corrupted this club to the core. It might be difficult to accept, but sitting in their high castles, they could not care less about us."
"I am a good player, Señor." Jordi's tone was lighter than before, an unconvinced whisper. "I- I love Barca, and I am a decent player. Why are they doing this?"
Señor Garcia abruptly tightened his hold on Jordi's hair and pulled his head up to face him, "You are a great player, Jordi. No, you are the greatest talent I have ever seen. Don't ever doubt yourself just because those bastards treat you a certain way. They would sell their own family if it was profitable enough—cough, cough."
Señor's loud reprimand transitioned into a fit of coughing, "Cough, go on, Jordi. Go home and rest—cough, I'll send you a book soon. Be sure to read it, ok? Cough, cough…"
…
Jordi stared at this reflection in the glass of the framed shirt of Johan Cruyff. Between his index and middle fingers was a square piece of paper. He knew every word and every blemish on that piece of paper, yet Jordi held on to it for sheer comfort.
'…Trust yourself. Always trust yourself. Barcelona is lucky to have you. And if the people in the offices don't understand that, don't hold it against the club. This is not their club. This is and will always be our club…'
It seemed he had known a long time ago. Once again, Cruyff saw the future years before it arrived. Then why did he not warn Jordi?
Jordi's chuckle was abrupt and empty. He really used to believe that it was his club. How childish. He loved Barcelona, and he would give anything for the club. Yet, it was not his club. Barca was their club, no matter how he felt. Maybe, one day, he would be great enough to matter. He would wait as long as it took for that day to arrive. For they could govern Barcelona, but they could not govern his love for Barcelona.
…
The door was ajar, so Layla Lloret pushed it open without knocking. She silently walked towards the bed, where her little Jordi was sleeping. His legs were off the bed, feet planted on the floor, and his hand held a piece of paper. It seemed that he had not planned on sleeping. She carefully placed the thin book 'Letters to a Young Poet' Señor Garcia had given her on the side table. Layla then took a seat next to her son and ran her fingers through his hair.
Only a mother could understand the pain in Layla's eyes. The pain of her child that a mother felt thrice as sharp. And yet, there was so much more on Layla's mind. Would the club still offer Jordi a contract if he underwent surgery? More importantly, now that the club had rejected Ferran, they needed to pay for the entire treatment themselves.
Yesterday, she discussed it with Alessandro when he was on call with Ferran and Jordi. Granted that they went to an experienced and renowned surgeon, surgery and subsequent recovery would cost upwards of €20,000. While they could find cheaper clinics, Layla refused to choose anything other than the best for her son. Alessandro also stressed that they should not take the risk with an ordinary surgeon.
Alessandro, bless his heart, had tried to offer his help during the call. First, he tried to disguise it as an investment in Jordi from Adidas. He explained that they would sign the contract in a few months anyway. When rejected, he offered a loan from his own funds that the family could return whenever it was convenient. Once again, little Jordi immediately rejected, not listening to another word on the topic.
Neither Ferran nor Layla, however, had negated the idea of a loan from Alessandro. Because they were aware that their savings account currently held only about €4,000. The bakery run by the siblings in a quiet neighborhood only earned so much for a growing family of 5. Further, Layla regretted paying off their mortgage a year earlier. If only they had waited, their savings could have paid for most of Jordi's treatment.
Layla turned back to Jordi. After all the worries and pressure, he looked so peaceful as he slept. She delicately planted a kiss on her son's cheek. Even with Señor Garcia's help, they may currently have about €11,000, but Layla would find a way. She would take a loan from the bank. If not, she could maybe discreetly discuss a loan with Alessandro. Or… maybe, in the end, she had to go to him for help.