Mid-spring warmth wisps down to meet them at Camden Crossing, casting sunlight over every training session and following them to their matches. They dispatch Tottenham with no difficulty at all. Four days later against Leicester City, Oliverscores what the pundits are screeching must be, has to be, the goal of the year, a dainty curlicue run past two defenders and a chip over the keeper to boot. It stuns him as much as anyone, how good it feels, how wonderful it looks. When his teammates catch him the crush of hugs buckles his knees, sends Oliver over into a happy heap on the grass. Leo pulls him back to his feet by his collar, and Oliver is too happy to even remember the last time Leo had his fist in his shirt. He looks up to the tiny dots of people in the crowd at Regent Road, over to the family box where Nicola is watching, back to Willem and Sebastian on the bench, and feels like he could laugh or cry or scream, some combination of all three.
From way back in the opposite penalty box, Joe cups his gloves around his mouth into a megaphone and shouts: “I’ll drink to that, you magnificent bastard!” Who’s Oliver to deny him? Which is how the whole victorious gaggle of them end up in a nightclub not even two hours later, drunk on exhaustion and probably the alcohol as well.
The girl at the door who led them to a massive leather booth under a velvet rope offered Georgie a costume sailor’s hat and he bent down to receive it like he was getting knighted. Everyone around them is tipsy and happy, go-go boots and feather boas flung about. Oliver has no taste for champagne, only narrowly avoiding having it doused over his head by Ji-Hoon and Ahmed, so he slips out with designs for the bar, letting the bass line carry him through the room, as light on his feet as he is in his football boots. The dance floor is a kaleidoscope of lit-up tiles, resembling nothing so much as a giant Twister mat. He’s tempted to stay and dance, remembering the booze-soaked night of his birthday when he could feel every drumbeat coming out of his own chest, the rhythm stronger than the tear in his hamstring.
Oliver’s cocktail is ruined halfway through the first ginny sip when someone says his name. He’s braced for an autograph or aselfie, but when he turns around, he finds it’s not a fan at all. Ryan Loxley and Stewart Reed, Kilburn’s prodigal and wholly mediocre sons, are leering at him, clad in filmy silk button-down shirts fit to burst and reeking of cologne.Jesus H,Oliver thinks, not for the first time in his life.Being straight seems like so much more trouble than it’s worth.
“Fancy seeing you here, rosy,” Stewart says, spitting the last word out and then clunking his pint glass down on the bar, sloshing beer everywhere. “Celebrating your mighty win? Would have been more impressive to beat Leicester last year, of course, but still, good on you.”
“Always a treat, gentlemen,” Oliver says, still sober enough to want to get out of there before he does something foolish. It wasn’t just that first match as a teenager where he got himself sent off—Harris and Reed have reliably nearly come to blows twice a year since then, during every contest between Camden and Kilburn. Loxley might be too thick in the head to actually hate properly, but Oliver does his best. Before he can take his leave, he spots stupid, stupid Leo down the bar, taking speculative steps in their direction. Oliver shakes his head tersely, trying to warn him off, but it’s too late. Leo has no business being a professional athlete with that sense of timing.
“Lads,” Leo says tentatively when he arrives at the tense little clump, reaching out one hand to shake. “How are we?”
“We’ve not met,” Loxley says dumbly. “You’re the new one.”
“We can skip the pleasantries,” Stewart replies, ignoring Leo’s hand. “I’m sure Harris has a busy night planned, what with being a ponce and having absolutely no game at all.”
It’s not outwardly homophobic, no one’s said any hard slurs this time, but Oliver knows well enough what he means. He’s well-groomed, son of an Oxford graduate, prettily handsome, and he never has a girlfriend, never pulls on a night out. He’s always been this way. Stewart doesn’t even think he’s actuallygay, he just thinks he’s soft, and that’s enough for him. It’s all so pathetic.
“That’s the difference between you and me, though, isn’t it, Stew?” Oliver asks, voice going deep and dangerous as he sets his own drink down carefully, marking the territory. He can be as tough as the Rovers think they are—tougher than any of them know. “I don’t think about your sex life at all, and the only time in your life you’ve ever started for England, I just happened to be injured.”
Stewart makes to lunge at him. Oliver wishes he would, wants to feel blood in his teeth and draw some of his own. Cooler heads prevail; Loxley has Stewart by the collar and Leo has stepped between them, drawing his chest out and up to lessen the difference in their heights.
“Fuck off,” Stewart says, shrugging Loxley off with one arm and jabbing one indignant finger into Leo’s sternum with the other. “Both of you.”
“Gladly,” Leo replies cooly, picking up Oliver’s drink and turning crisply on his heel. Oliver laughs at the sight of him, breaking up fights in nightclubs, stealing drinks, then acting above it all after. He offers the others his laziest, most sarcastic salute and trails after Leo, nothing but a fish on a line.
They’re halfway across the floor, weaving through knots of dancing couples and shrieking hen-dos, when Leo rounds on him.
“What were you thinking, picking fights in public?” Leo shouts over the disco tune din. “Do youlikebeing shouted at?”
“Look who’s talking. Snapped at our coach lately?”
Considering the matter settled, Oliver tries to reclaim his drink, but Leo holds it out of reach, then takes a long guzzle, narrowing his eyes at him.
“You just let them think all that stuff about you,” he saysquietly, so low Oliver has to step closer and drop down into Leo’s space to hear him.
“So youarespeaking to me again,” Oliver replies, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice. Leo shoves at his elbow, silently prompting the question again. “Okay, okay. Think what stuff?” Oliver can’t be bothered at what the sight of them must look like, heads together and standing still in a crowded club. Leo’s eyes are melted fudge, looking right at him for the first time in ages.
“Like, you’re a nancy boy, you have no game, you can’t get girls. Why do you let them?”
“Ican’tget girls,” he laughs feebly.
Leo frowns and shakes his head. “You know you could if you wanted. Or you could let everyone think you still had Maggie. Why don’t you?”
Someone jostles behind him, Oliver follows the rhythm of the crowd and moves one step closer, steadying his balance with one hand at Leo’s hip, just like they were at Oliver’s birthday party. Leo’s eyes flash downward for one fraction of a heartbeat, and Oliver thinks he might stop him, might step away, but he only looks back up, the question still lingering between them.
“I’m not threatened by it. Why should I be? I know what’s real.” Oliver’s not keeping secrets for the Stewart Reeds of the world and he’s not interested in telling extra lies for their benefit. Whatever their idea of being a big man is, they can keep it.
“What’s real…” Leo murmurs, gaze glassy. “And what is that?”
Oliver can’t help it; he hazards a glance around the room. They’re alone and not alone, ensconced in nightlife’s liminal space. No one is looking at them. He could plant one right on Leo’s mouth and it wouldn’t make a single headline.
“You’d know better than Maggie would” is all he says. Drunkon the feeling, he taps Leo’s jaw lightly with a closed fist, two pretend punches. Leo’s brown eyes are a sea of black now, his whole face a gulp. If Oliver stays, he’ll make an idiot of himself. He leaves Leo on the dance floor with the rest of his drink and Oliver’s whole heart beating bloody and useless in his palm.
• • •
They can’t stay away from each other for long. Training is all well and good, but Oliver can sense Willem’s watchful eye, searching for some proof they can play together, while the pair of them wait for a signal that they’ve passed his test. There’s only a sliver of days between playing Leicester and facing Manchester United at home. Oliver is still slightly out of practice, still exhausted every night and every morning, but he’s got a pilot light of energy in his chest that’s driving him forward relentlessly.
