Chapter 17
AUSTIN
—Bloody Samaritan
by Ayra Starr
For a moment, I lose my head. I start towards Johnson’s locker, ready to ask him to speak with Coach Thompson, but halfway there, I come back to my senses and pivot to the dugout with the other substitutes.
From the bench, I watch as the first eleven walk out of the tunnel and onto the pitch at Carrow Road Stadium in Norwich, the noise rolling in waves but not deafening yet. The pitch looks perfect with its short green grass and the white lines across it. Even from here, it smells fresh.
They line up at midfield to shake hands with the ?estoki Hrvati. One by one, they exchange quick nods and polite smiles. The Croatians look relaxed and self-assured, probably because they think they have this in their pockets.
When the line breaks, the noise swells, especially with our fans.
Boots thud against the field as players jog away to their position.
Dosumu moves with our teammates towards the centre of the field, and I feel my heart starting to beat harder, the usual mix of focus and adrenaline settling in even though I’m not playing.
I tell myself not to stare at him, but I do just that anyway. Johnson is near his goalpost, stretching his arms and bouncing lightly on his feet, the net behind him hanging loose and still.
Jesus, he looks fucking good just stretching. I turn away quickly before anyone catches me staring, heat crawling up my neck. This is neither the time nor place to be ogling my own goalkeeper like some love-struck fool.
The referee blows the whistle, and I try not to flinch at the sound in my ears.
You’d think I’d have gotten used to it by now, but no, I’m still jumpy.
The match gets going and Alimi, our central midfielder, taps the ball backward.
I lean forward on the bench without even thinking about it, elbows on my knees as I follow the movement.
Croatia doesn’t waste time in snatching the ball, but we win it back which helps me to breathe again because I forgot how to for a moment there.
My attention narrows on Dosumu as he holds the ball up when he gets it and lays it off to Imeh, our attacking midfielder, but a Croatian steals it again.
I sink back into my seat, pressing my lips together and swallowing my frustration.
The match drifts for a while after that, the ball moving from end to end without anything spectacular happening.
I continue watching without locking in, until a shot comes in from the distance and my attention snaps right back towards the goalpost in time to watch Johnson drop low and gather it into his hands.
When he stands, I try not to stare at him.
I really do, it just doesn’t last long. How unfair is it that he makes stopping balls look so sexy?
On the pitch, he is a literal god and I’m not even exaggerating.
Everything about him is so controlled and effortless, starting from the way he moves before things even happen to the way the defenders listen when he calls.
I should be focused on the match properly, but I keep watching him anyway, and then my brain drags me somewhere else completely.
Because the same control he has out here is exactly what I know he loses when it’s just us.
This man who looks like an impenetrable wall right now is the same man I’ve had underneath me, completely undone, and fucked into the mattress until all that composure disappears, his voice going from commanding to breathless moans he doesn’t try to hide.
Fuck my life.
My cock twitches at the memory and I have to adjust myself, hoping no one notices, then force my eyes back to the pitch like that will reset my thoughts.
It doesn’t, though and if anything, it just makes it worse because my mind then brings up how I get to be the one to take him apart and then slowly put him back together.
My focus returns to the game when I see Dosumu shift the ball onto his right foot before taking the shot.
At first, it does not look like much, just another attempt from outside the box, and I am already halfway into looking away again, my eyes drifting back to Johnson out of habit when I hear the referee’s whistle.
I look back just in time to see the net ripple and for a second, everything is noise.
Our bench explodes, players on the pitch already running, and I only fully process it when I see my teammates lifting Dosumu off the ground, shouting and laughing.
I spring up from my seat, fist punching the air as I let out a loud whoop before bumping chests with the other substitutes.
That’s more like it!
Both teams walk back to the centre circle for the restart, the noise from our fans still loud as Croatia tap the ball back into play.
A few minutes later they’re back at it, building again just outside our box, moving the ball around like they’re trying to find a crack in us somewhere, but Johnson keeps stopping all their attempts.
I watch the angle of a particular pass, and the way the Croatian player positions his body before the touch even comes to him.
His foot opens up slightly as he receives it, and I get this feeling that he’s going to aim the ball to the top right of the net.
I glance at Johnson to see him already shifting his feet and adjusting his position.
For a second, it feels like he can read my mind, but that’s just wishful thinking on my part.
I know that Johnson is in his element right now, his whole focus locked onto whatever tiny clue that’ll help him catch the shot coming at him.
That’s what makes him the best goalkeeper in the league.
It’s a tag he’s earned with the way he has perfected reading other players body and movement, his finely honed instinct, and how he can quickly adapt to situations.
That last one is particularly true when I think about how he sucks in my cock and takes it like he’s starving for it.
When the Croatian takes the shot—and it is a really good one—it lifts and curls exactly where I thought it would, but Johnson is already there.
He pushes off, stretches, and gets a hand to it, tipping it away.
The stadium erupts in a deafening noise, and I’m already on my feet with the rest of the substitutes, clapping and shouting his name without really thinking about it.
Once he’s steady on his feet, he brushes his gloves together and then looks towards the bench, his eyes stopping on me.
There’s a shift in his expression when our eyes lock, like something in him finally loosens.
His shoulders drop a fraction, his face relaxing in a way it never does on the pitch, and the smile that follows isn’t big or showy.
It’s not something anyone else would see, but it’s there and I know it is only for me.
I grin before I can stop myself, clapping again, louder this time.
My chest feel lighter as I watch him turn back to the game, and I think to myself: yes, that’s my man.
He keeps doing what he does best after that, saving everything they throw at him. By the time the final whistle goes, the score is one nil, and we’re through to the semi-finals. Somehow, that doesn’t even make me as happy as the thought of getting to touch Johnson again.
We celebrate on the bus from Norwich all the way to Sheffield, laughter filling the aisle, Akintola singing badly while Bayero cackles beside him, and no matter how many times Coach Thompson tells us to quiet down, the energy refuses to dip.
But he’s smiling to himself, trying to look stern but failing spectacularly.
I try to slide into the seat beside Johnson, but Alimi beats me to it, immediately praising him about the saves he made.
I pretend not to care and take the row behind them.
From time to time, Johnson glances back at me.
When our eyes meet, he gives me the smallest of winks, and I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face.
Luck is against us this time because when I check the room list in the hotel lobby, his name isn’t next to mine.
I peruse it over and over, but it doesn’t change.
Johnson walks towards me and the disappointment on his face is so loud it makes me consider booking a separate room with my own money—another room like in Norwich where we can sleep on one bed and reserve the other for fucking.
“You know,” I say, stepping closer to him so no one else hears, “we could get out of here and be back before training tomorrow. No one would suspect a thing.”
He smiles, which I take to mean he’s picturing it, but he shakes his head. “We shouldn’t risk it.”
I can’t say I’m surprised. He hasn’t given me any reason to think he would be down for that.
Yes, we can fuck when we share a room, when we exist in our own little bubble where he is mine.
Outside of that bubble, I can’t lay claim to him.
It’s my turn to be disappointed, but I try not to let it show.
“Are you angry?” he asks.
His hand drifts near mine, and his knuckles brush against me so quickly it feels like I hallucinated it.
I can’t stay mad at him, it’s not even physically possible. Before I can tell him that, Bayero appears at my side and asks if I’m ready to go to our room. I wave awkwardly to Johnson and leave.
My mood stays funky for the rest of the day, and even during training the next day. Match day sneaks up on us so quickly, I haven’t been able to shake it off. It doesn’t help when Coach sends in Okafor, benching Johnson this time and saying he wants him rested for the finals if we make it.
Argentina kicks the ball when the referee blows the whistle to start the play, tapping it backwards to their midfield.
We start fighting for our lives from that point.
They move quickly and confidently and we, on the other hand, are scrambling.
It surprises no one when Argentina scores their first goal only five minutes after.
Not too long after that, Alozie goes down.
I can’t tell how it happens. One second, he’s tracking back, the next he’s on the turf clutching at his leg.
Part of me wonders if he’s faking it because he knows the game is about to be gruelling.
Either way, the fourth official’s board buzzes from the sidelines.
I glance over just in time to see him lift the electronic board above his head, bright red and green numbers glowing in the sunlight showing that Alozie is getting subbed out and Olaoye is coming to take his place.
Two medics help Alozie to his feet, and he claps his hands once towards the Nigerian crowd before stepping off the pitch. Olaoye sprints past him, charging straight onto the field, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. He barely glances at us or the crowd, planting himself into position.
The game continues. We manage to get a little control of the ball, but it doesn’t matter because nothing we do seems to work.
Not Bayero pressing aggressively in midfield, and definitely not me running after the Argentina defenders, nudging them just enough to make them fumble a rushed clearance.
We are really struggling here. But I keep going, reminding myself that Johnson is rooting for me, even if I’m too chicken to glance at the dugout to see the expression on his face.
I however let myself hear his voice in my head like I always do during tough matches like this, urging me on, and I push myself forward.
The board goes up after some time and it’s our side again. Lawal jogs off, sweat soaking through his jersey. Mfon, another winger on the bench, comes on in his place. He stretches as he runs, arms swinging loosely, his eyes already locked on the ball. It’s obvious Coach is chasing the game now.
It still doesn’t work, though. And even by halftime when Johnson tries to motivate us, I think we’ve already given up.
As we’re about to go back to the field, he moves closer to me and squeezes my shoulder.
The small touch is probably supposed to offer me comfort, but I don’t deserve it, not when I’m disappointing him so spectacularly.
Like I expected, no matter how hard we try after the match restarts, the Argentinian team is just too good, and they end up handing us our arses.
When the final whistle blows, the scoreboard reads five for Argentina and a robust zero for us, effectively knocking us out of the World Cup.
It stings but as the commentators are saying over the noise, no one expects us to come this far.
We tried our best and gave it everything.
My shorts are clinging uncomfortably to my thighs, and my legs feel like they might collapse.
We jog to the midfield to shake hands, and then we turn and walk off the pitch.