“Doctor, Oliver,” Sebastian is saying, tugging on his sleeve as if to continue on to the dressing room. “Come on.”
“No way,” he replies, shrugging him off, balancing on one leg, shielding his eyes from the sun and watching, still watching, unblinkingly. “It’s almost over.” For once in his life, Sebastian doesn’t argue, only puts an arm back around Oliver’s waist to steady him. Willem is a few paces to their left, hands clasped together almost in prayer, surveying the scene silently. Oliver sticks his free arm back behind him without turning and Anthony appears, like Oliver hoped he would, to join their trio and also help hold him up. “I couldn’t even make it ninety minutes,” Oliver says quietly.
“You did enough, Ollie,” Anthony tells him, both of them still looking straight ahead.
The whistle blows, Leo moving in slow motion, his left leg thrown gracefully behind him, winding up to unleash the power of his body onto the goal. There’s a collective inhale, thirty thousand strong, as the shot progresses, then an exhale, split unevenly between relief and grief, when the keeper snags it between his fingertips, holding the ball tight to his chest.
Willem ducks his head into his shirt collar, eyes scrunched tight, as Sebastian abruptly releases Oliver and stomps back toward the bench, pinching his nose in concentration. Oliver is strangely calm, all the tension in his body released, close to laughter, shoulders shaking uncontrollably.
“Keeper’s off his line,” Oliver whispers to no one in particular, though everyone in earshot looks at him askance. “They’re going to retake it.”
Sure enough, the referee is waving away the jubilant Rovers, saying the keeper moved too early, and gesturing Leo back to the spot, pointing repeatedly at the ball and shaking his head as Stewart Reed shouts at him, ugly mug twisted with rage and disbelief.
“Wizard,” Sebastian says quietly, staring at Oliver in shock.
“He’s going to make this one” is all Oliver says back, more sure of it than he’s ever been of anything. Leo is petrified in the spotlight, jaw tight and mouth half-open, looking between the ball and the goal as if he’s not sure they’re real, then turning his head toward the visiting team on the touchline. Oliver isn’t sure if he can see him clearly, hear him at all, but he takes one wobbling, achy step forward and calls out to him, just as he did during Leo’s first training session, five months and a lifetime ago. “Just one more, Leo! Take us home!”
Their teammates, standing from the bench or encircled behind Leo on the pitch, all chime in, clapping and hollering as hesets himself once more. It’s more of a mind game than a physical one now, the mental fortitude required to deduce where the second shot will go or how to put it on target again. Oliver remains sanguine, watching the wonderful lines of Leo’s body take shape. He’s cheeky to the last, stuttering his steps when the whistle goes and he advances forward, before taking exactly the same shot as before: hard, low, left. Without the false start, it’s no contest at all.
Oliver catapults himself, one-legged, onto Anthony before anyone else seems to register they’ve scored—Leo’s scored—Camden has tied the match. When it hits them all, Anthony takes off running, Oliver still hanging on to his back, flanked by every reserve and the coaching staff, racing full tilt across the field toward Leo, who has slid forward on his knees with his arms thrown skyward, the dictionary definition of triumph, the rest of Camden FC sprinting in his wake.
Kilburn is fit to be tied, screaming for more time, but seven minutes has come and gone, the match is over, the clock stopping and the scoreboard reading three and three. All the draws that killed Oliver this season, the ones he considers losses, are dust in the wind compared to this feeling, the sweet sensation that’s almost better than victory for how closely they snatched it from the jaws of defeat.Fourth place,he thinks.Not too fucking shabby. Davies-Villanueva with the penalty.He loves the sound of it, even only in his own head.
Oliver hasn’t even gotten to Joe, much less Leo, for congratulations. He’s still hobbling out of an unexpected, tight, full-body embrace from Marcos when Woodsy lets out a roar, snatching a phone out of one of the physio’s hands.
“United lost! They bottled it!” A good chunk of the squad half-climbs over each other to get to him and get a look, squinting at the tiny screen while Woodsy’s shaking hands pull up the highlights.
“God, they’re shite, aren’t they?” Joe says, then hollers to the whole team: “They fucked it! United lost!”
They’re still in a huddle as Woodsy searches again, this time for the Chelsea-Liverpool contest. “Four-three,” Woodsy breathes. “Liverpool came back. They beat Chelsea.”
Someone shrieks while someone else makes a grab for the phone; Oliver has slumped right to the ground as if he’s been reinjuredagain,seeing stars. It’s impossible, it’s bedlam, but it has to be true, or else he wouldn’t feel this way, like he’s being reborn. He would’ve given anything to be fourth; he hadn’t bothered to dream about third. The sun is slipping under the edges of the ironwork, coating them all in brilliant pink light, and all the screams in the stands have died out, Rovers unwoven.
“Dear God, we’ve killed Harris,” Finn is saying, hoisting him back up by his armpits. “Come here, you idiot. It’s good news. Third place!”
“I know, I know,” Oliver repeats, stumbling on his exhausted legs, salt water dripping off his nose. “I just can’t believe it. Davito? Where’s Leo?” Finn hands him over, Joe pulling Leo to them, depositing 6 and 16 into each other’s arms. Leo smells rank and his hair is collecting blades of grass like the beginning of a bird’s nest. Oliver has never loved something so dearly as he does right then, never looked at anything and known it was his and perfect and for keeps. He pulls some greenery out of Leo’s headband and bundles him into his chest, squeezing tight. “I told you. It was for you,” he tells him.
“If you didn’t mean it,” Leo says, muffled, into the crest of Oliver’s kit, “don’t tell me until later.”
Oliver is no longer weeping the delicate, manful joy of a winner; he’s unleashed a biblical flood from his eyeballs and his nose, wailing into Leo’s head and making him even filthier than he already was. He wants to tell him how proud he is, how much it means to be with him now, but anything additional in his heartwould probably literally kill him, and he’s not even had a party about this yet.
“I meant it” is all he says.
Leo wriggles himself free and gleefully socks Oliver in the shoulder, once, twice, thrice, and it hurts and it feels so good.
“You are a madman,” Leo laughs, eyes damp. “And you need to go to the doctor.”
• • •
In the end, Oliver didn’t even make it out to celebrate; by the time Anna had finished looking over his leg he was ready to drop dead from sheer sensory overload. From the exam table, he’d seen a suspicious champagne stain on her sweater, which set him to giggling uncontrollably, even after she swatted him with her stethoscope.
“It’ll be okay. No recurrence of the tear at all, you just gave it a good strain. Well, Wheatley did,” Anna said. “Nothing to worry about, Oliver. Take two weeks of vacation before you start your unhinged summer running plans. I won’t tell Willem.”
Leo, on the other hand, did make it out for at least one round of antiseptic-strength vodka sodas, because Oliver can smell it on him when there’s a midnight knock on his front door.
“What happened to my passkey not being secure?” Oliver asks, tucking his hands into the top of the doorframe and leaning against the side, showing off just a little, all stretched out in nothing but pajama pants, putting himself on display.
“Things were different then,” Leo replies. “I was sober. Are you going to let me in?”
