I’m too busy for that.
I haven’t even met up with anyone in… weeks. Months, probably, by now. Not since… well. I sigh and get up from the table at the team banquet. We just won the Champions League quarter-finals, defeating a strong opponent on home soil, and the team is ecstatic.
I’mecstatic. I didn’t score, but this is still the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. Westfield is the kind of club that expects excellence without fail, so the bosses at the high table are wearing satisfied smiles but don’t join in our rambunctious celebrations.
Neither does Marlon.
In fact, I haven’t seen him in a while. Not that I’ve been looking for him.
Our defensive performance wasn’t great by any means tonight, but who cares? We did it. It wasn’t Marlon’s best game, but it won’t matter going forward. He can make up for it in the semis. In the fucking semi-finals of the fucking Champions League. A grin creeps back on my face, replacing the melancholic thoughts from a minute ago.
Julian suddenly ruffles my hair and presses a glass of champagne into my hand. “Drink up!” he says with a grin, raising his own glass.
He’s handsome. It’s not the first time I’ve thought that, but that doesn’t make it any less true. His dark curls look so soft and the stubble he’s been growing lately suits him. I grin up at him and obediently down my drink in one gulp.
If I had a choice, I’d pick ashy blond hair over dark curls any time.
Fuck. I need some air.
I push back my chair and mumble an excuse that nobody cares about. Surely there’s a patio somewhere where I can hide for a bit. I walk out of the ballroom we’ve rented for the occasion and make my way down the corridor.
It doesn’t take long until I find a set of French doors that lead outside. I’ve barely pushed them open when I can smell smoke; clearly some of my other colleagues have found the spot before me. Though their idea of “fresh air” is a little different from mine.
There are a couple of potted palm trees that hide my colleagues from me still, but I can hear their voices clearly.
“—so glad we beat those pussies!” one of them says.
“Yeah, fucking Italian faggots, would have killed me to lose to them.” A round of chuckles follows the statement.
“Little cocksuckers, every one of them,” a third voice says, and this time, they all laugh. “We showed them how real men play.”
I’m frozen in my spot and for a second, I'm sick to my stomach. It’s normal dressing room talk, in a way, but I’ve never liked it. For obvious reasons. When you do the thing—arethe thing—that they use as a slur, it does something to you.
And it sure as hell discourages me from joining them. I know they’re good guys, most of the time anyway, and they’d behorrified if they knew how their comments impact me. But still. I’d rather not have to grin and bear it.
So I back off before anyone can notice me and go looking for another spot. Luckily, the gilded plate between the two elevators tells me there’s a rooftop terrace, so I go for that.
The elevator doors open right into the open air and I breathe in deeply. The air is fresh up here, fresh and chilly and wet. Raindrops are pattering on the tiny glass canopy above me and I close my eyes and smile. I hadn’t even noticed the sound downstairs with all the chatter I overheard.
This is exactly what I needed.
I debate staying here and taking a couple breaths, or stepping out into the rain. In my mind, Coach is rolling his eyes at me because I’m even thinking about it, such a stupid idea, no time to catch a cold. That seals it for me and I take a step forward.
I won’t be here long, I’ll be fine. And I can have a nice hot shower in my room when I go back inside. That will also be a great alibi for why I didn’t come back to the banquet, so really, it’s a win-win situation.
Wins. I smile to myself. We’ve had a lot of those, recently, and hardly any time to celebrate them. Milestones I’ve anticipated for years seem to fly by. Reaching ten goals in the league. Scoring my first Champions League goal. Being named Man of the Match.
Me from a year ago would have been floored if even one of these things had happened to him. And I’ve …raced through it. There’s always another game to play, another goal to score. In this club, nothing is ever good enough until you’re the best of the best.
I tilt my head back and stretch out my tongue, catching a couple raindrops on it, then I laugh at my own antics. It’s easy to laugh, now, after this win. A couple hours ago, when we weredown 2-0 at halftime, I was this close to crying like a toddler, right there in the dressing room.
If only it hadn’t been Marlon’s fault we were 2-0 down. I might have been able to bear it, otherwise, but knowing how heavy the score must be on his shoulders made everything a million times worse. IfIfelt like crying, then what was it like for him? And also, no. I’m being unfair. It wasnotMarlon’s fault. Sure, the Italians scored via his side of the field—twice—but that’s because they figured out he was a 21-year-old kid was getting left alone by his more seasoned colleagues and they could bulldoze past him.
It was his first bloody Champions League quarter-final. They should have helped him, not left him out to dry.
With a deep sigh, I walk over to the railing and look out over the city, dark with rain and bright with lights. I am, literally, on top of the world. Yet the thought of Marlon and his misery churns in my stomach and I can’t quite conjure up the joy I should be feeling. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe it’s raining on my parade, ha, ha.
My foot bumps into something soft and I look down. A bundle of clothes is piled up next to me. A bundle of clothes that look conspicuously like Westfield FC team gear. I squat down and now I can make out a pale face hidden underneath the hoody, usually blond hair dark with rain, plastered to his forehead.
