But Willem is starting them both, numbers 6 and 16 in the midfield again; it feels more like a test than a vote of confidence. Oliver threw out a paper earlier in the week when he saw asports-section headline ask,Is de Boer Still Betting Wisely on Harris and Company?What’s the alternative?he’d thought grimly.Getting five miles out of Charles and Gavin before one of them keels over?
Willem had reamed them good, sterner than he’s ever gotten in front of the team before, worse than the week before Christmas when a bottle-service girl from a nightclub posted a picture of Marcos and Georgie fully caressing one tit each. Oliver knows why this makes Willem so incandescent: he went and got his hopes pinned on the two of them, whereas no one in their right mind, not even a Dutchman, would put his eggs in the Marcos and Georgie basket. De Boer isn’t really mad after all; he’s only disappointed, which is even worse.
Oliver’s got the better end of the stick as well, because he earned his spot in the midfield while Willem was still in business school and because he knows about Finch’s fourth-place ultimatum. Leo, on the other hand, is on tenterhooks and probably also a tightrope.It’s a damn shame,he thinks. Camden’s number 16 has player of the year written all over him, all the more surprising considering he’s had less than half a season to make his case. Willem could change the course of Leo’s life and Leo could change the course of Willem’s, if they got the rhythm right. Together, they’d probably both change the course of Oliver’s life as well, no problem, but that’s all beside the point.
What Oliver really thinks is a waste is that Leo’s relationship with their coach is souring. You never forget the first-team manager who gives you your best shot, who teaches you to be a man as well as a midfielder, the kind of mentorship you can’t take for granted and still find yourself thanking five years and multiple contracts later.
Leo should be Willem’s favorite, by all rights. He’s got the talent, which is a given, but Willem plucked him out of obscurity only to find that Leo is wise for his years and brimming withnatural charisma, a rookie and a captain rolled into one. Oliver feels guilty that Willem told off the both of them, but even worse that he was upset with Leo, worst of all that Leo answered back with anger he should have directed at Oliver.
He’s been daydreaming on the floor of the visitors’ locker room, somewhere between meditating and stretching, when Anthony snaps his fingers in front of his blank face. Oliver looks up at him, scowling, but Anthony only sits down and bumps their elbows together. In that captain’s way of his, the fleeting touch says more than any speech. Oliver hears it word for word in his flat Mancunian vowels:Not just you out there. Might as well make the best of it.
“Thanks, mate,” Oliver says softly.
“I didn’t do anything,” Anthony replies, but he lifts one eyebrow like he knows he did.
From the floor, Oliver overhears what the rest of the room is talking about: transfers.
“Gotta be Munich,” Georgie says, cracking his neck on each side. “I’m definitely hotter than any German guy.”
“Hey, now,” Lukas replies warningly.
“No waaaaaay,” Carda butts in, rubbing his fingers together. “Somewhere with that sweet oil money. Diverse portfolio.” Oliver feels the beginnings of permanent wrinkles etch themselves into his forehead.
“Not Barcelona? Tiki-taka and beach weather?” asks Henri.
“You’re all being narrow-minded,” Gavin says. “In my experience, the club matters less than how big of a man you are there. You fools’d be better off at Burnley.”
Now Oliver’s heart is beating out of his Adam’s apple. Camden isn’t some stopover team, some farmers’ league joke. It’shome,if not for all of them, then certainly for him and the thousands of fans who buy tickets and kits. Oliver Harris would be a big man anywhere: even after this mess of a year, he could walkinto any starting eleven on any team in the world, which is more than any of his teammates can say, andhewants to behere. He wants to win here too. Regent Road is hallowed ground, worthy of respect. It’s the only place he’s ever wanted anything. Oliver won’t let it be taken for granted.
“Well,” Oliver interjects, just a degree louder than his regular speaking voice, willing it not to shake. “If anyone’s curious, I’d pick Camden, and that’s where we all happen to be, somaybe,let’s go fucking play like it, shall we?”
The room goes silent, part ashamed for getting caught acting out-of-bounds and part annoyed at Oliver for daring to say it. Anthony is smirking approvingly. From the rookies’ corner, Leo pulls out one earbud and stands, facing the door.
“Oliver’s right,” Leo says firmly. Oliver himself is shocked at the sound of it. Even at their very best, he’s not sure Leo ever said he was right about anything.
“You heard the lads,” Anthony pronounces, like that settles everything—and to be fair, he’s the captain, so it sort of does. “Arses up, it’s time to play, off you go.”
And oh, how they play. Oliver feels like he’s trampolining off the grass with every stride, running laps and loops around every red shirt that tries to catch him. Downing, one of the center backs, comes in hard for a tackle at one point, but Oliver skips over his legs and deftly pushes a little sideways pass to Garcia.
“Fuck me, Harris,” Downing groans from beneath him, grass-stained and dazed. “Give us a break.”
“Pick up the pace, hey?” Oliver laughs back, not waiting for an answer before he jogs off, not so much a man as a perpetual motion machine. Something just shook itself loose in him, and apparently in all of Camden Football Club. They’re sharp, moving the ball up and down the field like it’s nothing to them.
Oliver scores early and the team follows suit, knocking back two more goals before halftime. In the waning minutes of thematch, he draws a foul, letting a defender walk himself into a trap by pulling his shirt in the penalty box, and the referee points for a spot kick. Oliver’s tired, and happy, and they’re going to win no matter what. When Anthony tosses him the ball so he can take the shot, Oliver gestures to Leo, whose eyes go big and suspicious like he suspects trickery.
“Okay with you if he takes it, captain?” Oliver asks.
“You’re diabolical, you are,” Anthony says, grinning. “Let’s show them how deep the roster goes, yeah? Davito, you’re up.”
Leo glares when Oliver passes the ball to him.
“You don’t have to patronize me,” he says out of the side of his mouth.
“Believe you me, I wouldn’t dare,” Oliver says. “Willem wanted you to take them when I was hurt, you know. You just never got a chance. Why don’t you remind him what you’ve got?”
Leo doesn’t reply, but he does take the ball and step up to the painted spot on the field. When the whistle goes, he takes the kick just as confidently as he does in training, putting Camden ahead four goals to nil, and suddenly Leo seems to forget that he’s furious at everyone; he flashes a peace sign and a dazzling smile to his onrushing teammates, even proffering a clenched fist for Oliver to bump and a small nod that looks like it meansThank you. When their knuckles slot together, Oliver wonders if any of the thousands of people looking down at the pitch detect the frisson of energy that passes between the two of them, or if it’s just for him to feel.
Willem has both arms raised joyously, clapping his hands above his head, and suddenly it seems that’s all he’s been doing for days. They keep scoring, wherever they go.
