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Oliver wasn’t like that, of course. When Lee had come out to him, one pizza and three vodka shots in, Oliver’s initial frown had scared him. “I’m sorry, mate,” Oliver had started, and Lee had braced himself for the worst even though Oliver had always seemed fine with Ben. But Ben was theircoach, not someone who had the locker beside Oliver’s and showered next to him on a regular basis. “That must be tough,” Oliver had continued, still frowning. “Having to hide like that. I understand why you do it, but I’m sorry that’s still a thing.”
Lee had pulled him into a hug before he could think better of it, and Oliver hadn’t even hesitated to hug him back. So, yeah. Oliver wasn’t like that. Most of the Manchester United players weren’t like that, or they wouldn’t have lasted long under Ben.
Still.
“Yeah? Seemed like a nice lad to me, Alex.” Oliver set his empty water bottle down. “Met him a couple of months ago, during those friendlies you sat out.”
Lee made a noncommittal noise and focused on Ben, who’d just panthered into the room and now stood near the entrance, surveying the scene like a general assessing his troops. He wasn’t a tall man by any measure, but there was an intensity about him that commanded attention. When he clapped his hands, every head turned.
“All right, gents.” Ben paced forward. “So they’re ahead by one goal. Big fuckingdeal. Because here’s what’s gonna happen in the second half—we go out there and we raise some fucking hell. You press high, don’t be afraid to take a risk or two, and whatever mistake they make, we’ll be right there to make ’em pay. Are you with me?”
Nods and a scattered “Yeah!” here and there.
“Isaid” —Ben narrowed sharp blue eyes at them— “are you fuckingwithme?”
Several more yeahs, Lee’s one of them.
“I can’t fuckinghearyou!”
Clenched fists and a chorus of “Fuck yeah!” and “Hell yes!”
“Good.” Ben’s gaze swept the room, and as much as Lee admired him, it was moments like this when his intensity bordered on psychopathic. Lee would know; he’d been accused of the same. Then again, no one in this room would have been here without an edge of obsession that had put them ahead of their peers—getting up at 5 a.m. to run drills before school, sacrificing friendships and movie nights to tour the country every weekend with a bunch of other kids who mostly hadn’t made it. If you were chill about being the very fucking best, you’d never go professional.
Everyone here was a tad psycho. Some just hid it better than others.
“So. We’ll switch to a more aggressive formation.” Ben stalked over to the tactics board. “Sami, Yann—we’ll push you further up. Neal, Kae—hold the line. Ron, Jace—any attack, I want you to join. Let’s see how they like it when we overload their defence.” Nods all around. “Lee.”
Lee sat up straight, meeting Ben’s eyes. It felt a bit like he was being called on in class, only this was a test he’d actually studied for. “Yep?”
“Keep Beaufort busy—we don’t want him kicking off a counterattack. If you can’t lose him, try to draw additional players to you, open up some gaps for others.”
“Clear,” Lee said.
“Excellent.” Ben’s smile looked distinctly predatory as he tapped the tactics board. “Then let’s take back what’s rightfully ours—the top of the fucking table!”
This time, a chorus of “Fucking right!” and “Hell yeah!” washed through the locker room without Ben’s prompting. Lee drew a deep breath and held it in his lungs for a moment before he slowly released it.
He was going to keep Alex plenty busy, all right.
Ten minutes to go.
Jimmer must have told his team to go full risk because they kept crashing against Liverpool’s defence like a multi-legged tidal wave. While it made Manchester vulnerable to counterattacks, Oliver had swatted every shot out of the air as though it was a mildly bothersome insect.
Alex pushed dark brown hair off his forehead and gave himself one second to catch his breath after a sprint across half the pitch that had ended with the ball in Oliver’s arms,again. When Alex turned on his heel to jog right back to where he’d come from, he found Lee way ahead already—a fox who’d sensed his chance to escape the hounds, and Christ, how had a reportedly civilised country like the UK not managed to fully erase such a thing? Sure, Alex’s father maintained that fox hunting was a noble tradition that—stop,focus. Couldn’t afford to get tired and distracted.
Bloody Lee Taylor.
Heart hammering, breath coming in short little puffs, Alex sped up just as Lee was briefly delayed by Liverpool’s defence. The time it took Lee to first circle Jax, then tunnel Declan, was just enough for Alex to catch up.
It was a split second—Lee shifted his weight and prepared to shoot just as Alex lunged forward. Their legs tangled, and they went down in a heap, the ball rolling away in slow motion.
The referee’s whistle was almost lost to the din of the crowd, and wait,no. Reality stuttered back into gear as Alex sprang to his feet. Touching only the other player was penalty territory, but he’d played the ball, for fuck’s sake. He’d played the actual ball.
Hadn’t he?
Next to him, Lee jumped up too, starting for the referee to demand a penalty.No, no, no.“That was a clean tackle!” Alex protested. He jostled in next to Lee, their elbows bumping, Jeff already there to make the case for Liverpool, two Manchester players arguing against him. The referee gestured for all of them to settle down as he tapped his earpiece, then marched off to review the footage.
Alex had played the ball. He had, hehad. Yes, it had been a last-ditch, desperate effort to stop Lee, but it had been fair. Maybe Lee had tripped over his own two feet or cleverly got himself tangled up with Alex so it wouldlooklike foul play.
