He works his way up, registers the stiffness in his left leg, and immediately sits back down at the foot of the bed, rubbing at his throbbing forehead. He wants to skip training, an urge that’sunfamiliar and unwelcome to him. Of course he won’t, of course hecan’t,especially because Joe is picking him up and that means he’s already late.
Joe is the Premier League’s most underrated goalkeeper and Oliver’s best football friend, since they were the only first team players too young to go out drinking. He is also always two things: overdressed and ten minutes early. When Oliver limps down the icy stoop, Joe is leaning out the window, wearing a freshly pressed shirt and shaking his head at Oliver’s running leggings and ratty old team hoodie, mismatched under his calf-length winter coat.
“You didn’t need to come get me,” Oliver grumbles, once he’s gingerly climbed into the passenger seat. “I’m doing great, as you can see.”
“Are you?” Joe says. “I was actually going to say I have a New Year’s resolution for you: cheer up.”
“It doesn’t feel like a new year,” he replies. “It feels like the end of an era. Every time we get to the Crossing I wonder if it’ll be the last time. I worry we might never play together again. I’m perfectly cheery, under the circumstances.”
“Is that it, then?” Joe asks, sounding shocked. He reaches over to jostle him—Oliver bats him away and points insistently at the road. “De Boer is in your head, man. I’m not going anywhere, I swear to you, neither of us are. You’ve been stringing Camden along by the laces of your boots since you were a kid. They’ll not let go of you.”
“Willem might.”
“No, he won’t. He just wants to see what we’re made of. What we had wasn’t working for anyone, so he’s trying something new.”
It’s a generous read, and Oliver has never had a reason not to trust Joe’s judgment before, but he doesn’t buy it.
“He called back Davies-Villanueva, the one on loan in Spain.He asked me to mentor him. He’s coming to training and he’ll probably debut before I’m back,” Oliver says. “I think Willem wants me to shape him up to take my spot. I have this horrible feeling, like I’m actually finished here.” His voice is tight and hoarse with the effort of holding back tears, which embarrasses and infuriates him.
Joe regains his grip on Oliver’s biceps and gives him another shake.
“Ollie, you beautiful fool. You’re missing the forest for the trees. Why would Willem want anyone to learn from you if he thought you were shit? This is a gift. He’s finally giving you a midfield partner. No more having to do it all alone.” Oliver shakes his head, still not looking at Joe, chewing on his lower lip. Since his arrival, Willem’s piercing looks seem to see all the weakness in him, the stuff worth punishing, not preserving. Joe, bless him, loves Oliver too much to see that, buthecan feel it in his gut. Willem is testing him, first with playing time and now with an unbearable boy. Oliver doesn’t think he can handle it. He’s always coasted on being young and healthy in addition to being talented, but now he knows that you can only ever see the light of a dying star, and he has no idea if he might be about to burn out. And if he’s not a footballer, he’s not sure who he is. He’s given everything up for the sake of being one. He thought it would be worth it, for Camden; he never anticipated it would mean this. “I wouldn’t lie to you, mate,” Joe insists, less forcefully.
“Christ, Joe, of course not,” Oliver says quietly. “I know you wouldn’t.”
“So do you believe me?”
“I believe that you believe it, sure.”
“You’re not going anywhere. We’re gonna get old and retire here and then they’re going to bury us under the pitch,” Joe says as he pulls into his parking spot.
“Speak for yourself.” He turns to face Joe. “I’m getting cremated and the urn is going on your bloody mantel. Now leave me to brood, would you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Joe says, ruffling Oliver’s sandy brown head as he exits. “Lock it behind you. And if you’re not inside in five minutes, don’t think I won’t send Charles to get you.”
It’s no idle threat—Charles is built like a bulldog and about as friendly—so Oliver only waits three minutes before getting out of the car. He wasn’t expecting Leo to be skulking in the fog, blocking the players’ entrance to Camden Crossing from beneath a bundle of hat and gloves and scarf. The newcomer looks decidedly chagrined; somehow, even the way he lifts a hand to wave feels passive-aggressive.
As they stand across the car park appraising each other, Oliver feels a sweeping shame that someone could witness him glowering at a new teammate. It’s accompanied by continued annoyance at Leo, who seems to always appear when he’s least welcome and ruin even the best of feelings.
Oliver takes his time walking to the door, both to delay the inevitable and to demonstrate some kind of masculine mastery of the chilly air. When he reaches the building, Leo still hasn’t moved or spoken, so Oliver raises his eyebrows in an approximation of a question, hoping they communicate something along the lines of,Well, you’ll have to go first, because I could stand here comfortably all day.
“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” Leo says sorrowfully, by way of greeting. “I’m sorry.”
Oliver bites back a laugh. He’s not ever seen a person look colder or more begrudging. If it were anyone else, it would be truly kind of him to wait outside, clearly miserable, nearly late for his first day in the Premier League, just for the sake of delivering an apology.
“And don’t you look it,” he replies, saccharine-sweet, thenfeels like an arsehole for it. He relents, sighing and nodding an acknowledgment, then yanks the door open, indicating Leo should step through first. Reluctantly, he chucks an olive branch at the back of his head. “Go on and start getting ready. I’ll introduce you to the lads.”
The changing room itself is pure, unmitigated chaos: twenty-two men under the age of forty in varying states of undress, hollering over each other in a not-uncramped space with strangely excellent acoustics. It’s loud, colorful, and truthfully a bit smelly. Oliver loves it. When he steps in, the whole room unifies into the bedlam of hellos and he’s buffeted by a rush of Camden-home-team love, better than any drug could ever feel.
“All right, you animals,” Oliver shouts from under the crush of a group hug he’s receiving from Garcia, and Joe, and Ji-Hoon, and Trevor.
Anthony, leader of men, gets his voice to rise above the crowd.
“If you fuck his leg up more, he’ll just be gone longer,” Anthony calls out, and Oliver gratefully claps his captain’s hand in greeting as he extricates himself from the tangle of limbs. “And who’s that you’ve got with you?” he continues, gesturing to where Leo is hovering in the doorway, looking unsure. Oliver wills himself to come off as welcoming, polite, mentorly.
“Okay, boys,” he announces, though he’s certain he’s got everyone’s attention already. “Some of you might remember Leo. He’s back from loan, courtesy of the gaffer and my bum hamstring, fresh from Valencia. Everyone, meet Leo. Leo, meet everyone.” He probably should have more to say—about Leo’s career or about his potential as a teammate—but he’s only exchanged a handful of noncombative words with the guy and couldn’t be arsed to watch the scouting report Willem foisted on him, so this will have to do.
Luckily, the equipment staff has put Leo’s things in an openlocker next to Ahmed Haji, who came up through the academy the year above Leo and was called up to the first team three months ago. The two of them gravitate together to start an excited, whispered conversation that also seems to involve taking selfies. Oliver’s work here is done. He starts changing at his own stall, which is both tidy and long inhabited, with a number of pictures taped to the green metal and an extensive, expensive skincare routine in his shower caddy.
