Chapter 1 #2
“There are maybe three keepers in the world who could have stopped that first shot from going in, and you’re one of them. Not your fucking fault it bounced, mate.” Definitely one for swearing, Lee. “They caught our defense on the wrong foot.”
Since pointing fingers was not conducive to team cohesion, Lee left it at that.
They slumped onto a bench next to each other, the air-conditioned atmosphere a welcome relief.
Lee kicked a shin guard under the bench before he pulled off his soaked jersey and rubbed a towel down his face.
Ah, the sweet smell of eau de sweat mixed with grass stains—a constant in Lee’s life ever since he’d graduated from kids’ teams to the teenage ones.
“By the way,” Oliver said, “Kieran Foxwell is here.”
“Yeah?” Lee hadn’t spotted the new national coach in the stands, but it wasn’t a surprise. With the World Cup just weeks away, Foxwell would be seeking as much input as possible to finalize his selection of players.
Oliver was a shoo-in. Lee himself… He liked to think that he was in a similar position, although it certainly wouldn’t hurt if he scored a goal or two in the second half.
“Think he’s here for Sami?” Oliver asked. “Or for Whitlock and Beaufort?”
“All of the above.” Lee leaned back against the locker behind him, briefly closing his eyes. “Not sure if nipping at my heels shows off the full range of Beaufort’s potential, mind.”
Oliver cracked half a grin. “Taking it personally, are you? I don’t usually see you heckle other players.”
Shrugging, Lee glanced at one of the inspirational quotes on the wall. “Just a bit of history, is all.”
“Didn’t realize you guys had met.” Oliver’s tone was easy as he toweled off his short-cropped dark hair, and Lee aimed for an equally light response. This was neither the time nor place for details.
“It was years ago, in the Under 21s—he’d just joined, I was about to move to the first team. We got off on the wrong foot. No big deal.”
That wasn’t entirely true. To this day, Lee blamed Alex for bumping him out of his uneasy denial zone into the even more uneasy reality that yeah, he was into guys.
Sucked for him that Alex had cottoned on to his crush.
Sucked for him, too, that rainbow-colored captain’s armbands aside, soccer remained a conservative holdout.
Oliver wasn’t like that, of course. When Lee had come out to him, one pizza and three vodka shots in, Oliver’s initial frown had scared him.
“I’m sorry, mate,” Oliver had started, and Lee had braced himself for the worst even though Oliver had always seemed fine with Ben.
But Ben was their coach, not someone who had the locker beside Oliver’s and showered next to him on a regular basis.
“That must be tough,” Oliver had continued, still frowning.
“Having to hide like that. I understand why you do it, but I’m sorry that’s still a thing. ”
Lee had pulled him into a hug before he could think better of it, and Oliver hadn’t even hesitated to hug him back. So, yeah. Oliver wasn’t like that. Most of the Manchester Athletic players weren’t like that, or they wouldn’t have lasted long under Ben.
Still.
“Yeah? Seemed like a nice guy to me, Alex.” Oliver set his empty water bottle down. “Met him a couple of months ago, during those friendlies you sat out.”
Lee made a noncommittal noise and focused on Ben, who’d just panthered into the room and now stood near the entrance, surveying the scene like a general assessing his troops.
He wasn’t a tall man by any measure, but there was an intensity about him that commanded attention.
When he clapped his hands, every head turned.
“All right, gents.” Ben paced forward. “So they’re ahead by one goal.
Big fucking deal. Because here’s what’s gonna happen in the second half—we go out there and we raise some fucking hell.
You press high, don’t be afraid to take a risk or two, and whatever mistake they make, we’ll be right there to make ’em pay. Are you with me?”
Nods and a scattered “Yeah!” here and there.
“I said”—Ben narrowed sharp blue eyes at them—“are you fucking with me?”
Several more yeahs, Lee’s one of them.
“I can’t fucking hear you!”
Clenched fists and a chorus of “Fuck yeah!” and “Hell yes!”
“Good.” Ben’s gaze swept the room, and as much as Lee admired him, it was moments like this when his intensity bordered on psychopathic.
Lee would know; he’d been accused of the same.
Then again, no one in this room would have been here without an edge of obsession that had put them ahead of their peers—getting up at 5 a.m. to run drills before school, sacrificing friendships and movie nights to tour the country every weekend with a bunch of other kids who mostly hadn’t made it.
If you were chill about being the very fucking best, you’d never go professional.
Everyone here was a tad psycho. Some just hid it better than others.
“So. We’ll switch to a more aggressive formation.” Ben stalked over to the tactics board. “Sami, Yann—we’ll push you further up. Neal, Kae—hold the line. Ron, Jace—any attack, I want you to join. Let’s see how they like it when we overload their defense.” Nods all around. “Lee.”
Lee sat up straight, meeting Ben’s eyes. It felt a bit like he was being called on in class, only this was a test he’d actually studied for. “Yep?”
“Keep Beaufort busy—we don’t want him kicking off a counterattack. If you can’t lose him, try to draw additional players to you, open up some gaps for others.”
“Clear,” Lee said.
“Excellent.” Ben’s smile looked distinctly predatory as he tapped the tactics board. “Then let’s take back what’s rightfully ours—the top of the fucking table!”
This time, a chorus of “Fucking right!” and “Hell yeah!” washed through the locker room without Ben’s prompting. Lee drew a deep breath and held it in his lungs for a moment before he slowly released it.
He was going to keep Alex plenty busy, all right.
Ten minutes to go.
Jimmer must have told his team to go full risk because they kept crashing against Liverpool’s defense like a multi-legged tidal wave. While it made Manchester vulnerable to counterattacks, Oliver had swatted every shot out of the air as though it was a mildly bothersome insect.
Alex pushed dark-brown hair off his forehead and gave himself one second to catch his breath after a sprint across half the field that had ended with the ball in Oliver’s arms, again.
When Alex turned on his heel to jog right back to where he’d come from, he found Lee way ahead already—a fox who’d sensed his chance to escape the hounds, and Christ, how had a reportedly civilized country like the UK not managed to fully erase such a thing?
Sure, Alex’s father maintained that fox hunting was a noble tradition that—stop, focus.
Can’t afford to get tired and distracted.
Damn Lee Taylor.
Heart hammering, breath coming in short little puffs, Alex sped up just as Lee was briefly delayed by Liverpool’s defense. He managed to free himself, circling and tunnelling, but it gave Alex just enough time to catch up.
It was a split second—Lee shifted his weight and prepared to shoot just as Alex lunged forward. Their legs tangled, and they went down in a heap, the ball rolling away in slow motion.
The referee’s whistle was almost lost to the din of the crowd, and wait, no. Reality stuttered back into gear as Alex sprang to his feet. Only touching the other player was penalty territory, but he’d played the ball, for fuck’s sake. He’d played the actual ball.
Hadn’t he?
Next to him, Lee jumped up too, starting for the referee to demand a penalty.
No, no, no. “That was a clean tackle,” Alex protested.
He jostled in next to Lee, their elbows bumping, Jeff already there to make the case for Liverpool, two Manchester players arguing against him.
The referee gestured for all of them to settle down as he tapped his earpiece, then marched off to review the footage.
Alex had played the ball. He had, he had. Yes, it had been a last-ditch, desperate effort to stop Lee, but it had been fair. Maybe Lee had tripped over his own two feet or cleverly got himself tangled up with Alex so it would look like foul play.
The referee was taking his sweet time, face impassive as he studied various angles of the scene.
“You”—Alex kept his voice low, lips barely moving, and he didn’t turn his head to look at Lee beside him—“took a fucking dive.”
A brief glance was the extent of Lee’s outward reaction before his focus returned to the referee. “Didn’t take you for a sore loser,” he replied in an undertone.
“I’m not,” Alex started to say. He fell silent when the referee headed back onto the field and pointed at the penalty spot. The stadium exploded into a thunderclap of outrage. Fucking hell.
The smug look Lee slid his way made Alex grit his teeth. He had a fucking reputation to protect—Alex Beaufort, the Premier League’s very own earl, never a mean word to anyone and gracious even in defeat. Lee, though? Lee made it damn hard for Alex to keep himself in check.
He dug his nails into his palms and stared straight ahead so he wouldn’t have to watch Lee stroll over to the penalty spot, oozing confidence. What an ass.
Alex startled when Jeff sidled up to him. “Chin up, man.” He jabbed a pointy elbow into Alex’s ribs under the guise of adjusting his captain’s armband. “Punch a fucking pillow later—right now, I need you to stay sharp.”
He was right.
After a curt nod at Jeff, Alex trotted to a spot just outside the six-yard box, ready to get in the way of an attempted rebound.
Not that Lee was likely to miss. All those hours of footage the Liverpool team had reviewed in preparation for this match, and not once had Lee Taylor missed a penalty.
His killer instinct was that of a shark who’d smelled blood in the water.
Lee didn’t miss.
Of course he didn’t.