Leo, bless him, doesn’t listen. He just kicks a muscle roller over and watches as Oliver hoists himself up on his palms to gingerly rub the tender spot on the back of his leg, letting gravity press him down into the firm, rubbery foam. He becomes acutely aware of their aloneness, the early hour, and the empty building. Oliver is rocking his body into and then against a tension that somehow burns and relieves at once; now he does wish Leo had fucked off, so he wouldn’t be vulnerable, on display and feeling perverted for it.
“Oh, quit pulling faces,” Leo tells Oliver, pulling him out of the reverie. He slides off his seat and walks on his knees, tapping him on the leg. “Let me do that.”
“All right,” Oliver murmurs, not stupid enough to turn down an offer like that. He holds himself still, leg flung out aloft, while Leo handles the roller expertly, pushing it just hard enough to make the help worth the hurt. Oliver’s muscles shake from something more than the stretch, but they’re quiet for a long while, moving in tandem.
“I meant to say, I’m sorry if I was being weird,” Leo says eventually, out of nowhere.
“When, exactly?” Oliver asks, sweetly.
“Ha ha,” he replies, no trace of laughter. “I mean when I was drunk and sad.”
“Oh,then. It’s okay, yeah? You’re a very nice drunk, at least,” Oliver feels himself joking, reaching for a laugh or a smile, but Leo stays resolutely serious, speaking like he’s planned what he wanted to say.
“It’s not your job to buck me up. I should be able to, what’s the word…compartmentalizebetter.”
“What other job do I have right now, Leo?” Oliver says it lightly, but he means it. Leo shakes his head and starts to turn away, speech delivered; Oliver uses the leg that’s stuck out from the top of the roller to nudge him with the flat of his foot, right in the stomach, until Leo falls back from his knees to a splayed kind of seat. “Sit. It’s insolent to keep running away from an injured person.”
Leo finally laughs, for real this time, making a show of settling in and sitting cross-legged.
“You’re not sick of me?”
“Not as of yet,” he admits, which is mostly true, and much safer thanSometimes, but hardly recently, and mostly I can’t get enough. I like talking to you, and looking at you, and thinking about you.“I’m glad you didn’t quit football to go back to school. Those poor teachers, Leonardo, they aren’t paid enough as it is.”
The pleased look transforming into mock outrage is delicious, and Oliver lets himself fall backward from the force of his laughter, sliding off the roller entirely—it’s fully worth the payback of getting pelted by every filthy towel from the hamper. That’s how Henri and Ji-Hoon find them, breathlessly laughing and throwing shit at each other. They join in without a second thought, which is how all four of them get subjected to the great Respect the Equipment Dressing Down of 2017—that feelsworth it as well, even with the laundry duty, for the sight of Leo’s bashful expression the whole time they’re folding everything.
“All I’m saying is, tomorrow’s dinner had better be worth it,” Leo says as the lot of them are changing out of their trackies. He has his head halfway into his pullover, muffled by the layer of cotton.
“You’re the one who asked for salad. At no point did I offer,” Oliver reminds him. “Come to think of it, I don’t even really remember inviting you.”
“I don’t remember you inviting us either,” Henri chimes in. “Which is very rude.” Ji-Hoon nods solemnly in agreement.
“Absolutely not,” Oliver says, in anticipation of their next question. He’s disappointed and relieved at the same time,again,as an evening alone with Leo slips away from him in real time. “I’ve been duped into cooking for him, but not the whole grimy lot of you. Do not come over. Do not invite the others. Look me in the eyes, Henri. Look at how serious I’m being.”
Warning delivered or not, he doesn’t trust Henri as far as he can throw him. Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands, which he does by calling the French restaurant in Marylebone that’s in a converted church and has a ridiculous tasting menu. When it comes down to it, Oliver’s willing to take out a loan if it means he can avoid hosting. He’s not above bribery either. He asks the hostess who answers the phone about booking the private dining room for tomorrow, tone edging toward pleading. She huffs down the line in a way that suggests she’s going to enjoy telling him no, so he goes for broke before she can.
“Sorry, I know it’s in poor taste to call so last-minute, and in poorer taste to name-drop, but I’m hoping you could help me out. My name’s Oliver Harris—”
“TheOliver Harris?” she cuts in, sounding disbelieving.
“I—well, yeah,” he says lamely. “I mean, if you’re thinking of the footballer, then yes, that’s me. I’m, er, him.” The only thingmore pathetic than using your celebrity to your advantage is being self-aware while you do it.
“Then I think we can make some room for you, of course,” she tells him. Suddenly her voice has a lump of sugar stirred into it. “You said this was a party of five?”
She’s true to her word and does make room for them at half past seven, smiling brightly as she escorts Ji-Hoon, Leo, Henri, Joe, and Oliver to the back room, where a handwritten sign readingWelcome, Camden FCis placed on the table amid the floral centerpiece.
Her hair is full and glossy, she has a cheeky, white-toothed smile, a very readily flirtatious sense of humor, and her hand lingers at Oliver’s elbow when she takes his coat. In other words: trouble. Oliver’s gay; he’s not blind—only a fool or a homosexual would take in her attentiveness and her pretty black dress and turn it away, and Nicola did not raise a moron. They have a waistcoat-wearing server as well, but the hostess keeps checking back in on them, appearing like a beautiful phantom in the arched doorframe to ask if they want another bottle of wine or tell them the chef wanted to send over an appetizer, with his compliments of course.
It happens all the time, the dawning look of recognition that comes paired with something darker than desirous, like they’d devour Oliver if they could. Some men get off on it; a warm bed can make the dark, cold hours of winter training worth it, it can stave off the sting of a manager’s criticism when someone beautiful worships your body, tongue-first. Oliver supposes he’s not sure what he’s missing, since his chief goal when he’s hooking up with someone, even more than the orgasm, is to keep things pitch-dark and not be recognized.
When she appears again over dessert, bearing a carafe of coffee, Ji-Hoon turns his brightest smile on her and she blushes when he says, “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” Still, she turnsher attention back to Oliver, hesitating over his cup, waiting for him to indicate one way or the other that he’s received the silent invitation to ask for her number, to stay for one more round of drinks, just the two of them. He thanks her while staring resolutely at the scuff on the back of his dessert spoon. She leaves, deflated, and as soon as she’s out of earshot, Henri whips his napkin at Oliver’s head.
“Are you stupid?” Henri hisses. “Evenyoucouldn’t possibly be this choosy.”
“I’m not pulling atdinner,” Oliver replies, deciding to go for obstinate rather than oblivious. “That would be rude.”
“You are not pulling ever! Rejecting every woman in the city of London and leaving them heartbroken, swearing off men forever, that’s what’s rude. Who are we supposed to go out with?” Henri sighs. “Look at Jiji! Now he cannot ever win her over. You’re going to make him feeldouleur.”
Ji-Hoon assumes a hangdog face, right on cue. They’ve had this exact conversation before, Oliver is certain.
