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The home crowd erupted into cheers, like thunder in Alex’s ears as he threw himself into Jeff’s arms. “Fucking champ!” he yelled, and Jeff laughed against his cheek, other teammates joining their huddle.
Top of the table. At least for now.
Twenty-nine minutes down, sixty-one to go, plus injury time.
A short distance away, Oliver was gesticulating in obvious frustration at his goal, two defenders with him. Alex had met him during a series of friendlies earlier in the year, non-competitive practice matches where the then-national coach had brought in a number of less established players like Alex while some of the usual suspects got to rest up for a change. Oliver seemed like a decent bloke, uncommonly outspoken about how football needed to ramp up its sustainability efforts and players collecting sports cars sent the wrong signal, about how female referees should be normalised and sexual orientation finally become a non-issue. Alex might have hoped for some pleasant company in his closet if he hadn’t seen Oliver’s face light up when talking about his wife.
It was probably easier to be this vocal when your coach was Ben Jimmer, the first and, depressingly, still the only player to have come out at the prime of his Premier League career, as well as the official patron saint of any footballer who refused to fit the standard PR narrative. Alex’s father despised Jimmer, of course.
And speaking of… Upon returning to his assigned spot in front of the defence line, Alex caught sight of Jimmer prowling along the perimeter of his coaching zone, dishing out instructions. Mid-thirties suited him. But then Alex was biased, what with how he would forever admire Jimmer for having the guts to put himself out there—too bad that no one had chosen to walk in his footsteps. And yes, Alex realised the hypocrisy of the thought given he kept his own bisexuality tucked well out of sight, but God, he was only twenty-three and far from a household name, had yet to win his first proper title and everything. Not yet. One day, perhaps, but not yet.
Maybe never.
Alex’s eyes narrowed when Jimmer waved Lee over and the two put their heads together. Well, well. If what they were planning involved Lee scoring a goal, Alex would have to disappoint them because his hero worship of Jimmer only went so far. When Lee moved back into position near the centre circle, he caught Alex’s gaze and held it. One corner of Lee’s mouth lifted in a private little smirk, and Christ, Alex wanted him to bloodychokeon all that arrogance.
He sent Lee his biggest, toothiest smile and trusted Lee to read it for exactly the challenge it was.
Fine.Fine.If that was how Alex wanted to play it?
Challenge fucking accepted.
The whistle blew. Lee passed the ball to Fernando on his right and was already moving by the time Fernando received it. Fernando sent it back to Lee, who passed it on to Sami on his left half a second before Alex appeared, Lee’s very own shadow intent on withholding the only drug that Lee believed in—scoring goals. If it hadn’t been so bloody annoying, Lee would have been flattered that Liverpool sacrificed Alex’s considerable playmaker abilities to keep him in check.
Itwasbloody annoying, though.
Lee ducked and swerved, managed to break away a handful of times during the remaining minutes of the first half, but never long enough to get a proper shot in. Fucking Alex Beaufort with his perfect fucking smile and hair andbody.
Halftime break, and they were still one goal down. Lee grumbled his way towards the locker room, Oliver catching up with him on the way there.
“You all right?” Oliver asked quietly, and Lee scoffed.
“Could do without the chaperone.” He held the door for Oliver, accepting a bottle of water from someone as he entered, the relative darkness of the locker room a respite after the blinding sun outside. “And in case you’re wondering? Goal wasn’t your fault.”
“Should’ve secured the stupid ball rather than letting it bounce.” Not one for swearing, Oliver. “Landed right at Whitlock’s feet, too.”
“There are maybe three keepers in the world who could have stopped that first shot from going in, and you’re one of them.Notyour fucking fault it bounced, mate.” Definitely one for swearing, Lee. “They caught our defence on the wrong foot.”
Since pointing fingers was not conducive to team cohesion, Lee left it at that. They slumped onto a bench next to each other, the air-conditioned atmosphere a welcome relief. Lee kicked a shin guard under the bench before he pulled off his soaked jersey and rubbed a towel down his face. Ah, the sweet smell of eau de sweat mixed with grass stains—a constant in Lee’s life ever since he’d graduated from kids’ teams to the teenage ones.
“By the way,” Oliver said, “Kieran Foxwell is here.”
“Yeah?” Lee hadn’t spotted the new national coach in the stands, but it wasn’t a surprise. With the World Cup just weeks away, Foxwell would be seeking as much input as possible to finalise his selection of players.
Oliver was a shoo-in. Lee himself… He liked to think that he was in a similar position, although it certainly wouldn’t hurt if he scored a goal or two in the second half.
“Think he’s here for Sami?” Oliver asked. “Or for Whitlock and Beaufort?”
“All of the above.” Lee leaned back against the locker behind him, briefly closing his eyes. “Not sure if nipping at my heels shows off the full range of Beaufort’s potential, mind.”
Oliver cracked half a grin. “Taking it personally, are you? I don’t usually see you heckle other players.”
Shrugging, Lee glanced at one of the inspirational quotes on the wall. “Just a bit of history, is all.”
“Didn’t realise you guys had met.” Oliver’s tone was easy as he towelled off his short-cropped dark hair, and Lee aimed for an equally light response. This was neither the time nor place for details.
“It was years ago, in the Under 21s—he’d just joined, I was about to move to the first team. We got off on the wrong foot. No big deal.”
That wasn’t entirely true. To this day, Lee blamed Alex for bumping him out of his uneasy denial zone into the even more uneasy reality that yeah, he fancied guys. Sucked for him that Alex had cottoned on to his crush. Sucked for him, too, that rainbow-coloured captain’s armbands aside, football remained a conservative holdout.
