Ascending to fifth place hits like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. The changing room, so frequently sullen since they’d eliminated themselves from any chance for a trophy and started walking around with an anvil over their heads, has suddenlytransformed with the pulsating energy of a nightclub. Henri led a mostly naked conga line through the showers on Wednesday, all their bellowing voices bouncing off the tiles in a cacophony, knobs swinging everywhere.
This is the best of it, the greatest feeling there is besides winning a championship, but he’d bet his life on the love the team has for each other in these moments. Leo keeps hanging close to Oliver all week, even over the other Spanish-speakers and Ahmed. Whether he’s deciding to try his hand at being shy or just thankful for Oliver’s belated half-attempts at mentorship, Leo is always hovering an elbow length away with an eye-squinting smile or a question he probably could’ve asked anyone. “Davito…more like Little Harris,” Anthony said on Saturday morning after Leo paused to wait while Oliver tied his shoelaces, and both of them knew better than to argue about it.
By Monday, the normal pre-match loom tamps the energy down a bit, everyone turning their focus to how Camden will beat Watford tomorrow. When Oliver is starting to wind down for the evening, his phone rings.
“Davito?” he answers.
“I can’t fucking do this” is the only greeting he gets.
“Hey, hey,” Oliver says. “What are you talking about?”
“What if I’m not ready? What if I make a fool of myself? I’ve waited so long to play for Camden, but now that it’s here all I can think is, I might be rubbish at this, actually, and I don’t want…” Leo trails off, voice choked.
Something sweeps over Oliver and kicks into high gear. He’s responding before he can think, almost before he can form the words.
“Leo, everyone from Beckham to Ryan Loxley felt like this before their first Premier League match. It’s normal. And you’renot rubbish, so take a breath. You’ve done it before, it’s all the same.” Down the phone line, he hears only a stuttered inhale. “Take a cab to the Crossing,” Oliver says assuredly. “I’ll meet you there.”
“What?” Leo asks, voice tiny and far away.
“You’ve gotta run it out. And for fuck’s sake, put on something warm.” Oliver hangs up and starts for the door, pulling on sneakers and heading for the garage at the fastest speed his hamstring will allow. The Audi careens through the streets like it’s inTheFast and the Furiousand Oliver is grateful, for once, that he owns such a stupid, fancy car.
With his emergency spare key, he unlocks the side entrance at the Crossing and leaves it propped open. They’re certainly not the first players to have an existential crisis the night before a match and need to do something about it, but the offices and the changing rooms are empty tonight. Oliver snags his boots and a netted bag of balls off a cart in the kit room and drags them upstairs to the training pitch, flicking on the floodlights and watching the field come to life.
Five minutes later, an uneasy Leo clambers up the stairwell. As requested, he’s bundled up, but he’s pale and drawn like he’s got a fever. Last week Leo had been so cheery when they’d come here and now he looks desolate, a totally different character arriving to the very same scene. Oliver wants to do something daft like smooth his curls off his brow or hold him in his arms. He wishes he could give Leo the kind of impossible physical comfort he always craves for himself.
“There he is,” Oliver says instead. “How are we?”
In response, Leo flops gently to the earth and lies spread-eagled, face-down on the grass.
“Mmmph,” Leo groans.
Oliver eases himself down next to him and sits cross-legged,brushing one tentative hand across Leo’s back to announce himself. His fingertips tingle at the contact.
“My debut was against Kilburn,” he says after a moment. “I threw up in a bin at halftime.” Leo rolls slightly to his side, exposing half of his face and one curious brown eye. Oliver takes this as a good sign and continues. “I grew up a stone’s throw from Regent Road. I was always going to be for Camden even before I started at the academy. It was…surreal, to realize I was going to play a role in a match that important. I hated Kilburn so much, I think I wanted to beat them more than I wanted to win. It’s not rational. And I was so young. I was a nervous mug. I puked my guts out and then they put me in and I got sent off seven minutes later.”
“I didn’t know that,” Leo says. “Everyone thought you’d lost your mind last month, but you’re a damn repeat offender. What the hell did you do?”
“I took Stewart Reed out from behind,” Oliver laughs, remembering the sticky spring heat and the copper taste of nerves in his mouth. Beckett, team captain at the time, had tried to placate the ref, to no avail. Oliver had been unrepentant, wearing the green stains to his brand-new white away kit like a badge of honor. “Reckless, stupid boy I was. But I wanted them all to know they couldn’t fuck about with me. And they still can’t.” Even now, he’s stubborn and vicious about the rivalry. He and Stewart still can’t play nice when they run into each other or both get called up for England. Rovers and Roses are natural enemies, not to be mixed. Oliver trails off and Leo sits with him in silence for a long expanse of breaths, muted city noise filtering from the street down to their secret oasis. “They can’t fuck with you either,” he says eventually. “You’re better than any man on the Watford roster. Just do what you do in training. They’ll be wishing for relegation by the time it’s over.”
Leo chuckles and finally pulls himself up to sitting, stretching his arms up over his head like he’s just woken up.
“I’ll try not to get booked.” Leo has his teasing lilt back in his voice, inching closer to sounding himself again.
“Coward,” Oliver tells him. “Come on, we’re gonna play.” He climbs up, ignoring the persistent thrumming in his left leg and Leo’s offered hand. This is more important than the injury. He’ll just take it really, really slow. Once they’re standing across from each other, Oliver turns to grab a ball, but Leo tugs him back. His hand is warm where it stretches over Oliver’s own. His fingers are tingling again.
“Will you come and watch tomorrow?” Leo asks. Oliver almost baits him, almost says,We’ll see,but he only nods. He can do that, for Leo. Through an unspoken agreement, they ease into passing, gradually increasing their distance across the pitch so they can send loping, floaty balls. They have a good sense of each other, connecting passes faster and faster, starting to put them wider and running them down. Oliver feels steadier on his feet, able to take his own weight and quicken the turnover of his stride for the first time in weeks. He starts to dribble between the passes, closing the gap until they’re face-to-face and grappling for possession.
“Go on, then,” Oliver pants, voice deep with something like provocation. “Can’t you get it off me?” Leo screws his eyes in concentration and shoves him lightly, extending one leg just far enough to push the ball free and run it down. Oliver lets all the exhilaration pour down his body like summer rain and lopes after him. Leo moves confidently, so controlled on the ball, but Oliver is stronger and smarter. He can sense where he’s going to move and he gets there each time with the composure to reclaim the territory. Leo is sprightly enough to chase him back, though. They’re playing chess and tag simultaneously, going threehundred miles an hour. Oliver nabs it back again and whoops a victorious exclamation, getting a few paces free. He turns to look for Leo, to see how it is for him, then there’s a blur at the corner of his left eye and he hits the ground hard, head rattling from the impact and hamstring screaming.
Immediately, Leo is on his knees next to him, stuttering apologies, the ball rolling away uselessly. The tackle was clean—he didn’t touch Oliver. He’s furious anyway, his whole body smarting and his pride wounded. This was so reckless, soirresponsible. What was he playing at, running around injured? And Leo, jumping in studs up like his whole career rested on that tackle? They’re going to be in so much trouble. His leg is fucking burning. Oliver has pushed so many boundaries with Leo in just this one month, against his first impression and his better judgment, and now he’s lying in the mud as hurt as he was on New Year’s Day. He’s the one who’s made a fool of himself, a damn one.
“Ollie, I’m so sorry,” Leo’s saying, trying again to help pull him back up to his feet. Oliver doesn’t let him and pushes him away instead, both palms flat on his chest and moving with intent, teeth bared in pain and anger. Leo stumbles back at the impact, expression crumpling.
“What were you playing at?” Oliver hisses as he gets his legs under him by himself, unsteady with pain and something like rage. “Kick a man while he’s down and maybe you’ll get a permanent place in the starting eleven and a nice fucking contract, buy yourself a place in Marylebone? Youabsoluteprick.”
“Oliver,no. It’s not like that, you know it’s not like that,” Leo protests desperately.
“You want a mentor, you want a friend—fuck that, fuck you.”
