Be My Endgame

Chapter 1

ONE

“Now, folks.” The referee inserted a heavy pause. “I want a nice, clean game. All right?”

Like anyone would tell him that no, what they wanted was an ugly, dirty game. Come on.

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Alex shielded his eyes against the sun, watching the traditional handshake between Jeff and Oliver Bramwell.

Sportsmanship suitably demonstrated, the two captains headed to their respective spots as the referee checked his watch with the air of someone who wanted it known that time answered to him, not the other way around.

The same thing was true for the two teams lined up in formations that differed slightly—two forwards on Alex’s team facing Manchester Athletic’s lone striker.

Lee Taylor.

Alex let his gaze rest on him for a beat, then he returned his attention to the referee.

Come the fuck on.

When the whistle pierced the air, the crowd in the Liverpool Rovers’ packed stadium roared like a ravenous beast. Alex’s focus shrank to the field in front of him.

It was on. Number one against number three, battling it out in a tight race for the top spot in the Premier League.

It was a perfect day for it, too—a cloudless sky in early May, with the sun beating down as if it held a personal grudge against any pale-skinned Brits in the crowd. A sea of red jerseys filled the stands.

On the field, it was a different story. The visiting players were decked out in dark-green away shirts, clearly instructed by their coach to fight for every inch on the field.

Got to hand it to Ben Jimmer, he knew how to turn a team around.

In just over a year of training Manchester Athletic, he’d yanked their sinking star up by its bootstraps and brought them back to Champions League standard.

And Lee Taylor was key to Jimmer’s strategy.

Not today, though. Not if Alex could help it.

It was a hard-fought match from the get-go, both coaches shouting instructions and spectators on the edge of their seats.

Overpriced beer and soggy chips were forgotten in favor of cheering on the teams, the rhythmic beat of drums and clapping a steady hum in Alex’s head.

Lee dashed in and out of the penalty area, light on his feet, blink-and-you’d-lost-him.

Alex didn’t intend to blink and lose him—it was rare for him to mark one specific player, but for the current top scorer of the Premier League, he was willing to make an exception.

Sure, when they’d last faced off against each other, Lee had come out on top and he’d only improved since then. But so had Alex.

At eighteen, Alex had been slight and gangly, hadn’t yet grown into his new height.

Now, some five years later, he’d filled out, and he had no qualms about using his entire body to block Lee and intercept his shots.

While Lee might be faster, Alex had strength on his side along with a healthy dose of lingering resentment, so whenever they clashed, tension stretched thick. It was personal, all right.

Another clash. Alex squinted against the sun in his eyes as they jostled for control of the ball, Lee twisting around his own axis, feigning to the right and darting to the left as he took aim. Alex moved with him, got his foot between the ball and the goal.

Corner.

“Fuck,” Lee muttered.

Alex didn’t bother hiding his grin. “Life’s a bitch, eh?”

“Piss off.”

“Thrilling conversation,” Alex said. “Let’s do this again soon.”

Lee’s eyes narrowed, and objectively Alex could admit that he was really hot—dark hair and equally dark eyes framed by the strong planes of his face.

He was an ass, though. Had been at twenty when they’d first met, with a chip on his shoulder that should have given him chronic back pain, and clearly, nothing had changed.

“Just try to keep up, pretty boy,” Lee threw back, and fuck him. Really, just… fuck him for hitting Alex exactly where it hurt, like he’d plucked the shadows right out of Alex’s mind. Both then and now.

This time, Alex’s grin took conscious effort. “I’m just getting started.”

Lee flicked him a dismissive glance and trotted towards the penalty spot. Yeah, because Alex was about to let him out of his immediate vicinity. Dream on, Taylor.

Following on Lee’s heel, Alex stayed obnoxiously close as everyone lined up for the corner. While Lee was far better with the ball at his feet, he’d scored several headers already throughout the season, and Alex had no intention of letting him add to that tally.

Lee took a step away. Alex sidled up to him again.

“Do you fucking mind?” Lee hissed, and Alex shook his head and aimed for a parody of his trademark smile—wide and happy, dimples pressing into his cheeks.

“Not in the least.”

In lieu of a response, Lee stuck out his elbows.

The referee blew his whistle, and the ball came sailing towards the penalty area.

The noise of the crowd rushed in Alex’s ears as he jumped in the air with everyone else, shoulder bumping against Lee’s.

Ball, where’s the ball, where’s the fucking ball?

There! It was Kili who cleared it, bouncing it over to Jeff, who chested it down and sprinted towards the other goal with two of their teammates flanking him, Manchester Athletic’s defense rushing into position.

Alex ran after them, moving over to the right wing, go go go.

In Manchester’s goal, Oliver Bramwell made himself as tall as possible, arms out, radiating calm confidence.

Damn national goalie he was too, and Jeff passed the ball to Selim, back to Jeff, and over to Chris.

A defender got in the way, but Chris managed to get the ball to Alex, who started forward, saw a gap—and Oliver Bramwell blocked the shot, damn world-class parade, damn it.

But the ball was still hot, dropping right in front of Jeff, and then it was in!

The home crowd erupted into cheers, like thunder in Alex’s ears as he threw himself into Jeff’s arms. “Fucking champ!” he yelled, and Jeff laughed against his cheek, other teammates joining their huddle.

Top of the standings. At least for now.

Twenty-nine minutes down, sixty-one to go, plus injury time.

A short distance away, Oliver was gesticulating in obvious frustration at his goal, two defenders with him.

Alex had met him during a series of friendlies earlier in the year, non-competitive practice matches where the then-national coach had brought in a number of less established players like Alex while some of the usual suspects got to rest up for a change.

Oliver seemed like a decent guy, uncommonly outspoken about how soccer needed to ramp up its sustainability efforts and players collecting sports cars sent the wrong signal, about how female referees should be normalized and sexual orientation finally become a non-issue.

Alex might have hoped for some pleasant company in his closet if he hadn’t seen Oliver’s face light up when talking about his wife.

It was probably easier to be this vocal when your coach was Ben Jimmer, the first and, depressingly, still the only player to have come out at the prime of his Premier League career, as well as the official patron saint of any soccer player who refused to fit the standard PR narrative.

Alex’s father despised Jimmer, of course.

And speaking of… Upon returning to his assigned spot in front of the defense line, Alex caught sight of Jimmer prowling along the perimeter of his coaching zone, dishing out instructions.

Mid-thirties suited him. But then Alex was biased, what with how he would forever admire Jimmer for having the guts to put himself out there—too bad that no one had chosen to walk in his footsteps.

And yes, Alex realized the hypocrisy of the thought given he kept his own bisexuality tucked well out of sight, but God, he was only twenty-three and far from a household name, had yet to win his first proper title and everything. Not yet. One day, perhaps, but not yet.

Maybe never.

Alex’s eyes narrowed when Jimmer waved Lee over and the two put their heads together.

Well, well. If what they were planning involved Lee scoring a goal, Alex would have to disappoint them because his hero worship of Jimmer only went so far.

When Lee moved back into position near the center circle, he caught Alex’s gaze and held it.

One corner of Lee’s mouth lifted in a private little smirk, and Christ, Alex wanted him to choke on all that arrogance.

He sent Lee his biggest, toothiest smile and trusted Lee to read it for exactly the challenge it was.

Fine. Fine. If that was how Alex wanted to play it?

Challenge fucking accepted.

The whistle blew. Lee passed the ball to Fernando on his right and was already moving by the time Fernando received it.

Fernando sent it back to Lee, who passed it on to Sami half a second before Alex appeared, Lee’s very own shadow intent on withholding the only drug that Lee believed in—scoring goals.

If it hadn’t been so damn annoying, Lee would have been flattered that Liverpool sacrificed Alex’s considerable playmaker abilities to keep him in check.

It was damn annoying, though.

Lee ducked and swerved, managed to break away a handful of times during the remaining minutes of the first half, but never long enough to get a proper shot in. Fucking Alex Beaufort with his perfect fucking smile and hair and body.

Halftime break, and they were still one goal down. Lee grumbled his way towards the locker room, Oliver catching up with him on the way there.

“You all right?” Oliver asked quietly, and Lee scoffed.

“Could do without the chaperone.” He held the door for Oliver, accepting a bottle of water from someone as he entered, the relative darkness of the locker room a respite after the blinding sun outside. “And in case you’re wondering? Goal wasn’t your fault.”

“Should’ve secured the stupid ball rather than letting it bounce.” Not one for swearing, Oliver. “Landed right at Whitlock’s feet, too.”