“Harris, I’ll book him for those elbows, and you’ll thank me he’s still on the pitch,” the referee replies coldly, palms facing out, a demand for return to order that every footballer knows is a last warning.
Anthony has one sleeve of Oliver’s kit in his hands, Leo has the other, and he’s being pulled backward, back toward the match.
“Sodding fuck.” He can’t help himself. “Bullshit.”
“Comeon,Ollie,” Anthony says. “Back to it. Channel that rage somewhere productive, would you?”
“And you!” Oliver snaps, ignoring his captain and whirling around on Leo. “What are you playing at, picking fights? What did you say to him?”
Leo shrugs innocently, fruitlessly wiping at some of the mud he’s accumulated on his shirt.
“I just asked if that didn’t make it worse, that his mum still likes it so much.”
Anthony bellows, a big belly laugh in the middle of the damn match. He’s still chortling, shaking his head, as he jogs his way over to the back line, resetting Camden’s formation.
“Jesus Christ,” Oliver says, not only at how impressively foul that is, but at the idea that Leo might ever fuck anyone’s mother.
“Don’t worry,” Leo reassures him. “It was before we met.” Then he, rather cheerily, gives Oliver a businesslike slap on his left arse cheek and gets back to work, backpedaling toward his place at the left of the midfield. It figures that Leo would score the game winner, eighty minutes in, like he planned it all along and was just biding his time for maximum effect. Trevor curled in a keen shot, rolling hard and fast toward the net, and Leo finds it with his left foot before the keeper gets anywhere close, guiding it through to the target.
He’s the reigning prince of Regent Road, mop-headed andgorgeous, blowing kisses to the fans, who receive them like tangible things, cupping them to their cheeks rapturously. Oliver half-worries he’ll get possessive or jealous, but the only feeling he can put a name to, besides the swirl of lactic acid turning to ache in his calves, is pride. Everyone should adore him, be in awe of Leo’s particular pitchside charisma, the way Leo meets the wave of the game’s rhythm and flips it inside out, crashing onto an opposite shore.
When the final whistle blows, they have precisely five minutes to stand before the crowd and drink in the victory. Then they’ll have to truck back inside and start thinking about Sunday’s derby. Oliver personally usually approaches Kilburn matches in terms of inflicting maximum embarrassment with as little consequential violence as possible; the stakes are more nuanced this time, requiring a more formed strategy than the base, primal hatred that fuels him when he thinks about Stewart Reed and company.
Leo loops back from performing a complicated handshake with Ahmed to where Oliver is giving Trevor a mighty hug. Leo ducks his head shamefacedly.
“Trev,” Leo says, joining the embrace briefly. “I owe you one, mate. Your shot was probably going in anyway, but I just wanted to make absolutely sure. I didn’t mean to poach.”
Trevor scoops Leo up like he weighs nothing at all, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“You little shite,” Trevor bellows, laughing. “Mooch! Thief!” The rest of the squad takes the cue to teasingly heckle Leo, booing and tossing their discarded, smelly kits at him as they pass by. Trevor puts him back down, but squires him under one arm for the walk back. “Nah, you’re golden, Davito,” he tells him magnanimously. “You want to win so much it’s inspiring. Frightening, too. Harris has enough of the scary eyes for both of you, okay?”
“Ah, I’ve just learned from the best,” Leo says, smiling sweetly in Oliver’s general direction from under Trevor’s bicep.
Willem sticks his head into the showers, a disembodied face through the thick puffs of steam, and congratulates them in one breath and informs them their presence is requested at Camden Crossing forthwith in the next, signifying the celebrations are to be fully on hold until after the derby. It suits Oliver just fine, because Camden Crossing has the canteen, and the canteen has chocolate milk, plus that one old squishy leather sofa, which under the right circumstances he could absolutely fall asleep in sitting upright.
At the meeting, Oliver gets his preferred seat next to Joe and somehow manages to stay awake, Leo sitting on the sofa arm he claimed for himself way back in January, at his first training session, back when Oliver didn’t know the difference between a crush and a nemesis. Everyone is slowly starting to disperse; when most of them have, Oliver takes the stairs to Willem’s office, half on a whim.
There are a cluster of de Boers inside: two pretty teens who are perfect matches for Willem in looks, alongside another, older woman who’s holding the manager’s hand. Oliver sticks his hand out to shake and is suddenly gripped by the fear he’ll be expected to dispense cheek kisses, which shocks and frightens his English sensibilities, before he’s saved by a warm, firm grip from Willem’s wife, and a series of giggles and whispers exchanged between the two sisters.
“Girls,” their mother and father say in unison. The girls adopt identical, serious expressions, though their eyes shimmer with identical mirth. All four of them are well matched—cashmere clad, honey blond, and beautiful.
“I’m Ilse,” Willem’s wife introduces herself. “Our daughters, Katja and Sophie.”
“Oliver,” he says, indicating to himself stupidly, as if theymight have been confused. “I’ve heard a lot about the three of you. It’s nice to meet—”
He’s cut off by the renewed teenage giggles, Katja and Sophie clutching at each other and shaking with it. Willem gives them another sharp look and they sober themselves, one of them nudging the other forward.
“We’ve heard a lot about you too,” Katja-or-Sophie says, which makes Oliver decidedly nervous. What has Willem to say about Camden, about London, about him?
Before he can ask, Ilse lays one elegant hand on her husband’s arm.
“We should go soon, if we want to see the house.”
“Too right you are,” Willem says briskly. “Girls, go on with your mother. I just have one email to send, I promise. If I speed, I’ll beat you there.”
The three of them shake their heads together, disbelieving but forgiving, like they’ve heard it before. Ilse swoops upon Oliver and gives him a series of dreaded kisses that he actually doesn’t mind too badly when it comes down to it. Sophie and Katja shyly offer him a simultaneous hug—he takes it gladly.
The three of them leave Oliver halfway in the doorframe, unsure if he should stay while Willem sends the email or follow them at a respectful distance.
