Because when I do think about Freddie, I get dangerously close to admitting feelings I shouldn’t have. Not just because he can’t return them. Because nothing could ever come of this, not in a million years. We chose the wrong career for that.
But I’m too drunk and too happy to think about it to deeply, so I force myself to relax and ignore the hobbling of my heart when Freddie snuggles, impossibly, even closer. “Mh,” I say, aiming for a light tone. “Not sure I can return the compliment.”
“Oi.” Freddie pokes my midriff and a tiny giggle escapes me against my will. “Rude.”
Thank god we can still goof around like this. Even with everything that’s happened between us. It’s one of the things that makes things between us so special. There are lots of things that are special with Freddie. I know, because I’ve tried to replicate the magic of our encounters with a fair number of other men—and failed. Nobody makes me feel like Freddie does. It’s terrible.
And amazing.
“I’m still crazy about you,” the alcohol makes me say, and I grab his chin with my thumb and forefinger, making him look at me.
Freddie looks at me, wide-eyed, before his gaze softens. His dark brown eyes are so warm, it makes me shudder with pleasure. For this one second, it's like there could be more between us. More than random hookups and stolen moments. More than something that can’t be.
When he looks at me like this, I want to hold his face, kiss him gently, and tell him let’s do this properly, screw everyone else.
But of course we can’t. It would be impossible.
He seems to agree, because he swallows, his gaze sharpens, and then boops my nose. “Embarrassing for you.”
I bloody hate this. It’s so unfair. I force a laugh, trying to keep the mood light, but it cracks halfway through. “You are the worst,” I say and push him away from me. Like any of this is his fault.
He stumbles backwards, unsteady on his feet, but catches himself before falling. “And yet you love me.” He grins at me.
My eyes narrow. What did he just say?
His eyes widen a fraction, and the words hang heavy in the air between us.
I push off the wall in an effort to get away from him.
How dare he. How bloody dare he.
“I didn’t,” Freddie says. “Mar, that’s obviously not—” He sighs.
I want to force him to take it back. I also worry he might not be too far from the truth.
And I can’t ever admit it. Can’t even think it. We’re professional football players and whatever he just hinted at is impossible for us.
“Luckily, it doesn’t matter how I feel.” There’s none of the joy left in me that I felt earlier and I hate him for that, a little bit. “Becauseyouhave Hadidja.” And I don’t care one bit that she’s not a real girlfriend. In the eyes of the public, she is, and that’s what matters.
“Mar.” His voice is so soft. I can’t look at him. “Please.” And what, exactly, is he asking for? Forgiveness? Ignorance? For me to turn back time and erase his stupid words? “Will you look at me?”
I huff. “And what good will that do?” But I do it anyway. Of course I do. Because despite everything, I can’t say no to him.
“I want to look at you,” Freddie whispers. “I always do.” His fingers trace my cheekbones, too tender by far.
He should stop. I don’t want him to.
But he has to. “You need to get away from me.” I fail at sounding harsh and as he catches my gaze, I worry he can read way too much in mine.
“Mar—I—I can’t. I—fuck.”
My heart sinks and a dark, heavy something settles in my gut. Of course. I asked him to get away from me, and now he's doing what I want him to. But fuck if I don’t hate it with every fibre of my being.
“Yeah,” I manage. “I know.” Freddie looks as defeated as I feel. “We’re colleagues who’ve fucked, twice. End of story.” It wasn’t fucking. I think we both know that. But if I call it what it was—love-making, tenderness, exploration, care-taking—it would only make things worse. And they’re bad enough as it is.
I’ve never wanted to be anything but a professional footballer. None of the training hours I had to put in, none of the long, uncomfortable bus rides to away games, not even the time away from my family made me regret that choice. But this does.
Being queer and being a footballer is mutually exclusive. And there’s only one acceptable path to take.
