“I’m just out of practice.” Leo’s tongue is poking out with concentration while he dog-paddles after Oliver.
“You’re trying too hard,” Oliver says, vaguely conscious of how ironic it is for him to tell anyone that as he treads water next to Leo and tries in vain to adjust his body position, one hand gently smoothing the line of his spine until he’s doing something that approximates floating. “Don’t fight the water, you’re not going to win. You’ve got to work with it. And you’ve got to get your face wet eventually.”
Leo is embarrassed but intent, kicking away madly like he’s driving a getaway car, much more comfortably than he was a moment ago. Oliver chases after him, lungs burning, the water taking all the impact off his left leg and letting him move at the kind of brisk pace he’s accustomed to on land. They settle into a nice equilibrium, back and forth like a clock pendulum, surrounded by damp chlorinated air and the echoey sound of water lapping against the pool deck. Oliver loves to swim almost as much as he loves being good at something, and he shows off, just a little, flipping neatly to push off the wall and letting the power of his stroke carry him up the lane.
“I’m Oliver Harris,” Leo says, once he’s fully given up trying and pulled himself up to sit on the ledge of the pool, catching hisbreath and watching Oliver finish his workout. “It’s nothing personal, I’m just better than everyone at everything. Oh no, there’s no need to clap.”
“You did suggest this,” Oliver reminds him, reaching down to scoop a handful of water and sending it directly toward Leo’s head. “Set yourself right up, is what you did.”
“It’s fun to try new things,” Leo sniffs. “You just make everything a competition.”
“You have no idea,” he says. “Didn’t you ever wonder why I’m not allowed at poker night?”
Leo snorts, kicking his own wave of water back at Oliver.
“I’ve always thought you have, like, the most prickly, old-man vibes—” He laughs at his own description. “Now I realize it’s, like, no, he’s just pretending to be so nobody realizes he’s a fucking madman.”
It’s notexactlywhat Oliver’s pretending, but it’s a surprisingly good read. He throws his hands up in defeat, laughing at himself too.
“And you should be glad of it,” he warns Leo, taking the offered hand to help him up and out of the pool, shivering at the cold air and their nearly naked touching. “I’m keeping everyone out of trouble.” And Oliver means it—he does feel like he could easily get them both into trouble, when he looks at Leo shirtless and wet and laughing. He might have played things a bit differently, that first day in the plunge pool, if he’d known it could be like this.
“You’ve thoroughly worn me out. And I’m starved. Do you want to come over for some dinner? I’ve mapped it, mine is technically closer,” Leo asks as they walk back toward the locker room. “I, ah, have no food, but Icanget takeaway.”
Oliver hesitates for a moment, running the internal calculus of what the best, most normal answer is.
“When I’m healthy, maybe,” he replies. The idea of being inLeo’s home, just the two of them sharing a meal, makes his insides squirm in a way that says,Crossing a line.You want it too much.They’ve spent all day together, more time than the rest of their teammates. If he gets anything more, he’ll stop remembering where his limits are. He wants to wear Leo out doing something else besides swimming laps—something he’s absolutely forbidden himself from thinking about. “Can’t be eating that way without running it off.”
“Maybe I’ll come to yours another time, then,” Leo says easily, pulling his clothes back on over his suit. He has an uncommon ability to process rejection well, by simply breezing right past it without acknowledgment. “You can make us a salad.”
Oliver half-laughs, slightly nervous, as he slips away to shower and waves goodbye. He’s both relieved and disappointed that Leo doesn’t follow him.
Saturday, February 4, 2017: Camden at Chelsea
Matchday 24
From Oliver’s vantage point in the visitors’ box, the match unfolds as a Greek tragedy, predestined and unavoidable. Camden doesn’t look poorly or slow, only hopelessly outmatched. For the first time since November, Willem leaves his spot on the center touchline and paces back and forth, shouting to the back line and jabbing a clipboard full of notes at Sebastian. The best moment they have all match is when de Boer himself stops a pass that’s flown out of bounds, flicking it safely down to his feet and trapping the ball under his dress shoes.
It’s futile. Three goals to zero, and not close even for a second: a veritable clobbering. When all’s said and done, they’ve dropped to seventh place. Oliver almost expects Finch to burst into the post-match presser and fire them all preemptively. He’s not sure any of them would be able to defend themselves.
Most of the squad shuffles off to a clubby cocktail lounge on Camden’s High Street in an undignified heap of sweat, cologne, and misery. Oliver joins them, feeling for perhaps the first time in weeks that it might actually be better being sad among friends than alone in his house under an ice pack. Even the forbidden cigarette scent and the slight stickiness on the leather booths don’t convince him otherwise. Under the thrumming bass of theDJ set, Oliver is jammed up along the bar, wedged between Joe and Matty. The two of them have twin hangdog faces and hands wrapped around brimming pints. A better man might be capable of pushing his sleeves to his elbows and bucking them up, but Oliver tends toward being a wallower at the best of times.
“Might have gotten a hand to that second one from Hazard, if I didn’t have my head up my arse,” Joe mutters into the foam of his drink.
“He wouldn’t have been on goal at all if I could’ve caught up with him,” Matty says.
“And then we would’ve lost two-nil. Same zero points,” Oliver points out, and even though he’s objectively correct, they wave him away so they can continue their bitching unencumbered by logic. Letting himself drift through the crowd, trying to find another reason to stay and mostly discovering that he’s ready to leave, Oliver eventually comes to a stop next to Leo and Ahmed, who has his coat halfway back on and his eyes likewise on the door. Leo’s eyes are glassy to match his vodka soda; he isn’t going anywhere.
“You want me to take him, Ahmed?” Oliver asks.
“I can take myself,” Leo says, but he slurs it. Ahmed plucks the drink out of Leo’s hand and passes it to Oliver, who takes one whiff and then swiftly deposits it on a nearby table. Leo doesn’t fight it, possibly because he’s too pissed to notice the exchange at all.
“Come on, big man,” Oliver says, nudging them both toward the exit. “Let’s go for a walk, hey?” Leo wrinkles his nose, cranky in the face, but allows himself to be led out to the street. Out on the curb, weaving through the entry line and several hungry looks of recognition from clubgoers, Oliver propels them both out of the messy nightlife sprawl and onto a brick-laden side street.
“You aren’t drunk,” Leo says, accusatory. He’s wearing a rosary that’s hanging askew out of his shirt collar. Oliver tucks it back in for him and continues to steer them away from the crowd, one steady hand on Leo’s back.
“It’s my night to babysit,” he replies.
Leo mutters something in Spanish that includes a “no,” but when Oliver keeps walking, he follows him, a stride behind.
