Chapter 5:
The Sleepover
The moment he heard “Brazilian barbecue,” Cristiano immediately remembered something he’d once said in an interview:
“Just a little piece of Brazilian barbecue, it’s super delicious. See? I’m easy to feed,” he’d boasted on camera, flashing his signature grin.
Recalling the not-so-subtle hints he’d dropped in various public appearances, Cristiano felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him, so strong it made him want to dig his toes into the ground.
But the kid had no idea. How could he possibly say no to Brazilian barbecue just because it brought back memories of his own cringeworthy moments? “Alright, of course. If that’s what you want,” Cristiano muttered, his tone reluctant but resigned.
“No worries. We can try our luck,” Kaká chirped brightly, his voice full of joy. Kaká, ever the picture of sincerity, looked up at him with eyes like dark, glistening pools, full of earnestness.
“I’m not picky. I eat everything. I’m easy to feed,” he added cheerfully, oblivious to the irony. Cristiano winced.
How did this kid manage to hit the bullseye on every landmine? As if fate had a sense of humor, they actually stumbled upon a Brazilian barbecue place that was still open at that hour.
By the time they got the food and returned to Cristiano’s place, it was already past midnight.
This was Kaká’s first time visiting Cristiano’s house since leaving Real Madrid—or so it felt.
As he stepped inside, his mind flickered to a life where he’d been a guest here before, the memory hazy yet sharp, like a dream from another time.
Cristiano asked him to wait on the sofa while he headed to the kitchen to get plates and utensils.
Kaká sat obediently, his gaze drifting around the living room. It all felt so familiar. The layout hadn’t changed.
Even the little golden replica of the World Cup trophy still sat proudly on the shelf. It was a mini version, a perfect imitation of the actual trophy, gleaming under the lights.
Clearly well taken care of—treasured. They had bought it together, back when Kaká first joined Real Madrid.
Kaká had been decorating his home, and Cristiano had tagged along on a trip to a home goods market.
When they saw the trophy, Cristiano was instantly smitten, clutching it like a kid who’d found his favorite candy. At the time, they weren’t particularly close.
Kaká hadn’t expected to see this side of Cristiano—it didn’t match the “bad boy” image from the tabloids.
But it was endearing. Childish in the sweetest way. So Kaká bought it and gave it to him as a gift.
Seven or eight years had passed in a flash, and to think—it was still here.
Cristiano stood at the kitchen counter, the takeout box still steaming, yet he seemed lost in thought.
How did things end up like this? Was it guilt over Ricardo, or something about Kaká’s grin that pulled him in? He couldn’t quite make sense of the situation.
“Just a little piece of Brazilian barbecue, it’s super delicious. See? I’m easy to feed,” he’d boasted on camera, flashing his signature grin.
Recalling the not-so-subtle hints he’d dropped in various public appearances, Cristiano felt a wave of embarrassment wash over him, so strong it made him want to dig his toes into the ground.
But the kid had no idea. How could he possibly say no to Brazilian barbecue just because it brought back memories of his own cringeworthy moments? “Alright, of course. If that’s what you want,” Cristiano muttered, his tone reluctant but resigned.
“No worries. We can try our luck,” Kaká chirped brightly, his voice full of joy. Kaká, ever the picture of sincerity, looked up at him with eyes like dark, glistening pools, full of earnestness.
“I’m not picky. I eat everything. I’m easy to feed,” he added cheerfully, oblivious to the irony. Cristiano winced.
How did this kid manage to hit the bullseye on every landmine? As if fate had a sense of humor, they actually stumbled upon a Brazilian barbecue place that was still open at that hour.
By the time they got the food and returned to Cristiano’s place, it was already past midnight.
This was Kaká’s first time visiting Cristiano’s house since leaving Real Madrid—or so it felt.
As he stepped inside, his mind flickered to a life where he’d been a guest here before, the memory hazy yet sharp, like a dream from another time.
Cristiano asked him to wait on the sofa while he headed to the kitchen to get plates and utensils.
Kaká sat obediently, his gaze drifting around the living room. It all felt so familiar. The layout hadn’t changed.
Even the little golden replica of the World Cup trophy still sat proudly on the shelf. It was a mini version, a perfect imitation of the actual trophy, gleaming under the lights.
Clearly well taken care of—treasured. They had bought it together, back when Kaká first joined Real Madrid.
Kaká had been decorating his home, and Cristiano had tagged along on a trip to a home goods market.
When they saw the trophy, Cristiano was instantly smitten, clutching it like a kid who’d found his favorite candy. At the time, they weren’t particularly close.
Kaká hadn’t expected to see this side of Cristiano—it didn’t match the “bad boy” image from the tabloids.
But it was endearing. Childish in the sweetest way. So Kaká bought it and gave it to him as a gift.
Seven or eight years had passed in a flash, and to think—it was still here.
Cristiano stood at the kitchen counter, the takeout box still steaming, yet he seemed lost in thought.
How did things end up like this? Was it guilt over Ricardo, or something about Kaká’s grin that pulled him in? He couldn’t quite make sense of the situation.
....
He felt like a machine tonight, running on autopilot—score a goal, celebrate, give an interview…
But all the while, his mind was full of Ricardo. So when he saw Kaká in the tunnel after the match, he couldn’t stop himself.
It was almost instinct—the way he paused, the way he extended the invitation, and brought the kid home. And “brought” was definitely the word. Cristiano had no doubt about his own charm.
Who wouldn’t fall for Ronaldo? If anyone didn’t, it could only be because they’d never watched him play.
And Kaká had just seen him play, cheering him on from the stands. During his goal celebration, Cristiano had even stolen a glance at the big screen and caught Kaká’s face glowing with excitement.
There was no question in his mind: the kid was already under his spell. Damn this deadly charisma of his.
He shook his head, rubbing his face to clear it. Focus, Cristiano. Point is, he’d brought Ricardo’s little brother home… God, Cristiano Ronaldo, what the hell are you doing?
Realizing Cristiano had been in the kitchen far too long, Kaká got up and peeked in, hoping to help.
“Need a hand?” he asked softly, his tone eager to assist. “No, no, it’s all done,” Cristiano replied quickly, waving him off as he plated the food.
Cristiano carried the food to the table, and they sat down, face to face.
The barbecue smelled amazing. Kaká was clearly enjoying himself, focused solely on his plate, taking bite after bite, cheeks rounded with eager bites, radiating pure joy.
“Is it really that good?” Cristiano asked, his voice tinged with curiosity despite himself. He almost never ate such greasy, high-calorie food.
Even in that old interview, he’d instinctively said “just a little piece.” Kaká had just stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth and couldn’t reply, so he simply gave Cristiano a big thumbs up, his eyes sparkling with delight.
He really does love it, Cristiano thought. “It’s seriously delicious!” Kaká exclaimed after swallowing, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.
“I feel like I could eat barbecue for the rest of my life and never get sick of it! Want some?” he offered, holding out a piece with a hopeful grin.
But all the while, his mind was full of Ricardo. So when he saw Kaká in the tunnel after the match, he couldn’t stop himself.
It was almost instinct—the way he paused, the way he extended the invitation, and brought the kid home. And “brought” was definitely the word. Cristiano had no doubt about his own charm.
Who wouldn’t fall for Ronaldo? If anyone didn’t, it could only be because they’d never watched him play.
And Kaká had just seen him play, cheering him on from the stands. During his goal celebration, Cristiano had even stolen a glance at the big screen and caught Kaká’s face glowing with excitement.
There was no question in his mind: the kid was already under his spell. Damn this deadly charisma of his.
He shook his head, rubbing his face to clear it. Focus, Cristiano. Point is, he’d brought Ricardo’s little brother home… God, Cristiano Ronaldo, what the hell are you doing?
Realizing Cristiano had been in the kitchen far too long, Kaká got up and peeked in, hoping to help.
“Need a hand?” he asked softly, his tone eager to assist. “No, no, it’s all done,” Cristiano replied quickly, waving him off as he plated the food.
Cristiano carried the food to the table, and they sat down, face to face.
The barbecue smelled amazing. Kaká was clearly enjoying himself, focused solely on his plate, taking bite after bite, cheeks rounded with eager bites, radiating pure joy.
“Is it really that good?” Cristiano asked, his voice tinged with curiosity despite himself. He almost never ate such greasy, high-calorie food.
Even in that old interview, he’d instinctively said “just a little piece.” Kaká had just stuffed a piece of meat into his mouth and couldn’t reply, so he simply gave Cristiano a big thumbs up, his eyes sparkling with delight.
He really does love it, Cristiano thought. “It’s seriously delicious!” Kaká exclaimed after swallowing, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.
“I feel like I could eat barbecue for the rest of my life and never get sick of it! Want some?” he offered, holding out a piece with a hopeful grin.
...
Cristiano was tempted—not because he’d lost control, but because Kaká was eating with such obvious pleasure that it made him hungry too.
Still, a glance at the time convinced him to decline, though he couldn’t resist sneaking a small bite off Kaká’s plate when the kid wasn’t looking.
Ding-ding. His phone buzzed. Kaká paused, wiped his mouth, and checked his phone. It was a message from Ricardo, asking if he’d made it to the hotel.
“Oops, I forgot to let Ricardo know I’m safe! Maybe we should let him know?” Kaká said, his voice a mix of guilt and initiative. He quickly typed a reply: [I’m at Cristiano’s place.
All good. Don’t worry about me. My flight’s at 10 AM tomorrow—come pick me up, okay?"] Ricardo’s reply came almost instantly:
[Cristiano?"]
[You ran into Cristiano?]
[Yeah. I guess he was worried about me walking back to the hotel alone, so he let me stay at his place for the night.]
Kaká glanced up at Cristiano, who was watching him with a puzzled look.
Texting suddenly felt awkward. Kaká figured that, since they were all friends, a call would be better. He video-called Ricardo.
He hadn’t seen Cristiano in ages—that’s why he’d wanted to watch a Real Madrid game after arriving in Madrid.
He was sure Ricardo felt the same. When the call connected, Kaká greeted Ricardo cheerfully.
“Hey, Ricardo! I made it safe—sorry I forgot to text earlier,” he said, his voice bright and apologetic.
After a quick explanation of the evening, he handed the phone to Cristiano, who looked inexplicably stiff.
“Cristiano, you two haven’t seen each other in a while. Want to chat?” Kaká asked, his tone encouraging as he casually pressed the phone into Cristiano’s hand.
Kaká resumed eating, clearly more focused on his delicious barbecue.
This place really was amazing! And so, Cristiano was left frozen like a statue, to face Ricardo on the other side of the screen.
They stared at each other, both at a loss for words.
Ricardo looked thinner now, with a bit of stubble. Gone was the youthful fire. In its place was a quiet steadiness, as if nothing in the world could rattle him anymore.
Cristiano felt something tug painfully in his chest. But stubborn as ever, he refused to be the one to break the silence.
It was Ricardo who spoke first, smiling gently. “Cristiano, it’s been a long time. How have you been?” he asked, his voice warm and steady.
“Good,” Cristiano replied curtly, looking away from the camera. But he wasn’t good. Not at all. Ricardo studied him carefully.
He knew Cristiano’s pride, knew how to read between the lines. He searched for a topic, something light.
“How’d you bump into Kaká? I was surprised to hear he was at your place,” Ricardo said, his tone curious yet gentle.
At the mention of his name, Kaká looked up from his plate, his confusion obvious. Cristiano couldn’t hold back his grumbling.
“Your brother’s kind of clueless, isn’t he? If I hadn’t seen him looking so lost and taken pity, he’d probably still be standing there like a lamppost.
Didn’t even think to ask someone for help, just stood there looking helpless,” he ranted, his voice laced with exasperation. Once he started, he couldn’t stop.
Still, a glance at the time convinced him to decline, though he couldn’t resist sneaking a small bite off Kaká’s plate when the kid wasn’t looking.
Ding-ding. His phone buzzed. Kaká paused, wiped his mouth, and checked his phone. It was a message from Ricardo, asking if he’d made it to the hotel.
“Oops, I forgot to let Ricardo know I’m safe! Maybe we should let him know?” Kaká said, his voice a mix of guilt and initiative. He quickly typed a reply: [I’m at Cristiano’s place.
All good. Don’t worry about me. My flight’s at 10 AM tomorrow—come pick me up, okay?"] Ricardo’s reply came almost instantly:
[Cristiano?"]
[You ran into Cristiano?]
[Yeah. I guess he was worried about me walking back to the hotel alone, so he let me stay at his place for the night.]
Kaká glanced up at Cristiano, who was watching him with a puzzled look.
Texting suddenly felt awkward. Kaká figured that, since they were all friends, a call would be better. He video-called Ricardo.
He hadn’t seen Cristiano in ages—that’s why he’d wanted to watch a Real Madrid game after arriving in Madrid.
He was sure Ricardo felt the same. When the call connected, Kaká greeted Ricardo cheerfully.
“Hey, Ricardo! I made it safe—sorry I forgot to text earlier,” he said, his voice bright and apologetic.
After a quick explanation of the evening, he handed the phone to Cristiano, who looked inexplicably stiff.
“Cristiano, you two haven’t seen each other in a while. Want to chat?” Kaká asked, his tone encouraging as he casually pressed the phone into Cristiano’s hand.
Kaká resumed eating, clearly more focused on his delicious barbecue.
This place really was amazing! And so, Cristiano was left frozen like a statue, to face Ricardo on the other side of the screen.
They stared at each other, both at a loss for words.
Ricardo looked thinner now, with a bit of stubble. Gone was the youthful fire. In its place was a quiet steadiness, as if nothing in the world could rattle him anymore.
Cristiano felt something tug painfully in his chest. But stubborn as ever, he refused to be the one to break the silence.
It was Ricardo who spoke first, smiling gently. “Cristiano, it’s been a long time. How have you been?” he asked, his voice warm and steady.
“Good,” Cristiano replied curtly, looking away from the camera. But he wasn’t good. Not at all. Ricardo studied him carefully.
He knew Cristiano’s pride, knew how to read between the lines. He searched for a topic, something light.
“How’d you bump into Kaká? I was surprised to hear he was at your place,” Ricardo said, his tone curious yet gentle.
At the mention of his name, Kaká looked up from his plate, his confusion obvious. Cristiano couldn’t hold back his grumbling.
“Your brother’s kind of clueless, isn’t he? If I hadn’t seen him looking so lost and taken pity, he’d probably still be standing there like a lamppost.
Didn’t even think to ask someone for help, just stood there looking helpless,” he ranted, his voice laced with exasperation. Once he started, he couldn’t stop.
...
“And can you believe he wanted barbecue at midnight? Ricardo, you’re an athlete too—haven’t you taught him that eating this late is terrible for your health?” Cristiano continued, his tone sharp with disbelief.
“I was just really hungry!” Kaká protested in a small voice, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
“And you agreed to it!” he added, his voice rising slightly in defense. Cristiano fell silent. But the reason he’d agreed wasn’t one he could say out loud.
Ricardo stepped in, trying to play peacemaker. “He’s still growing. Gets hungry faster,” he said smoothly, his voice calm and reassuring.
Then he quickly changed the subject. “Cristiano, thank you for taking care of him tonight. I hope he wasn’t too much trouble,” he added, his tone grateful.
“It’s nothing,” Cristiano said, rubbing his nose awkwardly, his voice softer now. “I’ve got plenty of rooms.
One more person doesn’t make a difference.”
Then he added, a little shyly, “And he’s your brother, after all,” he mumbled, his gaze flickering to the side.
“Well, then I’m even more grateful,” Ricardo replied, his voice warm and genuine. Ricardo laughed, a sound that was warm and genuine, and Cristiano, unable to resist, laughed with him, his chuckle hesitant but sincere.
They chatted a bit more before ending the call. By then, Kaká had finished his dinner. Cristiano handed the phone back and casually asked, “Do you have Instagram or Twitter—something we can use to follow each other?”
His tone was curious, with a hint of insistence. “Nope,” Kaká replied simply, shaking his head. Of course, Kaká couldn’t use Ricardo’s account, so it made sense. “No?” Cristiano exclaimed, his voice scandalized.
A young person without social media? Unthinkable. He had hundreds of millions of followers. “But I can make one now,” Kaká offered with a big, sheepish grin, his voice eager to please.
After a whirlwind registration process, they finally achieved mutual followers. Cristiano pulled him close for a quick selfie, then posted it.
@cristiano: Great to meet you, Kaká! @KAKA 🎉🎉😎😎 “Come on, reply! Like the post!” Cristiano urged, his tone impatient but playful as he nudged Kaká.
Kaká fumbled under the pressure but eventually completed the ritual: like, comment, done.
It was getting late. Kaká had spent the whole evening watching the match, and Cristiano had played an entire game. Both were exhausted. They decided to call it a night.
Cristiano showed Kaká to the guest room and was about to leave when he heard him call out.
“What is it?” Cristiano asked, turning back with a raised eyebrow, his voice tinged with curiosity. Kaká just wanted to say thank you.
For bringing him home, for buying him food, for following his account, and trying to give him a little online clout.
Cristiano didn’t have to do any of it, but he had. “Thank you, Cristiano,” Kaká said earnestly, looking him in the eyes, his voice serious and sincere.
“You’re a really good person,” he added, his tone filled with genuine admiration. Cristiano gave a small nod, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before leaving the room.
As Kaká settled into the guest bed, he couldn’t help but wonder aloud to himself, “I wonder if Ricardo will tell me more about this place tomorrow,” his voice soft and thoughtful.
The thought lingered as he drifted off, the golden trophy’s glow still vivid in his mind.
“I was just really hungry!” Kaká protested in a small voice, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
“And you agreed to it!” he added, his voice rising slightly in defense. Cristiano fell silent. But the reason he’d agreed wasn’t one he could say out loud.
Ricardo stepped in, trying to play peacemaker. “He’s still growing. Gets hungry faster,” he said smoothly, his voice calm and reassuring.
Then he quickly changed the subject. “Cristiano, thank you for taking care of him tonight. I hope he wasn’t too much trouble,” he added, his tone grateful.
“It’s nothing,” Cristiano said, rubbing his nose awkwardly, his voice softer now. “I’ve got plenty of rooms.
One more person doesn’t make a difference.”
Then he added, a little shyly, “And he’s your brother, after all,” he mumbled, his gaze flickering to the side.
“Well, then I’m even more grateful,” Ricardo replied, his voice warm and genuine. Ricardo laughed, a sound that was warm and genuine, and Cristiano, unable to resist, laughed with him, his chuckle hesitant but sincere.
They chatted a bit more before ending the call. By then, Kaká had finished his dinner. Cristiano handed the phone back and casually asked, “Do you have Instagram or Twitter—something we can use to follow each other?”
His tone was curious, with a hint of insistence. “Nope,” Kaká replied simply, shaking his head. Of course, Kaká couldn’t use Ricardo’s account, so it made sense. “No?” Cristiano exclaimed, his voice scandalized.
A young person without social media? Unthinkable. He had hundreds of millions of followers. “But I can make one now,” Kaká offered with a big, sheepish grin, his voice eager to please.
After a whirlwind registration process, they finally achieved mutual followers. Cristiano pulled him close for a quick selfie, then posted it.
@cristiano: Great to meet you, Kaká! @KAKA 🎉🎉😎😎 “Come on, reply! Like the post!” Cristiano urged, his tone impatient but playful as he nudged Kaká.
Kaká fumbled under the pressure but eventually completed the ritual: like, comment, done.
It was getting late. Kaká had spent the whole evening watching the match, and Cristiano had played an entire game. Both were exhausted. They decided to call it a night.
Cristiano showed Kaká to the guest room and was about to leave when he heard him call out.
“What is it?” Cristiano asked, turning back with a raised eyebrow, his voice tinged with curiosity. Kaká just wanted to say thank you.
For bringing him home, for buying him food, for following his account, and trying to give him a little online clout.
Cristiano didn’t have to do any of it, but he had. “Thank you, Cristiano,” Kaká said earnestly, looking him in the eyes, his voice serious and sincere.
“You’re a really good person,” he added, his tone filled with genuine admiration. Cristiano gave a small nod, a faint smile tugging at his lips, before leaving the room.
As Kaká settled into the guest bed, he couldn’t help but wonder aloud to himself, “I wonder if Ricardo will tell me more about this place tomorrow,” his voice soft and thoughtful.
The thought lingered as he drifted off, the golden trophy’s glow still vivid in his mind.
