Saturday does come eventually, though, and Oliver sends the lads his well-wishes before he drives down to the Crossing. Leo is waiting outside, loitering by the doors like he was before his first training session. The tension of that meeting is gone now—Leo is all loose-limbed and casual, leaning up against the brick wall in running shorts and a hoodie.
“You’re going to freeze,” Oliver tells him as he opens the door. “Why didn’t you just go in?”
Leo looks embarrassed.
“I didn’t know if this was some kind of secret practice.”
“If I was going to try to get you in trouble, I would’ve been much cleverer about it,” Oliver sniffs as they make their way through the hall and down the back stairs to the pitch.
The sun is dipping down under the skyline, drenching thefield in a warm red glow. A few people are lingering at work through the match, their office lights casting a dappled, lantern effect. It’s the perfect time and place to play. Regent Road might feel like magic, but Camden Crossing has its own alluring spell on this sort of evening. It reminds Oliver of being five years old, when he could run circles around his parents in the courtyard of Nan and Grandpa’s flat for a thousand years without getting tired, back when Dad was just starting to be tired all the time. Leo has a grin on that splits his whole face in two.
“Your call,” Leo says to Oliver, tossing the ball he snagged from somewhere over to him.
“What if I said to run laps?” Oliver asks, partly because he’s curious and partly, he can’t help it, to be mean.
“I’d listen.” Without missing a beat, Leo starts jogging away down the sideline. Some kind of topsy-turvy feeling rushes through Oliver’s abdomen, his worst instincts almost taking over when he thinks about all the things he could tell him to do.
“I’m kidding, I’m actually kidding,” Oliver calls out, regaining control of his senses. “Come back!”
Leo decelerates and loops back toward him, beaming.
“I probably only would’ve done one,” he says. Oliver rolls his eyes and gestures him over.
“Let’s just play. But go easy on me, I’m frail.”
Leo nudges the ball away from Oliver and to his own feet, arcing it up in a neat swoop and beginning a series of keepie-uppies, each one more elaborate than the last.
“I’m not about to get sent back to Spain for reinjuring you! I’m staying away.”
Oliver stalks toward him, gingerly using his right leg to poke the ball free. Leo skips forward and takes it right back, backpedaling until he’s a body length away.
“I mean it!” Leo says. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Remember thirty seconds ago, when you said, ‘Your call’?” Oliver reminds him. “You’re all bluff. I’ll send you some passes, show me a one-touch shot.”
Leo, again, listens to him. It’s an easy rhythm, no different than the game Sebastian made them play a few weeks back. Oliver kicks the ball without force, using his right leg, trying different angles and paces from twenty or so yards out as Leo runs at them full tilt, then sends them on toward goal. It’s a shadow of the real thing without a keeper, but the energy ramps up, Oliver getting trickier with his passes and Leo meeting each of them like they’re at the end of a crucial match. Time slips away from both of them. When you really love football, the game encloses itself around you like a physical thing. It’s self-contained and self-sustained.
Oliver could do this without a trace of boredom until he keels over. It’s a revelation, playing with someone who feels it too. Every new shot is a surprise and delight, every new pass an opportunity to discover something that’s not been done before. He can see every thought Leo’s having on his calf muscles and in the slant of his body; it’s like they’re having a conversation. God, it’s so fuckingfun.
“How have we never done this before?” Oliver asks. “You’ve got a hell of a left foot.”
“You were always too good for me, Harris,” Leo pants, catching his breath. “It’s taken me this long to catch up.” Then he goes back to running; he moves with an uncannily fierce connection with the ball, accelerating without it ever straying from the inside of his left foot. The movements are so precise as to be almost delicate; combined with his slight frame, he might be dancing, twirling all across a grassy stage. Oliver is an elegant, composed player—but he’s certain he doesn’t look like this when he runs.
It’s been dark for hours when it finally occurs to them tocheck the score of the match. Camden’s won it, one-nil from a free kick by Emmanuel. Oliver pulls up the larger table of all the day’s scores, and there it is: the team is sitting in fifth place. He pumps his fist, euphoric and awash with adrenaline. Standing next to him, panting and sweat-soaked, Leo holds up his phone too, open to a message thread. Sitting there on the screen is a note from Willem.
Let’s talk next week. All goes well, you can expect a debut against Watford.
Ashamedly, Oliver’s first reaction is a bite of jealousy, a little sting of resentment. But Leo is glowing, he’s movie-star handsome, and he just scored a hundred goals that didn’t matter because Oliver wanted him to, so he reaches forward, pulling Leo into a rough, unsteady embrace. It’s quick and sufficiently manly—Oliver slaps him on the back as he pulls away just to be sure. When he steps back, Leo’s smiling even bigger.
“You earned it, mate,” Oliver says. “I’ll be the first to admit it. I’m excited for you.”
Leo scuffs his toes at the ground almost bashfully.
“I’m so happy,” he admits. “I’ve always wanted this, even when I didn’t think it would happen.” Oliver understands that, remembers the teenage sensation of it: your wildest dream coming true.
“Oh, it’s happening all right,” he says. “I’ll be in the stands yelling at you if you forget.” Then Oliver tucks him—his protégé, his teammate—under his arm and leads them off the pitch.
• • •
