“Best behavior on the pitch, though. That’s what you’re saying?” He’s already up and on his feet before Anna finishes nodding. Oliver knows better than to hug her, but he briefly bows like he’s presenting himself to royalty. She waves him out of the room, laughing, as he wills his tired,healthylegs to carry him as fast as they can back upstairs to the manager’s office.
Bursting in unannounced is probably not the highlight of his career to date, but it’s almost worth it for the twin looks of shock on Sebastian’s and Willem’s faces.
“Harris,” Sebastian starts. “We’re in a meeti—”
“I’ve got medical clearance,” Oliver says over him, grinning like a madman.
“From Dr. Zhang?” Willem cuts in, half-expecting a trick. Oliver nods furiously, newly energized, wondering if there’s anyone left in the locker room to scrimmage with him. “Nowthat’ssomething to think about.” Willem has taken on the dreamy quality of someone having a brilliant idea. He hands Sebastian a notebook without taking his eyes off Oliver, sizing him up. “Downstairs, yes? Let us have a look at you.”
It’s an incredible relief to hear a request from his manager that Oliver can oblige, that he feels ready to take on. He doesn’t even reply; he trusts the other two men are following him outside with the same pull in their chests that every footballer gets, the pang that drives you forward even when your body wants to rest. Oliver is through with resting, with worrying and waiting. He’s ready to play.
Down on the practice pitch, he hits the ground running, following the many-months-forbidden siren song. It’s a curious sensation, to get reacquainted with your own body, like he’s catching up with an old friend after a long trip away. Oliver can see the game the same as ever, knowing intuitively where the ball will go when Sebastian kicks it to him and how he should follow, weaving through a maze of cones, but he can’t quite get his limbs to move where he needs them. A slight sense of frustration is fluttering in his abdomen. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; being able to play again was supposed to fix everything. When he knicks the side netting with a shot and yelps in disappointment, Willem waves it off.
“It’ll take me a beat,” Oliver concedes, panting. “I’ll get it together, I swear. Give us a second.”
“Don’t play the martyr,” de Boer says easily. “You look excellent. I admire your sense of self-improvement, however.”
Oliver kicks divots from the grass bashfully, if not slightly disbelievingly.
“How much closer does this put us?” he asks the pair of coaches. “Up to fourth—can we do it?”
“And what would you know about fourth?” Sebastian asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Hush,” Willem says. “He’s aware of our terms.”
“You told him?”
“In confidence, yes. Oliver needed to understand the stakes. Where he goes, the rest of the squad will follow.”
Oliver is shocked and slightly smug at this; he’s nothing if not a teacher’s pet, even when it’s Willem. He vows to himself to be worthy of the manager’s faith and to give some of it back in return, as much as he can muster.
“Seriously, though,” Oliver tries again. “Level with me. Can we do it?”
Willem sizes him up, eyes flicking up and down his body appraisingly, then points one finger toward Sebastian, who promptly whips another ball toward Oliver’s midsection. Oliver takes one step back, rotating a hairsbreadth so he can meet it with his foot at the right angle, a firm, volleyed shot from midair. The ball sails into the goal, landing with awhoosh.
“That’ll be up to you, Harris,” Willem announces. “But I don’t mind our chances.”
• • •
Oliver doesn’t even clock England’s match as it happens, too caught up in the warring emotions of dread and exhilaration, trapped between his newfound freedom and the anxiety that keeps slowing him up. The international team must be halfway back from Germany by the time it occurs to him to check and to learn that Leo drew a penalty kick five minutes into his debut for his country, which Kane swiftly converted into the match-tying goal. He’s returning to London a conquering hero with a new phase of his career unlocked: a serious, international talent. Oliver wonders bitterly how much Finch will try to sellhimfor.
Training is a mere matter of hours away, when the full squad will be back and Oliver will have to take the pitch with Leo properly for the first time, acting like nothing’s wrong, like his entire life hasn’t been a tangle of self-loathing and self-discovery since Leo showed up from Spain, like Oliver’s first match back from the worst injury of his career isn’t hurtling toward him, an unstoppable force. He can’t stop thinking about Leo, and not in ahot way. That whole night feels unreal and far away: such a tender, tentative brush of domesticity giving way to the acrid taste of an argument, the kiss that was and wasn’t. If the memory wasn’t jaggedly carved right into his heart, Oliver might wonder if he made the whole thing up. He’s feinted his way around a thousand defenders in his day, ball at his feet and eyes on the goal, but he isn’t confident enough to play this one off. Which is why he’s punching the buzzer for Leo’s flat late in the evening, ringing the bell impatiently even though he’s the one who showed up unannounced.
“Oliver?” Leo’s voice is garbled by the intercom, but Oliver can hear how he says it: half a question and half a sigh.
“It’s bloody freezing,” Oliver lies. “Are you going to let me up or not?”
Leo doesn’t reply, but the door unlocks itself noisily, so Oliver pounces for the handle and storms into the lobby before either of them can change their minds. In the sordid recesses of his imagination, Oliver has wondered about what it might be like to go to Leo’s flat, to slip upstairs alone late at night. He imagined he would be nervous, but not like this, not this crushing, ominous feeling. The entrance to number 67 is pointedly ajar.
Leo is in the foyer, in pajamas and tight-lipped, between fear and hope. He heard Oliver on the intercom and he was the one to unlock the doors, but Leo looks at him strangely anyway, like he might be dreaming.
“Oliver,” he says again, raising one shaking hand to touch Oliver’s elbow. His eyes are half-lidded like someone about to be kissed. Oliver has to stop him now, or he never will. Propelled by the same adrenaline that carried him through the building, he cuts Leo’s words off and shakes his arm off as well, for good measure.
“Listen to me,” Oliver says. “I’m not here for a heart-to-heart.I just want to make sure things aren’t going to be fucked up at training tomorrow. We can be normal, yeah?”
Leo suddenly snorts and turns on his heel so he’s facing away from him, pinching at the bridge of his nose like he’s in pain.
“Normal,” Leo replies, newly and dangerously quiet. “You’re thinking about training?”
