Chapter 10
AUSTIN
—Salt In The Wound
by boygenius
Now that I have the room to myself, my brain immediately circles back to an important question. How do I get Johnson here? Short of kidnapping him, I’m coming up empty. I’m in the middle of workshopping my Bring Johnson to my room masterplan when my phone lights up and starts ringing.
Seeing Sandra’s name on my screen feels like someone threw cold water on me. Whatever semi I was nursing from my earlier interaction with Johnson—and the extremely productive direction my thoughts were heading—deflates in record time. I scrub a hand over my face and answer.
“Hey, you.”
Her face fills the screen, bright and smiling. “You made it to round of sixteen, whoop!” she cheers.
I can’t help smiling back despite the tiny pinch of guilt twisting in my chest. Sandra has been cheering for me long before I got called up to the big leagues, even before I made it to the academy. She has always shown up, even before any of this had felt real.
“We did,” I say, matching her excitement. “But I didn’t score a goal.”
“You will score in the next game,” she states, dead serious. “Roland was on fire though. I can’t wait to watch you guys play live.”
I blink. I hadn’t actually asked if she were still coming to the games, I sort of assumed she would sit this one out. “You’re coming?”
“Of course.” She sounds personally offended that I would even ask. “I always come to watch you whenever I can. And I promised Roland I would be there.”
I hate hiding things from Sandra, and if this were any other guy, I would have already dumped the entire story in her lap.
The fact that I am not doing that now makes me question my character a little.
But even though I know it’s irrational, I’m scared of how she will react.
No matter how laid back she is, I still cannot predict her behaviour most of the time and somewhere deep in me, I want to keep whatever I have with Johnson to myself for a little while.
Does this officially make me a bad person?
I just never thought what I did with Johnson would ever happen.
Not in real life, never outside my fantasies.
But he’d been so obviously into it that just replaying that night in my head sends a slow burn through my body.
The memory of my hands on him, the way he looked under me hits me all at once, and oh my God, my cock is half-mast again.
“You seem far away,” Sandra says, pulling me back. “Did he corner you again?”
He cornered me alright, I want to say, but I swallow it down and paste on a careful smile.
“Nah, he’s actually more approachable.”
“He really is a good guy, you know?” she sighs. “I was annoyed at first that he didn’t seem heartbroken about the split. Or maybe he was but didn’t show it. Regardless, I’ve had enough time to think about it, and we just weren’t right for each other.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, and the second it leaves my mouth I realise I have no idea what I am apologising for.
Sorry their marriage ended? Sorry I climbed into bed with her ex-husband so soon after? Sorry I’m still thinking about doing it again while she’s smiling at me through my phone?
Okay. Maybe I am a terrible person.
“It is what it is,” she says with a small shrug.
Continuing this conversation is risky for me because I might end up blurting out what happened between me and Johnson. I fake a yawn, stretching my jaw for effect. “I should rest. When are you getting here?”
Her eyes narrow slightly like she can see through me. “That’s why I called, actually. My flight is tomorrow evening. I’ll join you for the knockout stages.”
“You need me to arrange your pickup and hotel?”
“Nah. Mom and dad will pick me up.”
Another slice of guilt slides under my ribs. The last time I spoke to her parents was in Brazil, and I’m pretty sure they were the ones who called me.
“Shit. I keep forgetting to call them.”
“They don’t hold it against you. We’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Yeah. See you,” I say, lifting my hand in a pointless wave as the call ends and her face disappears from the screen.
I stare at my reflection in the dark glass for a second. Okay, where was I?
I get off the bed and head into the bathroom for a quick shower.
By the time I step back into the room, my stomach is growling loud enough to be embarrassing, even with no one around to hear it.
I pull on some clean shorts and a polo, grab my keycard, and head out for dinner, secretly hoping I will run into Johnson.
No such luck. The restaurant is quiet except for a few scattered guests. Either most people had already eaten, or they’re planning to come down later, which means I am stuck eating alone. After dinner I head back to my room and pass out the second my head hits the pillow.
Bayero entering the room the next morning wakes me up, everything after that moves fast. We get dressed, head to the bus, and we’re at training before my brain fully boots up.
I try to focus on drills, on my footing, on literally anything else, but my eyes keep drifting to our goalie.
I pretend I’m watching for professional reasons.
Completely normal teammate behaviour. Nothing suspicious at all.
Once training ends, I make a beeline for him, still figuring out how we can be alone.
But by the time I get to where I’d seen him, he’s gone.
I don’t see Johnson again until our match against Canada at St Mary’s Stadium.
We tear through them, scoring goal after goal until it feels like we were spelling their country’s name on the scoreboard.
When the ball finally collides with the back of the net off my strike—the net snapping tight as the ball sinks—the rush is unreal.
I sprint, shouting, teammates crashing into me from all sides.
The roar from the Nigerian fans who came to support their Flying Greens is electric.
I don’t know who came up with that name, but it seems appropriate today.
Since we’re advancing to the quarter final and our next match isn’t until next week, Coach finally takes pity on us and agrees we can go out to celebrate. We decide on visiting a bar, but before I go join the rest of the team, I swing by Sandra’s hotel to see her and her parents.
The second Mrs Bassey sees me, her whole face lights up. “Austin,” she sings, sweeping me into a hug. “You did good.”
“Thank you, ma,” I say, laughing as she squeezes me one more time before letting me go so her husband can pull me into a firm hug of his own.
“My voice is scratchy because I couldn’t stop whooping,” Mr Bassey tells me.
I grin, but the warmth in my chest comes with an ache. I do my best not think about my parents most days. It’s easier that way. Still, watching the Basseys beam at me like this sends a little pang through my heart. A part of me wishes my parents were here to see it. To see me.
Mrs Bassey steps back and gives me a slow once-over. “You’re eating well?” she asks.
“Yes, ma.”
“And resting?”
“I’m trying.”
She studies my face for another second, then nods.
Once I pass her inspection, I turn to Sandra.
Seeing her drags the guilt right to the forefront and I think I could try to ease her into it, test the waters, maybe drop some hints and see how she reacts.
But that sounds exhausting so I’m just going to rip the band aid off and see what happens.
Best case scenario, we joke about it and she tells me it’s okay to carry on with him.
Worst case, I fake my own death, change my name and disappear with Johnson.
“You want to come to the bar with me?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “Nah. I kind of have a date.”
Oh. I guess it can wait then. My eyes flick to her parents, waiting for a reaction, but they look completely calm. If they heard her, they don’t show it. They’ve always been like that, not questioning her choices as long she’s happy with them.
After another round of hugs, I grab a cab and head to the bar to meet up with the team.
My only goal tonight is getting Johnson alone by any means necessary.
Akintola and Bayero are outside when I arrive, deep in conversation.
I nod at them on my way in before stepping into the noise and heat of the bar.
Music pounds through the space, bass thudding in my chest, but I don’t pay attention to what’s playing. My eyes sweep the room automatically, zeroing in on Johnson within seconds.
And then I notice he’s not alone.
The guy sitting next to him looks around his age and is annoyingly attractive, with long dreadlocks that fall around his face.
Normally, I would be all over that, but tonight, I don’t have the patience.
He’s sitting too close to Johnson, their shoulders are touching, and their heads are tipped towards each other.
Johnson looks so relaxed with him, more than I’ve ever seen him with anybody else.
I look around, searching for our teammates, but with the exception of the two I saw outside, none of them are here. I guess that’s why Johnson is comfortable picking a guy here.
I don’t know why, but the sight of them makes something in me recoil.
My whole body hates it on instinct. I tell myself to relax, and I stop my feet from moving in their direction.
I pretend I’m above this. Questions rush through my head, tripping over each other as I try to make sense of what I’m looking at.
Did Johnson ever mention being with men before me?
Did we even talk about anything real that night?
My brain unhelpfully replays the memory of me jerking our cocks in tandem, his body writhing under me. Yeah, conversation was not exactly my priority.
Fuck this shit.
I take a step towards them before I even realise I’m moving, then I stop so abruptly I trip over my own feet.
What exactly am I planning to do here? Am I seriously about to confront him for talking to another guy?
It’s not like we made plans to hook up again or that we’d only hook up with each other.
We didn’t promise each other anything. One and done is already more than I ever thought I’d get.
The reality check cools me down and I pivot to the bar instead.
If I’m lucky, I’ll find a drink strong enough to drown this stupid feeling.
Maybe I can also get a guy and drag him into the bathroom, get my hands down his pants, or sink to my knees until I’m too busy choking on cock to think about Johnson at all.
If that doesn’t work, I can bend him over and fuck him until Johnson is finally pushed out of my head.