“Someone ought to,” he replies in his deep, deep voice, flashing his white teeth, and Oliver flushes so pink he feels the color in his toes. He wants to reply in kind, wants to grope around for the limit just a bit, but before he can, Conor’s eyes flit to the door and he nods a greeting.
“Looking for him?” Conor asks, and Oliver turns to find Leo and Woodsy standing at the threshold. He feels like he’s been caught doing something incredibly illicit.
“Looking for you, brother!” Woodsy tells Conor cheerily. He hops nimbly onto a barstool and reaches over to smack him on the shoulder. Oliver waves, slightly bewildered, to Leo, beckoning him over.
“Have a good night?” Oliver asks the pair of them; Woodsy nods.
Conor slides two sweet red ales across the counter, the chilled glasses already sweating condensation down the sides, looking so good it doesn’t matter that it’s still morning. Oliver is going to down his in one enormous glug.
“You’re a new face,” Conor says to Leo. “Injured too? What do you like to drink?”
Leo has a suspicious scrunch of his mouth where Oliver has come to expect an easy smile.
“Healthy, just getting my sea legs. I’ll have what they’re having.”
Conor, to his credit, is undeterred, reaching under the bar and pulling another pint.
“I hope you teach these lot some manners. I say the Camden boys are always welcome wherever I am, then I usually regret it immediately.”
“Oh, shove it,” Woodsy declares. “I’m your favorite customer.” Conor shakes his head.
“Sorry, Woodsy. Harris is my guy.” Oliver feels a pleased rush alongside the feeling, again, that he’s been spotted in the middle of something private. Undeterred, Woodsy pivots the conversation as cleanly as he can kickstart a counterattack.
“This is a big day for Davito—you’re really home now! Drinking at Castlehaven is as close to hazing as we’re allowed to get,” he says, knocking each of their glasses together in rapid succession.
“Here’s to Leo,” Oliver adds. “May you never again know the pain of drinking here on matchday, only the thrill of drinking here after a win.”
“And may he never stand on top of my bar and try to start a round of karaoke,” Conor chimes in. “As both of you idiots have done before, despite knowing you were risking a lifetime ban.”
Finally, Leo cracks a toothless grin.
“I’d have liked to see that,” he says, buffing Oliver with one shoulder.
“You’re giving him too much credit. It was bloody awful,” Woodsy snorts. Conor nods in somber agreement. Oliver feelssabotaged and embarrassed as he faintly recalls tottering along the narrow wooden surface last season, regrettably belting The Smiths, then abruptly remembering nothing else of the rest of the evening.
“Let’s talk about something else, shall we?” Oliver tries, turning his attention to the TV mounted above the liquor bottles. “Leo, a pop quiz?”
Right on cue, Woodsy begins slapping his hands rhythmically on the table, chanting “Pop quiz, pop quiz, pop quiz” under his breath. Leo nods, bravely and gravely.
“Tell us everything you know about the strikers,” Woodsy says.
“And the midfielders, your new comrades,” Oliver tacks on. “Learn anything useful the other day?”
“All right, all right,” Leo replies, training his eyes to where the TV is showing Camden’s squad warming up in Swansea, each of them looking cold but determined.
“Charles and Gavin,” he starts, counting on his fingers and screwing up his face in concentration. “Dynamic duo. I bet they retire soon, but they’ve got a combined football IQ of, like, a million.”
“Generous,” Woodsy says. Oliver hushes him and gestures for Leo to continue.
“And then besides Oliver, there’s Lukas and Noah and Garcia. Noah is just getting back from being hurt, he won’t play today. He invited me to a yoga class with him, which was nice. Lukas is…German? And Garcia is from Colombia too, he speaks Spanish the same way my mum does. I like him.”
“LukasisGerman,” Oliver agrees. “That’s the lot. Who do you think you’ll play well with? When the time comes, I mean.” He’s dead curious for the answer, though he tries to ask it casually.
Leo runs a finger down his glass and ducks his head, put on the spot.
“I think we’d do pretty well, Ollie,” Leo says after a beat. Woodsy roars with approval while Oliver’s heart turns a somersault in his chest and drops like a cannonball straight through his belly.Ollie, Ollie, Ollie,echoes through his head. Conor saves him by delivering three glasses of water, which Oliver gratefully chugs, just to have something to do with his mouth.
“What about the strikers?” he manages, when he feels in control of his voice again.
