Chapter 5
Freddie
FEbrUARY
By mid-February, I’ve convinced myself that Marlon is nothing but a team mate. I may have felt a bit of a crush there for a moment, but whatever. It’s passed. I’m back to normal. We’re back to normal.
Then he goes and scores a goal and my house of lies crumbles.
It’s a banger of a free-kick, fired directly into the goal’s upper-left corner, leaving the opposing goalkeeper helpless. It’s super fucking important for the team, clinching a last-minute win against a direct opponent. It’s also Marlon’s first goal since our promotion to the first team.
Sure, he was never a goal getter—that’s my job, after all. That makes it all the more exciting.
My gaze flies to him and I am charmed by the surprised expression on his face. It takes him a full second and I watch, gleefully, when joy and pride finally flood his face. His eyes go wide, the corners of his mouth lift, and he beams.
He is so. Fucking. Beautiful.
The whole team runs towards him, descending upon him like an avalanche of joy. My heart lurches at the sight of it, his laughing face no longer visible but etched into my heart nonetheless. Everything I’ve pushed down the last couple of weeks comes back with even more ferocity.
I’m late to join the celebrations, momentarily stunned by my happiness for him and the feelings churning in my heart. Now though, my body moves, carrying me across the field to the pile of happy Westfield players. They’re hugging him, clapping his back, yelling in his ear.
I want to push them away so I can have him all to myself, selfishly, wantonly.
Kiss his laughing mouth, admire the way he’s beaming like he wants to light up the whole damn stadium by himself.
But I keep a grip on myself. Barely. Instead, I jump into his arms, loving the strength of his arms as he catches me and holds me up.
I hold onto him, one hand reaching up to cradle his head, unable to stop myself.
“Yes!” I shout at him, too overwhelmed for words. “Yes! You did it!” The moment is mixing everything together, things that should be staying separated, playing our sport and being mates and being more than mates and, I realise belatedly, being watched by dozens of bloody cameras.
I jump back, out of Marlon’s arms, and instead wrap him in a tight hug. “You amazing man”, I say into his ear, not letting him go. “I could kiss you right now.”
Marlon’s body stiffens, but he’s better than me at doing this. “Funny,” he retorts. “Julian told me the same thing.”
I laugh and then I inhale deeply, the smell of his sweat reminding me of that one night we had together. “Yeah, but did he mean it?”
Marlon lets go of me and I instinctively chase after his warmth, then pull myself together. Everybody else is already back in position, ready to kick off again for the last minute or two still remaining on the clock. I should get back too. I should move.
“Do you?” Marlon’s question hits me hard and as I look at him, tension hangs heavy between us for a moment. There’s something in his gaze that hits me right in the gut.
Then he grins, lopsidedly, claps me on the shoulder and jogs down the field, back to his place in the line-up. I follow him, body moving on auto pilot while I mull over the question.
Do I?
No. Obviously. It was a one-time thing.
Hadidja and I aren’t real, but I still need to act like we are. I can’t blow both of our covers.
Occasional one night stands? Sure. Going back for more to the same person? No way.
The referee looks impatient when I finally return to the centre circle for kick-off. He blows his whistle and I force my head back in the game. That’s what matters. That’s all that can matter.
Things go back to normal eventually. I keep scoring, the team keeps winning.
Marlon and I are both called up to the national team, though only I get to play.
We act normal around each other and it’s helpful that Julian and his best friend Jakub are drawing attention towards themselves, like they have for years.
It takes the spotlight off of me, which gives me room to breathe.
This first season is turning out to be a whirlwind.
An amazing, overwhelming, breathtaking whirlwind of unexpected success and attention.
It makes me perform better and it also makes me keep my secrets even closer to my chest. Aspiring youth player Freddie Bloom didn’t want his sexuality to come to light.
Rising star Freddie Bloom cannot risk it. It would destroy everything.
Hadidja has been awesome, leaning into the role of supportive girlfriend, posting pictures of us together or of herself in the arena, wearing my jersey.
The happy couple we pretend to be is nowhere near the truth; I’m barely home as the season inches towards the finish line, and Hadidja has started seeing someone in secret.
A woman. I love that for her, and for me, too.
It’s nice to have someone who gets it. Who knows what it’s like to fall for a person, not a gender.
Not that I’ve fallen for anyone, lately. Obviously.
I’m too busy for that.
I haven’t even met up with anyone in… weeks. Months, probably, by now. Not since… well. I sigh and get up from the table at the team banquet. We just won the Champions League quarter-finals, defeating a strong opponent on home soil, and the team is ecstatic.
I’m ecstatic. I didn’t score, but this is still the most exciting thing I’ve ever done. Westfield is the kind of club that expects excellence without fail, so the bosses at the high table are wearing satisfied smiles but don’t join in our rambunctious celebrations.
Neither does Marlon.
In fact, I haven’t seen him in a while. Not that I’ve been looking for him.
Our defensive performance wasn’t great by any means tonight, but who cares?
We did it. It wasn’t Marlon’s best game, but it won’t matter going forward.
He can make up for it in the semis. In the fucking semi-finals of the fucking Champions League.
A grin creeps back on my face, replacing the melancholic thoughts from a minute ago.
Julian suddenly ruffles my hair and presses a glass of champagne into my hand. “Drink up!” he says with a grin, raising his own glass.
He’s handsome. It’s not the first time I’ve thought that, but that doesn’t make it any less true. His dark curls look so soft and the stubble he’s been growing lately suits him. I grin up at him and obediently down my drink in one gulp.
If I had a choice, I’d pick ashy blond hair over dark curls any time.
Fuck. I need some air.
I push back my chair and mumble an excuse that nobody cares about. Surely there’s a patio somewhere where I can hide for a bit. I walk out of the ballroom we’ve rented for the occasion and make my way down the corridor.
It doesn’t take long until I find a set of French doors that lead outside. I’ve barely pushed them open when I can smell smoke; clearly some of my other colleagues have found the spot before me. Though their idea of “fresh air” is a little different from mine.
There are a couple of potted palm trees that hide my colleagues from me still, but I can hear their voices clearly.
“—so glad we beat those pussies!” one of them says.
“Yeah, fucking Italian faggots, would have killed me to lose to them.” A round of chuckles follows the statement.
“Little cocksuckers, every one of them,” a third voice says, and this time, they all laugh. “We showed them how real men play.”
I’m frozen in my spot and for a second, I'm sick to my stomach. It’s normal dressing room talk, in a way, but I’ve never liked it. For obvious reasons. When you do the thing—are the thing—that they use as a slur, it does something to you.
And it sure as hell discourages me from joining them. I know they’re good guys, most of the time anyway, and they’d be horrified if they knew how their comments impact me. But still. I’d rather not have to grin and bear it.
So I back off before anyone can notice me and go looking for another spot. Luckily, the gilded plate between the two elevators tells me there’s a rooftop terrace, so I go for that.
The elevator doors open right into the open air and I breathe in deeply. The air is fresh up here, fresh and chilly and wet. Raindrops are pattering on the tiny glass canopy above me and I close my eyes and smile. I hadn’t even noticed the sound downstairs with all the chatter I overheard.
This is exactly what I needed.
I debate staying here and taking a couple breaths, or stepping out into the rain. In my mind, Coach is rolling his eyes at me because I’m even thinking about it, such a stupid idea, no time to catch a cold. That seals it for me and I take a step forward.
I won’t be here long, I’ll be fine. And I can have a nice hot shower in my room when I go back inside. That will also be a great alibi for why I didn’t come back to the banquet, so really, it’s a win-win situation.
Wins. I smile to myself. We’ve had a lot of those, recently, and hardly any time to celebrate them. Milestones I’ve anticipated for years seem to fly by. Reaching ten goals in the league. Scoring my first Champions League goal. Being named Man of the Match.
Me from a year ago would have been floored if even one of these things had happened to him. And I’ve …raced through it. There’s always another game to play, another goal to score. In this club, nothing is ever good enough until you’re the best of the best.
I tilt my head back and stretch out my tongue, catching a couple raindrops on it, then I laugh at my own antics. It’s easy to laugh, now, after this win. A couple hours ago, when we were down 2-0 at halftime, I was this close to crying like a toddler, right there in the dressing room.