The game continues. We manage to get a little control of the ball, but it doesn’t matter because nothing we do seems to work. Not Bayero pressing aggressively in midfield, and definitely not me running after the Argentina defenders, nudging them just enough to make them fumble a rushed clearance. We are really struggling here. But I keep going, reminding myself that Johnson is rooting for me, even if I’m too chicken to glance at the dugout to see the expression on his face. I however let myself hear his voice in my head like I always do during tough matches like this, urging me on, and I push myself forward.
The board goes up after some time and it’s our side again. Lawal jogs off, sweat soaking through his jersey. Mfon, another winger on the bench, comes on in his place. He stretches as he runs, arms swinging loosely, his eyes already locked on the ball. It’s obvious Coach is chasing the game now.
It still doesn’t work, though. And even by halftime when Johnson tries to motivate us, I think we’ve already given up. As we’re about to go back to the field, he moves closer to me and squeezes my shoulder. The small touch is probably supposed to offer me comfort, but I don’t deserve it, not when I’m disappointing him so spectacularly.
Like I expected, no matter how hard we try after the match restarts, the Argentinian team is just too good, and they end up handing us our arses. When the final whistle blows, thescoreboard reads five for Argentina and a robust zero for us, effectively knocking us out of the World Cup. It stings but as the commentators are saying over the noise, no one expects us to come this far. We tried our best and gave it everything. My shorts are clinging uncomfortably to my thighs, and my legs feel like they might collapse. We jog to the midfield to shake hands, and then we turn and walk off the pitch.
18
AUSTIN
—Run to You
by Ocie Elliot
Coach Thompson catchesBayero and me just as we reach the tunnel leading out of the arena.
“Hold up a second,” he says, motioning for us to stop as a couple of sports reporters approach with microphones and cameras already raised.
The bright light from the field spills into the hallway behind us, and the noise from the crowd carries through the concrete and refuses to die down. Sweat is cooling on my skin now that the game is over, and my jersey is clinging to my back in that uncomfortable way that makes me crave a hot shower.
A microphone appears in front of my face, and someone asks about the final minutes of the game. My mouth moves and words come out as I answer. The questions blur together while I nod and say something about teamwork and staying focused. I have done this enough times to know what they want to hear, but I couldn’t repeat a single answer if someone asks me to, what with my mind already planning how to get Johnson alone.
Eventually, Coach thanks the reporters and gives us a quick pat on the shoulder before sending us on our way. We’re halfway down the hall when we see Akintola coming towards us. He stops when he sees us, two bags hanging from his hands, and he still looks exactly like he did on the pitch, which lets me know he hasn’t showered.
“Johnson is taking us to dinner,” he explains, handing one of the bags to Bayero, “so we all agreed to shower and get ready at the hotel.”
“I should go grab my bag then,” I say as they leave.
The locker room is empty when I walk in, the noise from earlier is gone, replaced by the low thrum of the lights overhead and the faint drip of a shower somewhere down the row. My footsteps echo a little as I make my way down the room, my legs sluggish now that the adrenaline has finally worn off. The abandoned towels on the benches make the room smell like sweat. I can’t wait to get out. I reach my locker and pull it open, the metal door creaking on its hinges. I lift my arms, ready to peel off my jersey, when a warm hand slides across my waist, fingers spreading against my stomach as Johnson’s familiar woodsy scent—that I’ve become obsessed with—fills my nose.
“I’m drenched and smelly,” I feel obliged to point out even as I’m leaning back into him.
His chest presses against my back, and both of his arms wrap around me, pulling me flush against him. “I don’t care,” he whispers in my ears. His breath brushes against my skin before his tongue flicks over my earlobe. “I’ve missed you.”
It’s such a small thing to say, but he has no idea how much those words mean to me. How something as simple as his arms around me in an empty locker room can make my whole chest feel lighter.
I turn in his hold so I can face him properly. Up close, he’s even more handsome than I remember, and there’s somethingsoft in his expression when his eyes meet mine. All that fear I had about disappointing him melts away, and the look on his face makes my stomach do an annoying little somersault.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I tell him.
I grab the front of his jersey and because he’s taller than me, I have to tiptoe to reach his mouth. I manage it just fine, my fingers bunching the fabric in my fist as I pull him down and kiss him. He grunts into my mouth; I swallow the sound like it belongs to me. Like everything he gives me belongs to me. The kiss starts slow and that throws me off because every other time we’ve kissed, it was hungry and desperate. But this one is gentler and full of so much emotion. I feel like I might choke and say something silly . . . likemarry meorI love you.On a normal day, that would scare the shit out of me, but right now, I really don’t mind. I really would marry him if that were an option.
Wait.
Hold the fuck on.
Fuck me! Iactuallylove him. In fact, I’ve been in love him for a very long time, all the while pretending it was something inane like a crush, or simple admiration.
Deciding that this kiss is messing with my head, I fix the problem the only way I know how. I turn us around until his back bumps against my locker, the metal rattling behind him as I press closer. My hand leaves his jersey and slides up to the side of his neck, my finger curling there as I pull him back into another kiss. This time I don’t keep it gentle.
I kiss him deeper, pouring every confusing thought and feeling into it, dialling up the heat. The kiss becomes teeth scraping and tongue sliding together and everything I cannot say with words.
“Fuck,” he rasps against my mouth. “I want you so badly.”
“We don’t have supplies,” I rasp back.
The words barely make it out before I stop the hottest kiss of my life, my chest rising and falling while I look at him, my brain spinning fast until an idea forms.
