I sit up, rubbing my face as an ache settles back into my bones. When I glance up, I catch him watching me for a half a second before he turns away quickly.
I stand up from the bed, still half stuck in sleep, my brain lagging behind my body. The floor feels cold when my feet touch it, and I stand for a second to gather myself. I shuffle into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I check my face in the mirror; my eyes are puffy and my hair is flattened on one side. I turn on the sink and splash cold water on my face, which wakes me a little. The toothpaste burns pleasantly minty as I brush, the taste finally clearing the fog in my head.
I shower quickly, the steam from the hot water filling the small bathroom. My muscles protest when the water hits them, soreness blooming in my legs and shoulders. I stand there longerthan I’d planned, letting the heat do its thing until I remember we’re on a schedule and I don’t want to miss breakfast.
After wearing my training gear and looking slightly more human, I head downstairs. The team has taken over a long table, most of their plates already half empty as they all talk at once, laughing and arguing about something. My stomach growls so loud that I hope no one hears it as I grab a little bit of everything: eggs, bacon, bread, and coffee.
“You didn’t come out with us yesterday,” Akintola says when he spots me. He waves me over, already scooting his chair back. The table is full of midfielders, two defenders, and as luck would have it (or not), Johnson.
I sigh internally and head over. “Man,” I reply, dropping onto the seat beside Bayero. “I don’t even know what made me sleep like that.”
Bayero laughs and steals a bacon from my plate. “Could be the jet lag.”
Before I can respond, Johnson snorts from across the table. “You were so out of it, you didn’t know how your shoes came off.”
I freeze for a few seconds, fork hovering over my plate. I think I had my shoes on when I passed out, but they weren’t when I woke up. I glance up at Johnson, but he’s focused on his food.So, he took my shoes off.My chest warms in a slow, confusing way, and I stab a piece of bacon on my plate, pretending my heart didn’t just do something stupid.
After breakfast, we pile into the bus for training ahead of our match against Denmark tomorrow. Alimi starts playing music from a Bluetooth speaker, making sure the trip isn’t a dull one as the bass rattles through the seats. I take a window seat and watch the city pass by, trying not to look for Johnson even though I know he’ll be in his usual spot.
Training lasts until mid-afternoon. Drills bleed into drills, sweat soaking through my shirt. When we get back to the hotel, I notice that Johnson is conveniently missing. At first, I tell myself he’s probably doing captain things. But as the minutes stretch on and the rest of the team drifts off after having lunch, it becomes painfully obvious that he’s avoiding me.
I can’t really blame him. If I had to share a room with someone my wife supposedly slept with, I’d lose my shit and crash out even if it turns out not to be true. So yeah, I get it.
Back in the room, I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the traffic outside and the faint sounds of my teammates moving around the hall. I expected exhaustion to knock me out the way it did yesterday, but it doesn’t. I roll onto my side, then my back, then my stomach. Time stretches and minutes crawl. I drift off in short bursts, only to jolt awake again, heart racing for a reason I can’t name.
At some point, the door opens and his perfume hits my nose—something masculine, warm and woody, like an Oud. I keep my eyes closed and slow my breathing, pretending I’m already asleep. His footsteps are quiet as he sets a bag down. The bathroom door opens and shuts, followed by the sound of running water.
Eventually, I must have fallen asleep. I feel like I had just closed my eyes when my alarm goes off. I drag myself out of bed and shower. I grab a small sandwich for breakfast and wash it down with coffee.
Soon, we’re back on the bus, heading to Parken Stadium in the bus rented just for us by the Nigeria Football Federation. The seats are worn but comfortable. I’m at least happy they didn’t make us trek, the Federation can behave funnily sometimes. I remember Bayero said they had to contribute for fuel from their pockets during AFCON.
Everything after arriving at the stadium is a blur. We change into our game jerseys in the locker room and Johnson gathers us, voice steady as he speaks. I catch pieces of his speech, something about focus and to trust each other. Then we line up, shoulders squared, hands at our sides as we walk out onto the field.
6
ROLAND
—Hypocrite by Falz
Alcohol is such a beautiful thing.
The lot of us are crammed into a small bar in the city centre, having pushed tables close so we’re sitting together. The floor is sticky under my shoes, and the air smells of beer and grease. Music blasts from old speakers, half drowned out by laughter and the raised voices of my teammates. This is how we’re dealing with the colossal loss Denmark handed us, drinking until it dulls.
I’m not completely drunk yet. I’m sitting right in that perfect space between tipsy and gone, where my head feels light and my body feels loose. The tension I had carried all day has finally started to melt away, so I lean back in my chair, glass sweating in my hand, and I let myself enjoy it.
My current situation doesn’t allow me to dwell on the fact that I’m such a hypocrite. After telling Coker to come out of his shell, I have fully retreated into mine. Honestly, I can’t look the guy in the eye. It doesn’t help that I have to be in such close proximity to him. I let in two goals today because I wasdistracted, too busy staring at his mouth and in his general vicinity instead of focusing on the game. And he has no idea what he’s doing to me, which makes it worse. Or better. I can’t decide. But I want to grab his stupid, beautiful face and kiss it, and the fact that the thought does not send me into a panicked spiral right now lets me know I’m not sober.
See, that is the magic of this almost-drunk place. It makes my brain slow down, the fear taking a step back. Everything feels possible and not terrifying all at once. I take another sip of my drink and let the burn slide down my throat, the noise of the bar washing over me.
When I got back to our room two days ago, he was already asleep, stretched out on the bed with his shirt pushed all the way up and bunched under his chest, exposing bare skin across his stomach. The first thing that came to my mind was to bend down and lick it. That should have scared the hell out of me, but it didn’t. Instead, I stood there, staring at him like a stalker. His breathing was slow and even, mouth slightly open, lashes dark against his cheeks. I don’t know how long I stood there before noticing he was still wearing his shoes.
I sighed, shook my head at myself and moved closer to him. Then I bent down and carefully pulled his shoes off, one at a time, trying not to jostle him. He shifted slightly but didn’t wake. I covered him with the comforter, stepped back, and told myself to get a grip. But a grip has not been gotten.
I’m not someone who lies to himself, so I can’t pretend I don’t know what’s going on.I know.I just don’t understand it. Even if I were to swing towards men, why him? Why this twenty-two-year-old striker who’s my ex-wife’s best friend? Of all the people in the world, he makes the least sense. So, what is it about him that keeps dragging me in? And why now after having known him for three years? But then again we weren’t around each other that much, besides the occasional overlapwhen Sandra would visit me in London and insist on hosting some version of a family gathering. Coker had somehow always ended up sitting beside me, or directly in my line of sight. He was always there, loud and smiling.
I just wish I could pinpoint when this attraction to him had started, and most importantly, I wish I knew how to make it stop.
I sigh and tell the others I need to make a call. No one questions me, some barely even look up from their drinks. As I stand up from the table, I notice the empty place where Coker was sitting. He must have headed back to the hotel, he tends to do that a lot.
