“Well, Leo, you know me and you know Ahmed,” Anthony says, waving his hand between the two of them. “So that covers that.”
Henri curses incomprehensibly in French.
“You will make him sick with your wretched English humor,” he sniffs. Everyone boos and summarily drags him to the back of the crowd (“Oh, sodoff,Henri,” Georgie adds from across theroom, guffawing). Leo looks shell-shocked at the new, rapid flow of banter and overlapping chatter, in a different language than he’s probably used to, but he chuckles along with them.
Anthony gets them back on track and presents the others in a single breath:
“Kendrick Woods, Matty Kelly, Arturo Carda, Ji-Hoon Choi, Henri Dupont,” Anthony pronounces, each of them bowing in turn. They’re a magazine-cover bunch, with Woodsy’s high cheekbones and Ji-Hoon’s glossy, inkblot hair. Carda is from Galicia, so he pulls Leo away to gossip in Spanish while the others mill around Oliver, who reclaims his locker seat. Matty good-naturedly kicks at Oliver’s healthy leg.
“Nannying looks terrible on you,” Matty says in his thick Scottish brogue. Oliver sighs and kicks him back.
“Don’t you start,” he replies glumly. Matty chortles and joins Henri in raiding Oliver’s stash of moisturizer. Leo catches his eye from where he’s standing down the aisle and half his mouth curls up into a shy half-smile. Only because Oliver is already looking at him does he catch the barest flutter of Leo’s hand from where it’s dangling at his side, a whisper of a wave. Oliver must have some of that English humor in him, because he responds by saluting him back with a crisp, exaggerated snap of his elbow.
Sebastian has at last finished his scribble of practice plays and shouts an “Oi oi” that they all echo, a well-worn call-and-response. They assemble in a haphazard circle around the board, squashed up against each other and leaning into each other’s space with easy, practiced intimacy. Oliver loses sight of Leo, then spots him on the periphery sandwiched between Carda and Garcia. The other members of the team will meet him naturally, he supposes, so in a way he’s gotten off easy, despite the significant look from Joe that he’s pretending to not see.
“We’re running five-a-side today,” Sebastian says. “Nothingcheeky, let’s see how you move. We’ve got a week’s break with a full squad, I don’t want to waste a moment of it.”
“Off we go,” Willem adds, if only to have the last word.
Woodsy is nursing a bone bruise on his ankle from a nasty challenge in Bournemouth, so he hangs back as the others jog out toward the foggy training ground.
“Shall we get some laps in, then, Woodsy?” Oliver asks him. Before he answers, Noah Maes comes down the stairs with an arm in a sling.
“Fuckin’ hell, you too?” Woodsy asks. Noah waves sadly with his left hand.
“I’ve been sent for lifeguard duty,” he says.
“Fat lot of guarding lives you’ll be doing one-armed,” Oliver notes. “If I go under, I’ll tell you right now, just let me go, mate. Don’t strain yourself.” Woodsy gets him in a headlock for that and starts dragging them off toward the pool, mussing his coiffed head in a way that’s only allowable before it’s about to get wet anyway.
“I’d save you, man,” Woodsy says. “And they’d probably knight me for it.”
Oliver hoots as he finally pushes himself free. The water looks much more inviting than last time he was here, with Noah and Woodsy and the faint sounds of training filtering in and echoing through the cavernous space. He leaps off his right leg into the lap pool, flopping headfirst into the chlorine-scented water and breaking into a powerful stroke, too fast for anyone to reach him.
• • •
He’s shaking droplets out of his fringe in the shower when Anthony crops up in the doorframe, earlier than Oliver would’ve expected.
“Captain’s privilege,” Anthony says by way of explanation,but he winces and Oliver knows that means his knee is troubling him.
“Steady on,” Oliver replies. “Can’t lose you too.”
Anthony scrubs at his salty face and steps under an adjacent spray.
“Don’t I know it,” he gargles around the stream of water. “Bad fucking time for it.” There’s something jagged lodged in his throat—it’s not like Captain Anthony, always so present and resolved. Oliver surmises he might not be the only one caught in a whorl of resentment and exhaustion recently. “When you’re young, you want to be in every match, every season, right until the last second. But then you get old and you hurt all the time, so sometime in January you’re ready to throw in the towel until it warms up, and you hate yourself for wanting to.”
Oliver can’t imagine it. Sometimes he feels old for his years, but in this way he’s absolutely still in his twenties. Everything else hurts: it’s the game that feels good and he’s aching without it. Anthony meets his gaze for the first time, then shrugs and continues in his normal, level tone.
“Maybe you’ll get it someday, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you stay young and spry forever. You’ve got the temperament. The new lad does too,” Anthony concludes. He shuts off the water and starts to leave. Oliver glares at his retreating back. He slams his own shower off and stomps after him, naked and outraged. Anthony, infuriatingly, has crinkles around the corners of his eyes and wicked amusement on his face.
“Oh, come off it. He’s that good?” Oliver asks, rumbling with indignation.
“He’s a little pocket rocket, all right,” Anthony replies. “Very quick on his feet.” Oliver, who currently cannot run at all, finds this deeply offensive. He roughly towels his hair rather than answering, but Anthony carries on. “I don’t know why you’re so pissed about this. If I were you, I would be sodding thrilled. Youtwo could be Charles and Gavin, but, you know,something. Xavi and Iniesta in London.”
“Yeah, only Xavi and Iniesta like each other,” Oliver scoffs from beneath his towel.
“Then you better put on that famous Harris smile and go be his buddy,” Anthony says. “Don’t you want to ever see Camden’s name on a trophy? Stop looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
“I’m being perfectly pleasant, and I’ve not once looked in his mouth, all right?”
