Oliver immediately regrets speaking so frankly, bracing himself to walk it back, to apologize to Willem later, but the coaching staff is huddled in the corner nodding. All the other questions are a cakewalk after that, just simple pleasantries he’s trotted out before a million other fixtures. The rhythm of it even feels good in a strange way, because he knows it means he’s going to play. In two days, he’ll be at Regent Road and he’ll look up to the stands with a ball at his feet—he’ll be where he belongs.
Sunday, April 2, 2017: Manchester City at Camden
Matchday 28
Oliver is back where he belongs and he’s got his fucking work cut out for him. Agüero, tricky bastard, scored twice in the first fifteen minutes of the second half, eliminating the advantage of an early goal from Trevor and putting Camden squarely behind.
He spent forty-five minutes sitting patiently and respecting Willem’s judgment, but now there’s barely any time left and Oliver is still on the bench, looking hungrily at the pitch and feeling its pull in all of his extremities. Finally,finally,Sebastian jerks his head at him and points to the sideline.
“Two minutes,” he orders. “Get your sea legs.”
Oliver doesn’t need asking twice, flinging himself out of his seat and leaping into a jog that’s practically a sprint. True to his word, exactly one hundred and twenty seconds later, Willem beckons him over to the center touchline. Oliver tosses his jacket to one of the training staff and braces himself. The air drips with spring sweat and competition. He’s in another dimension, one he’s been missing, desperately trying to access, for months. When he crouches into a squat and launches himself back up, stretching his disused legs for battle, he half-expects the jump to carry him into the sky and above the stadium. Gravity is a small thing compared to Regent Road.
There’s a great roar in the stands when the linesman shows the number 6.
“Ollieeeeeeeee,” Matty bellows, thwacking his fist into his palm. “Let’s fucking do this!” The crowd takes him up on it, shouting an echoey refrain of “Ollie, Ollie, Ollie” until the Ollie in question feels a little poorly with the sound of it.
Lukas and Garcia are in the midfield with Leo, leaving room for Oliver to step into the center and try to direct the flow of play from there. He needs to conduct the orchestra, find a pattern of movement that will put the ball in the net, but he’s waylaid by the way Leo is looking at him: deer in the headlamp, anger and admiration and anxiety all muddled. Oliver wants to yell at him,Not right now. Can’t we just do this first? Isn’t that what we agreed on?There’s no time or space for anything besides the rest of the ninety minutes and the ball that Joe is about to hurl out of the penalty box and back into play.
Time moves differently pitchside. Somehow, he’d almost forgotten. The first handful of minutes where he’s just trying to make sense of things pass in the blink of an eye and he knows the ten minutes left in the match will go the same unless he can get his mind around things. But if you can see the play correctly, every second is its own era, enough time to make things go the way you want them to, the magic of Regent Road giving you the time and space to make something of yourself. When it locks into place, when Oliver spots how City’s right back is limping slightly, short on his passes into the midfield, a jolt of electricity rockets through his limbs. He takes off, running out of position and trusting Garcia to hold the line. It happens again, his opponent just one step out of place, but it’s enough for Oliver to intercept the ball, and now he’s in possession, moving toward the goal with nothing on his mind except getting the scoreline level.
Emmanuel is there too, matching him stride for stride. Oliverkicks to him and keeps on running. He’s not as fit as he’d like to be, not moving at the rate he knows he can reach, but it’s enough, because the return pass lands right where it should, one soft bounce in front of his left foot. Oliver knows what to do with it: the one thing he truly knows how to do. He strikes it hard and clean, high into the corner. It’s a goal,his goal,his first of the year.
He accepts the hugs and the hair ruffles, takes the chance to grab Emmanuel by the face and yell “Thank you, thank you!” at him, but then he wrangles the group back toward their own half. Oliver said it in the presser and he meant it: he wants to win every single match. There’s only so many left.
Eight minutes later, he thinks he can actually make it happen. Leo is faster than the man marking him; Oliver suspects if he sends the ball long, across the pitch, Leo will beat the defender there without triggering offside. He doesn’t turn his head at the first shout, but when Oliver yells again: “Oi, number 16,” like he means business, Leo meets Oliver’s eyeline reluctantly. He waves Leo on and starts after him. The cross is there, Oliver could have placed it with both hands, pushpin perfect. But Leo dives for it, thinking he’s further behind the pass than he actually is, and the ball makes contact with his shin rather than his foot. It dribbles harmlessly onto goal, where the keeper collapses on top of it and smothers the play.
Dammit,Oliver thinks, backpedaling toward a defensive position and watching Leo pound the pitch with one closed fist as he climbs up to do the same. The ref is confirming the time on his watch with a sense of finality. It’s a draw, one they clawed back, but it feels like a loss all the same. Oliver breathes deeply, steadying himself after the exertion, and reminds himself to applaud up to the stands and say thank you to the supporters. When they finally trickle off the pitch, Oliver passes Willem, who graces him with a nod and a cuff to the back of the neck.
Not every reception is so friendly. Oliver takes his time getting to the showers—unpacking every second of play with Joe, breathing through the sticky adrenaline comedown between chugs of a raspberry-flavored Lucozade. When he finally does go to rinse off, Leo is alone in the room, face directly under the showerhead like he’s trying to drown himself. Oliver freezes and moves to quietly back out of the doorway, at least to grab someone and make them be a buffer, but Leo has already looked over, halfway to sneering.
“Don’t be shy on my account,” Leo says, but his voice is quavering. “We can be normal, yeah?” Oliver knows Leo is parroting his own words, but they sound venomous coming out of his mouth.
“Leo—” he starts, trying to buy enough time to figure out if this is about Oliver, or the match, or both.
“I don’t want your pep talk,” Leo cuts him off, stepping out of the water and scooping wet hair out of his eyes. The last time things were normal between them, he’d said Oliver gave good pep talks. “I’m a grown-up, okay? I know I fucked it, so I don’t need to hear how it’s fine and you’re not mad or whatever.”
Right. So it’s both,Oliver thinks.
“Would it help if I was mad?” he asks, only half-joking. Leo’s upper lip curls furiously, a cat gearing up to yowl. “You fucked it, the defense fucked it, Agüero fucked it for us. It takes twenty-two men to win or lose, so don’t flatter yourself all powerful.”
“Easy for you to say,” Leo shouts, voice careening around the tiled room. “When you come on with twenty minutes left and change the whole landscape! It’s different for you, Harris.Everythingis. It always has been.”
“You’re winding me up, mate. I’m not going to apologize to you for scoring or for trying to set you up for one,” Oliver tells him flatly. It is different for him than for Leo; it’s fucking worse. “So if you’re looking for that, go talk to someone else.”
“I didn’t want to talk to you at all. You—you followed me in here.”
There’s just a whiff of a threat in that, about why Oliver would want to follow anyone into the showers. And the worst part is that Leo’s not wrong; Oliver wishes he could touch his naked body, even now, get hands slippery with soapsuds and desire.
“To take a shower? Leo, come on,” he whispers. “I thought we might be excited, actually. For finally getting to play together.”
“Was it like you dreamed?” Leo replies, dripping with sarcasm.
“No, it kind of sucked,” he admits. “Because you wouldn’tlookat me. And even then, I gave you a perfect ball. It made me want to do it over and over until we can get it right.”
“Yeah, okay.” Leo doesn’t seem like he’s going to yell anymore, but now he does look exhausted, old for his years. “Let’s get it right, then, out there on the pitch.” He sidles out, sidestepping Oliver in an obvious way that avoids all contact, leaving him to trail behind, still covered in sweat, more tired than before.
“Lovers’ spat?” Henri asks jovially when they reemerge.
