Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
It wasn’t the first match Alex watched from the bench, but he’d never worn street clothes before—officially ineligible to play. Surrounded by substitutes in their team jerseys, he rose for the national anthems.
The stadium exploded into cheers once the music died, and had it been this loud at the other matches too?
Alex couldn’t remember, must have been too focused on himself to notice.
He stuffed his shaking hands into the pockets of his shorts, attention drawn to Lee only to find that Lee was looking at him already.
Alex smiled and thought, I’m in love with you.
No surprise colored the realization, just an easy sense of acceptance, maybe even inevitability. Yeah, he was in love with Lee—had been for a little while, most likely. It didn’t scare him. Should it, though? Veering so far off the path he’d mistaken for his own? It still didn’t.
Lee’s answering smile was tiny, meant only for Alex to see. Then Lee turned away to take his position, Alfie in Alex’s usual spot, Oliver shaking hands before he swapped pennants with the Brazilian captain, and then… And then the match began.
The final. The fucking final.
And Alex was forced to watch from the bench.
God, it was torture—his knee bouncing with nervous energy, keeping quiet even as he wanted to shout, “There, there!” He didn’t think himself superior to those on the field, but removed from the action, he had an easier time spotting gaps and opportunities, and it was painful to see them slide away.
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Lewis said dryly, sat next to him.
Alex dug his fingers into his thighs. “Yeah.”
“See, that’s why backup plans like me should be allowed to drink a proper pint now and then.”
“Really starting to see—” Alex cut himself off and leaned forward, dimly aware of the stadium quieting behind and around him, tension weaving into the summer night air. No, no.
Oliver snatched the shot out of the air, and Alex could breathe again.
Noise welled up again from the stands as Oliver threw the ball to Alfie, who passed it on to Jeff.
Follow him, for fuck’s sake! Alfie was slow to do so, trotting after Jeff where Alex would have opted for a sprint, but it didn’t matter—Jeff found Lee, already far into the Brazilian half.
Lee curved around one defender and dropped a second, only the goalie left to beat.
A feint to the right, the keeper swayed, and then Lee used his slightly weaker left foot to slide it in.
Goal!
“Yes!” Alex jumped up along with the others on the bench and only just remembered to keep most of his weight on his good leg.
He threw up his arms, cheering and laughing, hugging whoever was closest, and God, he wanted to be right there on that field and feel Lee up against him, even if it was only for a second.
Lee stopped by the coaching zone on his way back to the England half, face radiant as he collected an embrace from Kieran. When Lee’s gaze found Alex’s, they looked at each other for a beat that twisted in Alex’s stomach, hot and heavy, very nearly disorienting. But it still didn’t scare him.
It was at the seventeen-minute mark that the match kicked off again—England one, Brazil nil. Early into the game, still early, but oh, it was one step closer to making the dream come true.
Moments before the first half ended, Brazil scored to make it even.
A wave of yellow and green rolled through the stands while Alex watched, helpless, as Oliver fished the ball out of the net with an expression so grim Alex could tell even from here.
Oliver had stopped the first shot, but it had bounced off Finley and right in front of a Brazilian player who’d wasted no time booting it. And it had gone in.
Fuck.
Alex spent the break patting shoulders and doling out praise, sitting with Jeff for a few minutes before he moved to Lee’s side, pressing their shoulders together. “Beautiful goal,” he told him. “Score another, and I’ll owe you a favor.”
Lee slid Alex a meaningful look. “A favor?”
Alex lowered his voice. “Whatever you want.”
“And how”—Lee glanced around the room to confirm that no one was paying them any mind—“is this conducive to my concentration?”
Alex sent him a sweet smile. “And how is it my fault if your mind chooses to take a dip into the gutter?”
“The innocent act might work a lot better on someone who doesn’t see you parade naked around our room most mornings.” The tension around Lee’s mouth had relaxed though, and that had been Alex’s aim all along.
“I’m an angel,” Alex said, dignified.
“Lucifer was an angel too.”
It startled a genuine laugh out of Alex. “Such a charmer.”
People started trickling out of the locker room, and Alex fell in line, right by Lee’s side. Back on the field, they separated after a quick glance that lingered bright in Alex’s mind even as nerves knotted up his belly.
England came out strong, pressed high for a second goal, only to be overrun by a lightning-quick counterattack some ten minutes later—two against one, the ball grazing Oliver’s fingertips. And then it was in.
Alex covered his face with his hands, inhaled through the gaps between his fingers, and released the air in a whoosh.
There was time yet, plenty of time to tie the game, even score a couple of goals and bring it home.
He raised his head and found Kieran already shouting instructions, toeing the very edge of his coaching zone.
Come on, lads!
Jeff kicked them off again, and then England tried.
And tried. And tried. Yet each attempt was stopped by the Brazilian goalie or by a defender, by a foot or an elbow, the game turning nastier by the minute.
Another interruption, another free kick that didn’t find its way through the Brazilian wall, and Alex sat on the edge of his seat, fists pressed against his mouth.
Please, please. Just one goal to carry them into extra time. Just one.
Eighteen minutes left. Eleven. Nine. Five, then three. Injury time—another six minutes that trickled away like water, gone too fast.
The final whistle.
It was over.
Alex sagged in his seat and tipped his head against the backrest, reality filtering through in stuttering bits and pieces—the hush that had fallen over the England bench while Brazilian players shouted their triumph, tumbling over each other in celebratory piles.
The way Jeff dropped where he stood, falling backwards into the grass as though shot.
Lee, simply standing there, staring at his feet.
Slowly, Alex got up and made his way onto the field, disregarding the mild discomfort as he put weight on his bad ankle.
He was dimly aware that a camera operator trailed him because apparently, drama made for good TV and, injured or not, Alex had a notorious dad and a face that played well on camera.
Some other day, he might have cared, while now, it hardly registered.
Jeff was closer and on the way to Lee, which saved Alex from an impossible choice.
He draped himself over Jeff in an octopus tackle and gave it a few seconds, providing a visual shield from the cameras so Jeff could wipe at his eyes.
Then Alex pulled Jeff to his feet and, collecting Oliver along the way, headed over to where Lee had come unfrozen.
He was still blinking a little owlishly, a deep frown etched into his forehead, but he nodded at a couple of passing Brazilian players who patted him on the back in consolation before they returned to their celebrations.
In spite of his ankle, Alex got there half a step before Jeff and Oliver, wrapped both arms around Lee and whispered, “I’m so sorry, babe. I’m so sorry.”
Lee swallowed and turned his head, his cheek damp against Alex’s. Jeff bumped into Alex’s back and joined their huddle, Oliver hesitating for a moment before Lee reached out blindly to pull him in with them. “Fuck,” Oliver muttered—Oliver, who Alex couldn’t remember ever swearing before.
“Yeah,” Jeff agreed in an undertone.
“We just—” Lee cleared his throat. “We got so fucking close.”
“If I just—” Oliver started, and Alex stepped on his foot.
“Shut up. Not your fault.” He raised his voice just a little. “Not anyone’s fault. Someone had to lose, and today, it was our turn.”
He could feel Lee’s rough intake of air, could feel Jeff trembling with aftershocks of adrenaline, Oliver visibly gathering himself before he straightened. “Showtime,” was all he said.
Alex held onto Lee for a second after Jeff and Oliver let go, then he stepped back as well.
They spread out, Alex sluggish as he moved around the field to comfort teammates and congratulate opponents because it was all part of the job, wasn’t it?
Winning, losing—sometimes you were up, and sometimes you were down.
And sometimes it just sucked.
The official ceremony equipped them with silver medals, and wasn’t it funny how second place would have sounded like an amazing accomplishment to Alex just a few short weeks ago?
Now, it was a disappointment. He shook hands and nodded at one official after another, then some political figures, the Queen, and Prince Joshua, who sent Alex a sad smile. “Sorry about your ankle.”
“Sorry about my dad,” Alex replied, and Joshua chuckled.
“We don’t get to pick our parents, do we?”
Alex was moved along before he could answer, but the words stayed with him—off-handed advice from a near-stranger that didn’t offer anything new, but hearing it out loud made a difference somehow.
By the time they were finally ushered onto the bus, tiredness was dragging at Alex.
He sunk into a seat with Jeff beside him, their silver medals already packed away, Jeff uncharacteristically quiet.