Oliver has figured out the mentorship thing. He’s aces at it, actually. Friendship, unspeakable romantic urges—those he’s less sure about. But his mum, not to mention Anthony, would box his ears if he didn’t show Leo that he’s proud of him, that getting called up for England is the rarest, most incredible thing. Plenty of people never make it to that level, even if they play in the proper position at a good club for their whole career. Leo has just now hit his stride; he’s already unstoppable.
When Leo comes around a few days later, showing up right as sundown hits, clad in a soft wine-colored jumper and holding a matching bottle to boot, Oliver has committed to roasting a chicken and is feeling not a little embarrassed about the evening’s obvious, tangible effort.
“It smells so good in here,” Leo says, passing off the bottle into Oliver’s waiting hands and following his nose toward the kitchen. The wine label has been scribbled all over, covered inLeo’s particular brand of permanent-marker doodles. “Have you been holding out on me?”
“You’re the one who brought his own vintage” is all Oliver says, brandishing the wine as he trails after him. He suspects he’ll keep the bottle forever, even when it’s empty.
“Only the best,” Leo replies distractedly. He’s stopped in the small hall off the landing, taking in the array of pictures on the wall. He touches one hesitant pointer finger to the edge of a frame, lingering on the clipping from theNew York Times. It consists of a slightly faded photo of Oliver as a spotty teen in a crimson England kit, suspended jubilantly in midair after a goal, hovering immortal over a block of newsprint.
“ ‘Can This Teenager Save English Football? He’s Not so Sure They Need Rescuing,’ ” Leo reads aloud. “You’re really bloody famous, you know that?” It suggests a joke, revenge for the teasing Leo gets from him, but there’s a quaver in his voice tilting toward awestruck, like he’s just remembering that Oliver the person and Harris the midfielder are one and the same.
“Fat lot of good that headline did,” Oliver admits, turning Leo’s shoulders away from the picture to set him straight. “I’m not a poster boy anymore and I don’t have any trophies to show for it either. It’s your turn to save England now, mate.”
Leo consents to follow him to the breakfast bar, but he rolls his eyes as he does it.
“Don’t let Charles hear you say that,” he says darkly.
Oliver looks up from the ribbons of carrot peels he’s resumed scraping into the bin. Leo’s top half is sprawled over the marble counter, weight on his elbows, chin in his palms. The slant of his eyebrows is a dead giveaway.
“Hey,” Oliver murmurs, coming around to his side of the room and leaning lightly against Leo’s side. “None of that.”
“Some of that,” Leo replies, tone going sharp. “He’s never going to accuseyouof not really being English.”
“Did he say something?” Oliver asks immediately, preparing for war at the thought of someone—let alone one of their teammates—ruining this moment for Leo out of bitterness or jealousy.
“I know he thinks it.” Leo lets his arms slide out from under him, head resting on the stone surface. Oliver hazards the gentlest poke at his forehead, which makes the corners of Leo’s mouth quirk up.
“Listen: I’ve been playing with Charles, or against him, since I was a sprog. I’d trust him in a knife fight, but he’s an idiot. You came through the academy! You fought like hell to end up back here. We’re not a team that gets a lot of calls from Terence Morgan, you know? You’re a Camden lad and you’re a credit to us. End of story.”
Leo sighs and turns his neck so they’re face-to-face. He glowers, cutely, then pokes Oliver back in his own forehead.
“I know they asked first,” he says slowly. “But I wouldn’t have said yes if this wasn’t home. I know I can’t take it back.”
“Of course not.”
“It’s mad complicated, like I said before. When you look at me, you see Colombia, you hear Spain. But I’ve got as much fucking right as any of you. More, maybe, if I’m good enough.”
There’s a hardness, a resolve, revealing itself in Leo, who’s usually so smooth around the edges when he’s not playing football. Oliver thinks he might do anything to protect him from whatever is causing it—but he also thinks the look in his eyes right now, the determined, match-winning-goal one, is impossibly attractive.
“When I look at you,” Oliver says, carefully, “I see a lot of future headlines. No matter what kit you’re wearing. Besides, there’s nothing more English than committing to a lost cause.”
Leo sweeps upright and reaches across the distance between them, squeezing Oliver’s shoulder with one solid touch.
“You give good pep talks. And you have a very nice house.”
This means the conversation is over, Oliver surmises. The compliment is still nice.
“I’ve already started cooking,” he tells Leo, standing up fully and moving back toward the oven. “There’s no need to butter me up.”
• • •
“I mean it,” Leo says later, while he’s absently picking remnants of roasted potato and crispy shards of onion out of the casserole dish and popping them directly into his mouth. He’d offered to help clean up, but Oliver didn’t realize he meant by being a literal hoover. “This is a grown-up home. An adult lives here.”
Oliver laughs and feels the beginning of a blush bloom on his cheeks—he somehow wants to preen and not take credit simultaneously.
“Cheers, mate,” he replies. “It’s hard to settle into a rental, I think. When you buy something, you’ll make it your own and become a proper host.”
“It’s more than that,” Leo says thoughtfully, fiddling with one of the cabinet knobs. “You have good taste. It’s not, like, boyish.”
