“Could you, just once, shutup?” Oliver hisses, stung by the word “lover” as much as anything else. “Jesus!”
Henri looks stricken and does in fact shut up, which makes Oliver feel worse. Willem spares them both by standing up at the front of the room, clutching a whiteboard marker like it’s a dagger.
“Are we ready to debrief?” he asks, and of course they all nod in unison. Oliver keeps his gaze fixed firmly in front of him and nowhere near the corner of the locker room marked with number 16. Willem slaps his free hand against the board once, more of an outburst than he’s ever shown. Then their coach rounds on them, jabbing the pen accusingly. But he freezes and for oncesays nothing at all, sweeping off with his coattails floating out behind him like a vampire’s cape. It’s hard to believe Oliver ever considered Willem removed, ambivalent. He’s as desperate as any of them now. Sebastian looks chagrined as he follows him out of the room. The squad is silent to a man, a gauntlet flung down and shattered among them.
• • •
It’s not as if things between Oliver and Leo could reasonably stay so tense—you’re only allowed one shouting match in the showers per season, or human resources will get involved. Oliver privately suspects they only got away with it because Willem decided to one-up them afterward. But it’s a hell of an anticlimax to go back to training the rest of the week and gamely hold the door for Leo like there isn’t a soap’s worth of melodrama swirling between them. They’re only doing a mediocre job of it, unfortunately. All the chemistry Oliver knows is there, can feel in the tingle on his lips when he’s alone, has evaporated. He feels compelled to be careful around Leo now, on and off the pitch. He’s hyperaware of Leo’s presence, but he can no longer find him for a pass, can’t mark him properly during scrimmages. Joe keeps shooting Oliver searching looks, whereas Sebastian has adopted a sideline perma-frown. The looks he gets from Leo are worse: heat and disdain swirled together. He’s daring Oliver to want him still and when he does, when he can’t help it, Leo hates him for it.
Have I fucked it entirely?Maggie writes over text. Maybe she has, but not any worse than he did for himself. He can’t blame her for anything. He can’t quite talk about it either.
You’ve never done anything wrong in your life, Mags,is all Oliver says back before he puts his phone on Do Not Disturb.
Sunday in North London arrives despite itself, gloom in the airmisting down in fat wet clouds. Willem, even after all the damning evidence from a week of training, puts Oliver on the starting list. He’s barely excited, only shivery under his training jacket. He makes small talk in the tunnel and greets Arsenal’s English players with a quick hug and backslap, then retreats to the back of the line to stand in Joe’s steady shadow until it’s time to play.
No respite, however, arrives from football, even as Oliver prayed fervently during halftime forsomething, anythingto break the deadlock on the scoresheet and in his heart. He’s got his pace back, running faster and further than he has in ages, but nothing goes through. Anthony choreographed the back line perfectly, hardly letting any Arsenal shirts within spitting distance of Joe’s net, but they flailed in the midfield. Leo’s shadow was everywhere and Oliver hunted for it frantically, threading passes to no one. He rings the post with a free kick in stoppage time and collapses to the ground in defeat after, sodden and miserable.
The rain and sweat are all mingled on Joe’s cheeks like teardrop tracks, as tired and sad as Oliver knows the whole lot of them feel. They drift toward each other, meeting at the edge of the eighteen-yard box for a futile embrace. There’s only so much comfort you can offer when you’re in need of it yourself. Anthony joins them, patting Oliver on the hip and depositing Joe under one arm for safekeeping. Slowly, the other eight Camden shirts engulf them, the private ritual of whoever’s on the pitch when the final whistle blows. Ji-Hoon and Trevor blanket Oliver on either side; he lets his head fall on Trevor’s tall shoulder, grateful to let someone else take the weight off him for a brief moment.
“A point is a point,” Anthony tells the group, once the sniffly silence starts to chafe. “Let’s be better next time.”
The circle starts to dissipate amid nods of encouragement,but Leo is the first one out of the ring, banging into Oliver’s side as he strides off. He tries to catch Leo’s sleeve—he’s not entirely sure what he’ll do when he gets it, but the grown-up thing to do, the veteran playmaker’s responsibility, is to play it cool. Leo jerks his arm free of him without turning around, so he misses the chance. Oliver stands there a beat longer, smarting with rejection and feeling moronic, until Joe nudges him onward, giving him a sympathetic look that only makes Oliver feel more daft.
Two draws in two weeks, two points that could have been six, two matches they didn’t win or lose but prickle like defeat regardless. Seventh place feels closer to relegation than the Champions League. Oliver has never in his life been so relieved to be called for random drug testing, sparing him from having to put a brave face on for the media.
When he slouches to the visitors’ locker room after his urine is pronounced clean, Willem is waiting by his locker in a way that suggests he would’ve been better off giving a tell-all interview.
“Davies,” the manager says, the second Oliver sits down. “With me.”
Davies-Villanueva. Use his whole name,Oliver thinks defensively, before he remembers Leo doesn’t need or want his defense anymore. Leo joins the pair of them at Oliver’s locker, visibly reluctant as he crosses the room, and sits at the very edge of the bench, body angled away, only visible in profile.We can’t go on like this.
“You can’t go on like this!” Willem says. He’s a mind reader, and he’s right, of course. Oliver’s shoulders collapse with the shame of it. Slumped as he is, he keeps his head up and prepares to be lectured, Leo bristling next to him, fists clenched and likely the rest of him too. Willem is stern above them, but he does them the kindness of speaking softly, to the two of them only. “I havevery little use for a duo in the midfield who won’t look at each other. And I won’t be made to look a dunce for having banked on this particular pairing.”
Leo’s whole body is crackling with contrarianism, only a hairsbreadth from answering back.
“Save it,” Oliver risks muttering out of the side of his mouth. It’s not worth it. Leo responds by turning his body even further away from him, as if another ninety degrees will deafen Oliver’s voice. Willem goes scarlet.
“This ispreciselywhat I mean.”
“We’re doing what we can on the pitch, sir,” Leo says, the last bit tacked on like a four-letter word.
“And off it?” Willem asks. Their silence hangs in the air, as good as confession. “Then I’d consider doing a damn sight more if I were you, Leonardo, or someone will be getting reacquainted with the bench,” he continues icily. “And I don’t think you’ll like which one of you it is.”
The two of them stiffen. Oliver is not sure who the jab is meant to punish more. In January it would have been the height of pleasure to hear Willem say aloud, in proximity to the rest of the squad, that someone who can’t play with Harris will of course not be a starter, not factor into the team sheet. Now it’s torturous. For all the hurts he and Leo have dealt each other in such a short time, this one is sharpest. Inexplicably, Oliver’s mind flashes back to that night on the training ground when Leo tackled him and everything began to well and truly turn to shit. Oliver had really been playing, even though he knew better, running like the league was on the line, and it had been so fucking fun—being near Leo as much as the football.
They were supposed to give each other the midfield and save each other’s careers, supposed to make something out of this stupid, wretched season. What did Oliver say that last night theywere alone?We’re teammates. We have to play together. Whatever I want is less important than that.And look where it’s gotten them.
“We’re sorry,” Oliver says, daring to speak for both of them. “We’ll get it sorted.”
“See that you do,” Willem says, his tone evening out. Oliver turns, wanting to tell Leo he’s sorry too, but he’s already halfway up, fleeing the scene.
Monday, April 17, 2017: Camden at Middlesbrough
Matchday 30
Riverside Stadium is aptly named—the whole giant structure thrown down right on a riverbank, nothing but gray water and grayer car park as far as Oliver can see. Middlesbrough moved up from the second division at the start of the season; he wonders if they feel as disoriented by Anfield and Old Trafford as he does by arriving here, somewhere he’s never been before, looking out over a pitch that’s new to him. He might be more used to it if Camden had ever qualified for the Champions League or hadn’t crashed out of every other tournament, but here it is. Mediocre teams have mediocre schedules.
April is passing three days at a time, every sunrise too cloudy to distinguish itself. Camden FC’s YouTube channel shows Oliver sprinting and smiling during training, standing within spitting distance of Leo without bursting into flame, otherwise he wouldn’t believe it possible.We’ll get it sorted. See that you do:Willem’s directive rings in his head like the chimes of an old clock. Oliver’s not sure if he has got it sorted at all, which means he probably hasn’t.
