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Noise welled up again from the stands as Oliver threw the ball to Alfie, who passed it on to Jeff.Follow him, for fuck’s sake!Alfie was slow to do so, trotting after Jeff where Alex would have opted for a sprint, but it didn’t matter—Jeff found Lee, already far into the Brazilian half. Lee curved around one defender and dropped a second, only the goalkeeper left to beat. A feint to the right, the keeper swayed, and then Lee used his slightly weaker left foot to slide it in.
Goal!
“Yes!” Alex jumped up along with the others on the bench and only just remembered to keep most of his weight on his good leg. He threw up his arms, cheering and laughing, hugging whoever was closest, and God, he wanted to be right there on that pitch and feel Lee up against him, even if it was only for a second.
Lee stopped by the coaching zone on his way back to the English half, face radiant as he collected an embrace from Kieran. When Lee’s gaze found Alex’s, they looked at each other for a beat that twisted in Alex’s stomach, hot and heavy, very nearly disorienting. But it still didn’t scare him.
It was at the seventeen-minute mark that the match kicked off again—England one, Brazil zero. Early into the game, still early, but oh, it was one step closer to making the dream come true.
Moments before the first half ended, Brazil scored to make it even. A wave of yellow and green rolled through the stands while Alex watched, helpless, as Oliver fished the ball out of the net with an expression so grim Alex could tell even from here. Oliver had stopped the first shot, but it had bounced off Finley and right in front of a Brazilian player who’d wasted no time booting it. And it had gone in.
Fuck.
Alex spent the break patting shoulders and doling out praise, sitting with Jeff for a few minutes before he moved to Lee’s side, pressing their shoulders together. “Beautiful goal,” he told him. “Score another, and I’ll owe you a favour.”
Lee slid Alex a meaningful look. “A favour?”
Alex lowered his voice. “Whatever you want.”
“And how” —Lee glanced around the room to confirm that no one paid them any mind— “is this conducive to my concentration?”
Alex sent him a sweet smile. “And how is it my fault if your mind chooses to take a dip into the gutter?”
“The innocent act might work a lot better on someone who doesn’t see you parade naked around our room most mornings.” The tension around Lee’s mouth had relaxed though, and that had been Alex’s aim all along.
“I’m an angel,” Alex said, dignified.
“Lucifer was an angel, too.”
It startled a genuine laugh out of Alex. “Such a charmer.”
People started trickling out of the locker room, and Alex fell in line, right by Lee’s side. Back on the pitch, they separated after a quick glance that lingered bright in Alex’s mind even as nerves knotted up his belly.
England came out strong, pressed high for a second goal, only to be overrun by a lighting-quick counterattack some ten minutes later—two against one, the ball grazing Oliver’s fingertips. And then it was in.
Alex covered his face with his hands, inhaled through the gaps between his fingers, and released the air in a whoosh. There was time yet, plenty of time to tie the game, even score a couple of goals and bring it home. He raised his head and found Kieran already shouting instructions, toeing the very edge of his coaching zone.
Come on, lads!
Jeff kicked them off again, and then England tried. And tried. Andtried. Yet each attempt was stopped by the Brazilian goalkeeper or by a defender, by a foot or an elbow, the game turning nastier by the minute. Another interruption, another free kick that didn’t find its way through the Brazilian wall, and Alex sat on the edge of his seat, fists pressed against his mouth. Please,please. Just one goal to carry them into extra time. Justone.
Eighteen minutes left. Eleven. Nine. Five, then three. Injury time—another six minutes that trickled away like water, gone too fast.
The final whistle.
It was over.
Alex sagged in his seat and tipped his head against the backrest, reality filtering through in stuttering bits and pieces—the hush that had fallen over the English bench while Brazilian players shouted their triumph, tumbling over each other in celebratory piles. The way Jeff dropped where he stood, falling backwards into the grass as though shot. Lee, simply standing there, staring at his feet.
Slowly, Alex got up and made his way onto the pitch, disregarding the mild discomfort as he put weight on his bad ankle. He was dimly aware that a camera operator trailed him because apparently, drama made for good TV and, injured or not, Alex had a notorious dad and a face that played well on camera. Some other day, he might have cared while now, it hardly registered.
Jeff was closer and on the way to Lee, which saved Alex from an impossible choice. He draped himself over Jeff in an octopus tackle and gave it a few seconds, providing a visual shield from the cameras so Jeff could wipe at his eyes. Then Alex pulled Jeff to his feet and, collecting Oliver along the way, over to where Lee had come unfrozen. Lee was still blinking a little owlishly, a deep frown etched into his forehead, but he nodded at a couple of passing Brazilian players who patted him on the back in consolation before they returned to their celebrations.
In spite of his ankle, Alex got there half a step before Jeff and Oliver, wrapped both arms around Lee and whispered, “I’m so sorry, babe. I’m so sorry.”
Lee swallowed and turned his head, his cheek damp against Alex’s. Jeff bumped into Alex’s back and joined their huddle, Oliver hesitating for a moment before Lee reached out blindly to pull him in with them. “Fuck,” Oliver muttered—Oliver, who Alex couldn’t remember ever swearing before.
“Yeah,” Jeff agreed in an undertone.
