Anthony flings his head back and cackles, like a cartoon villain.
“I’m sure you haven’t,” he replies. “We’re going to watch the end of training, so cover up your arse.”
Watching everyone practice without him, fawning over the shiny new Leo, does not sound like a particularly fun or mentally healthy activity, but he can’t see a way out of it. He wouldn’t put it past Anthony to fine him five hundred pounds for leaving early. Reluctantly, Oliver puts his clothes back on and slinks outside, crunching the frosty grass under his trainers as he makes his way to Noah and Woodsy. They’re sitting in the first row of Camden Crossing’s small cluster of stands and observing the ongoing five-a-side. Oliver leans against the railing, all the weight on his good leg, arms crossed for warmth, and tries to size things up.
“What’s the verdict?” he asks.
“Trevor’s on a hot streak,” Noah says. “But Davito nutmegged Ahmed and tackled Charles.”
“You’re leaving out the part where Nick accidentally stepped on Marcos’s foot and then he called him a bastard,” Woodsy adds. Oliver whistles lowly.
“Bet Willem loved that.”
“He said something about how we should always endeavor to act with trust and respect, but I’d wager my car he swore in Dutch first,” Woodsy reckons.
Oliver surveys the scene enviously. Aside from Marcos, who looks pissed, and Garcia, knackered, everyone appears to be in good spirits. The ball is whipping to and fro between the two miniature squads and the men on the sidelines are shouting encouragement between substitutions. Trev is moving so fast that the ubiquitous Tourism New Zealand and Nike logos are a blur of white on his training kit. Oliver wishes he could run down and join them, even leap onto Joe’s back and earn himself a booking for goalkeeper interference.
“Golden goal!” Willem announces from where he’s standing and watching at the edge of the pitch. “Next one wins, gentlemen.” Everyone, save the ten lads in the fray, whoops and shouts. Georgie digs out a challenge on Finn and scrambles up to pass to Leo. Unexpectedly, Oliver finds himself calling out to him.
“Come on, take us home!” he yells, accidentally.
As if Leo’s heard him, he stumbles, startled, yet manages to keep the ball in his possession. He takes a sloppy extra touch, but regains control and suddenly whacks a sharp, hard shot with his left foot, right past Joe’s outstretched fingertips. The whole team erupts.
Glittery-eyed and open-mouthed with joy, Leo keeps running, turning a jubilant circle back toward the squad. He spots Oliver and points toward him gleefully, once, twice, thrice, like he’s dedicating the goal. Somewhat bashfully, Oliver returns the gesture with a bow.
Even Willem’s ending whistle somehow sounds pleased as punch.
• • •
While the others finish slapping each other on the back and singing about needing a one dance (so badly it must be purposefully off-key), Oliver and the rest of the wayward injured orphanslounge around the sofas in the canteen. Halfway through his second cup of tea, people start to trickle in, everyone appearing distinct for the first time all day in their street clothes and smelling of a hundred different colognes. The sofa is full to bursting with Joe and Trevor shoving in alongside the three of them, but Oliver keeps his armrest open and waves Leo over so he can perch on the end, because he’s a nice lad and not a dickhead. This is the first time he’s gotten a good look at Leo in repose, wearing beat-up black skinnies and an absurd, color-blocked windbreaker. His damp curls and big jacket make him look tiny, and young, and much less threatening. When Leo brings one leg into his chest, resting his chin on his knee, Oliver can see that someone’s drawn a little sunburst in black ink on the rubbery side of his shoe.
“What happens next?” Leo asks, more eager than anxious. Trevor speaks before Oliver can.
“Your guess is as good as ours,” he says. “Willem is a man of mystery.”
“And he grew up in The Hague, man,” Joe adds. “That’s where he’ll send us if we can’t hack it.”
“Stop it, we talked about this. You know The Hague is, like, a fully normal city,” Oliver tries to assure him, and himself as well. “This is just the first big break we’ve had with him around. Not sure how he’ll handle it.”
“Probably with sprinting drills,” Noah predicts gloomily.
“And heart rate monitoring,” Joe adds.
Leo has the look of someone whose own heart rate monitor would currently be beeping wildly. Furtively, Oliver jabs him with his arm, just enough to make himself felt without disturbing Leo’s edge-of-the-couch balance. They make tentative eye contact and, in the relative privacy between them, Leo gives him a look somewhere between a grin and a grimace.
They’re still pulling faces at each other when Willem clears his throat from behind them. The rest of the team is clearly already at attention, looking at the manager. Leo erupts in scarlet and Oliver’s sure he looks the same. Willem is as stoic as ever, not saying a thing about it.
“I won’t keep us,” de Boer tells the full group. “Only to say that this was a great session. We need to have more of them. You’re all very fit and you’ve been so for months. I want you to think of our next meeting in terms of refinement and commitment.”
There’s definitely going to be sprints, then. Or they’re bound for The Hague after all.
“What I mean,” their coach continues, “is that we have an opportunity to hone our techniques. For precision. And we have an opportunity to hone ourconnections. You will learn to trust yourselves and each other. For the rest of the season, I want you to be able to look at the man next to you, see him and acknowledge his strength, knowing he thinks the same of you.” Willem talks like a cult leader sometimes, but it also works. Everyone is meeting his eyes with rapt focus, like he’s talking directly to them—Oliver included. Leo’s forearm is radiating heat where it’s still making the lightest contact with Oliver’s own upper arm. “We’ll go through the specifics during tomorrow’s session. Also, we’ll only have morning training all week. Light time in the gym. When we play Swansea, I want your legs fresh and your minds hungry. Have a good evening.”
The energy in the room is pleasantly sparking with electricity as Willem ambles off and everyone else makes moves toward departing. Oliver is nobody’s private detective, but even he can sense what some of this spare time might be meant for. He steels himself, then catches the sleeve of Leo’s jacket in his hand before he can stand up.
“Okay workout? You feel okay?” Oliver asks, inanely.
“I’m buzzing,” Leo says—and he looks it. He has such an expressive face, the kind that’s impossible to keep secrets with. Oliver surprises himself by smiling back.
