“It’s my privilege,” he tells her, meaning it truly. “I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for being such a dickhead, and I wanted to do it in person, so you could slap me if you wanted.”
“Ollie,” she says again, but it’s nicer this time. “You’re alwaysplaying the martyr. It’s fine! You’re in the thick of it in a way I could never understand. I just wish you wouldn’t shut everyone out over it. You make everything seem so lonely.”
“I’m not lonely. Truly, Maggie, I swear to God.”
Her face changes in an instant, exhaustion swirling into a rich tapestry of gossip and glee.
With Leo?she mouths. He nods assent and she squeals, throwing her arms around his neck and continuing to let out a high-pitch frequency. “You told him?”
“He…guessed,” Oliver admits. “And it took a beat to, ah, sort things between us. But now it’s good. I think it is, anyway. Complicated. I don’t really know what I’m doing, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt like this before.”
“Gee, thanks,” she says. He grips her elbows, beseeching, and she forgives him with a returning squeeze.
“I don’t know how to get anythingdone,” he admits, finally, for the first time. “I think about him all the time.”
“You’re supposed to, babes,” Maggie assures him. “When you’re with someone who makes you happy. He does, doesn’t he?” He nods again, feeling the smile turn up at the corners of his mouth. He’s never been happy before, not if this is what it feels like. “Oh, Oliver! You’re growing up. I need to know everything. Do you want to come in, then?”
She takes his arm and tugs conspiratorially, the same way she’s done since they wore primary school uniforms and gaps in their teeth.
“Honestly, I’m knackered. I need to sleep hard. I don’t think I could talk about it even if I was awake. It’s so much. I keep waiting for it to all fall apart.”
“You’re pessimistic when you’re tired. It won’t fall apart if you don’t keep expecting it to,” she scolds, but then rises on her tiptoes to kiss him gently on the cheek, one hand gripping hisshoulder for balance so she can whisper in his ear. “You’ve always been the most important man in my life. It’s about time you found the most important man in yours.”
• • •
In the yellow hallway light of the hotel in Stoke-on-Trent, the most important man in Oliver’s life is standing furtively outside his door, five rooms down from his own. Oliver leans against the doorframe, poking his head out to meet him. Leo’s pajamas almost match the horrible hotel carpeting.
“Yes?” Oliver asks, casual as anything.
“Do you have an extra phone charger? I forgot mine,” Leo replies loudly, standing at attention and beaming with pride at his ruse. Oliver rolls his eyes as he lets him in.
“Look at you go, James Bond. Cover story of the century, very sneaky.” He kisses Leo lightly, just to say hello. Leo keeps hold of Oliver’s waistband when he steps back. “I’m not going to let you fuck me,” Oliver says definitively. “They call itisolationfor a reason. With only goals to ponder, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that.”
That’s why Alec used to tell them they weren’t allowed to text girls after midnight. It feels very grown-up to lecture someone else with it now, particularly a someone who he’s very much attracted to.
“Wow, pervert,” Leo replies. “Who said anything about sex? I just wanted to have a cuddle.”
Oliver doesn’t believe that for a second. He knows what it’s been like, between them, recently: physically, the chemistry is a ceaseless revelation. Matching their steps stride for stride during training is as good as foreplay. When they’re alone together, all bets are off. Since that blessed evening of the United match, Oliver has seen his bedroom from a hundred different angles hedidn’t even know existed before. Case in point, Leo is currently palming him on each flank, pawing, ravenous, at his hip bones.
“Jesuuuuus Christ.” Oliver lets out a low whistle. Leo is a Renaissance painting, more intricate than the triptych of earthly delights Maggie once spent a whole month yammering on about. He wants him desperately, but he can’t have him right now, not in a hotel before an away game, when the season still has its claws in them. Oliver can’t bring himself to send him away, though.
There’s so little time left, just a handful of matches—he’s not sure how many more moments like this they’ll have together before Finch discards them or they inevitably discard each other. Leo doesn’t understand just how likely it is they’ll look back on this as the end of something, but maybe he deserves to.
So when they’ve clambered into bed and Oliver has tucked the comforter up to their chins, sliding down the mattress enough to make them equal in height, he broaches the silence.
“Can I tell you something?”
Leo breaks the parentheses of their embrace, craning his neck backward so their gazes connect in the semidarkness.
“Shit, that’s ominous,” Leo whispers back.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017: Camden at Stoke City
Matchday 35
The red lines on the alarm clock indicate it’s just after midnight andwellafter when they should have been asleep, but instead they’ve been sitting upright and cross-legged for over an hour, poring over the league table and talking through the upcoming fixtures. Oliver might have known that telling Leo they’ve got a Champions League–shaped guillotine hovering over their heads wouldn’t go down without further discussion.
“And you’re sure Finch wasn’t bluffing?” Leo asks for about the eighth time.
