Chapter 6
ROLAND
—Hypocrite by Falz
Alcohol is such a beautiful thing.
The lot of us are crammed into a small bar in the city centre, having pushed tables close so we’re sitting together.
The floor is sticky under my shoes, and the air smells of beer and grease.
Music blasts from old speakers, half drowned out by laughter and the raised voices of my teammates.
This is how we’re dealing with the colossal loss Denmark handed us, drinking until it dulls.
I’m not completely drunk yet. I’m sitting right in that perfect space between tipsy and gone, where my head feels light and my body feels loose. The tension I had carried all day has finally started to melt away, so I lean back in my chair, glass sweating in my hand, and I let myself enjoy it.
My current situation doesn’t allow me to dwell on the fact that I’m such a hypocrite.
After telling Coker to come out of his shell, I have fully retreated into mine.
Honestly, I can’t look the guy in the eye.
It doesn’t help that I have to be in such close proximity to him.
I let in two goals today because I was distracted, too busy staring at his mouth and in his general vicinity instead of focusing on the game.
And he has no idea what he’s doing to me, which makes it worse.
Or better. I can’t decide. But I want to grab his stupid, beautiful face and kiss it, and the fact that the thought does not send me into a panicked spiral right now lets me know I’m not sober.
See, that is the magic of this almost-drunk place. It makes my brain slow down, the fear taking a step back. Everything feels possible and not terrifying all at once. I take another sip of my drink and let the burn slide down my throat, the noise of the bar washing over me.
When I got back to our room two days ago, he was already asleep, stretched out on the bed with his shirt pushed all the way up and bunched under his chest, exposing bare skin across his stomach.
The first thing that came to my mind was to bend down and lick it.
That should have scared the hell out of me, but it didn’t.
Instead, I stood there, staring at him like a stalker.
His breathing was slow and even, mouth slightly open, lashes dark against his cheeks.
I don’t know how long I stood there before noticing he was still wearing his shoes.
I sighed, shook my head at myself and moved closer to him.
Then I bent down and carefully pulled his shoes off, one at a time, trying not to jostle him.
He shifted slightly but didn’t wake. I covered him with the comforter, stepped back, and told myself to get a grip. But a grip has not been gotten.
I’m not someone who lies to himself, so I can’t pretend I don’t know what’s going on.
I know. I just don’t understand it. Even if I were to swing towards men, why him?
Why this twenty-two-year-old striker who’s my ex-wife’s best friend?
Of all the people in the world, he makes the least sense.
So, what is it about him that keeps dragging me in?
And why now after having known him for three years?
But then again we weren’t around each other that much, besides the occasional overlap when Sandra would visit me in London and insist on hosting some version of a family gathering.
Coker had somehow always ended up sitting beside me, or directly in my line of sight. He was always there, loud and smiling.
I just wish I could pinpoint when this attraction to him had started, and most importantly, I wish I knew how to make it stop.
I sigh and tell the others I need to make a call. No one questions me, some barely even look up from their drinks. As I stand up from the table, I notice the empty place where Coker was sitting. He must have headed back to the hotel, he tends to do that a lot.
The night air slaps my face as soon as I step outside.
I lean against a brick wall and pull my phone from my pocket, staring at my screen for a second longer than necessary.
I’m just drunk enough to be honest, still sober enough to make sense which makes it feels like the right time to call my lawyer.
Michael Sawyer is not just my lawyer, he’s my childhood friend. The same one who told me, very calmly and very clearly, that I was rushing into my marriage with Sandra. That, maybe, I should slow down and think about it more. But I ignored him because I was in love.
In love.
But if I had been really in love, wouldn’t I have been jealous like Sandra had said?
Wouldn’t I have fought harder for her attention?
Wanted her more? Missed her more? And worst of all, would I now be looking at her best friend in a way I’ve never looked at her?
Her best friend—who is a man, by the way. What does that say about me?
Something hollow grows in my chest; I shake it off because I don’t like where this line of thinking is going. I shove it into a corner of my mind and make a mental note to unpack it later.
For now, I dial Michael’s phone number before I can talk myself out of it.
“Roland! How’re you, man?” Michael says when he picks up.
“I’m getting divorced,” I blurt out.
There’s silence on the line. I picture him blinking, probably rubbing his forehead the way he does when something catches him off guard. I shift my weight from one foot to the other and stare at the concrete.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally.
“It is what it is,” I sigh. “You called it.”
He makes an incredulous sound. “No. I didn’t want your marriage to fail. And being right about something like that is not a win.” Then he pauses, his voice softening. “Do you want to talk about it? Are you okay?”
I wave my hand even though he can’t see me, a useless habit I’ve never managed to shake. “I’m okay, I guess. I just wanted to ask what I need to do since I’m no longer in Nigeria.”
There’s a soft rustle on the other end, like he’s shifting in his chair.
He then launches into an explanation about how divorce proceedings work.
We’ll need to file for a separation first and then take it step by step.
Halfway through, the bar door swings open behind me.
A couple of my teammates spill out onto the sidewalk, one of them claps me lightly on the shoulder and tells me they’re heading back to the hotel.
I nod and tell them I’ll walk. It’s close enough, and the idea of being alone for a few minutes feels right.
By the time the streets is silent again, Michael is wrapping up. There’s a pause, then a long exhale through the phone. “I’ll be in London in two weeks. Sorry I won’t be able to watch the group stage live. Make sure you qualify so I can still watch you.”
That pulls a small smile out of me. “No pressure or anything,” I say dryly.
“None at all,” he answers easily.
“Are you still going to Prague?” I ask, trying to redirect the conversation away from me. “For that ethics class you’re teaching?”
“Yeah. I’m booked to go this Fall.”
“How is Rita taking it?” Now that the alcohol is starting to wear off, it feels safer to talk about his life.
He hesitates, just a beat. “Eh. We’ll figure something out. She doesn’t like that we might have to move the wedding though.”
I get it. Anyone would be uneasy. Michael is a ridiculously attractive man, and somehow he’s completely unaware of it.
He’s had women stalk him before. Not just basic flirting, but full-on stalking.
One even tried to befriend his fiancée to get closer to him—like that was a normal thing to do.
I’ve never understood how he stays so calm about it.
We exchange goodbyes, and when the call ends, I stare at my phone for a moment; my reflection is faintly visible on the glass.
I’m just about to turn onto the path leading to the hotel when I catch sight of a familiar figure tucked into a dim corner of the street.
The light from a nearby lamp barely reaches them, but I would recognise him anywhere.
I’m already moving before I can stop myself, and as I get closer, the scene comes more into focus.
Coker is pressed close to a blond man around his age, his arm is braced against the wall, caging the other guy in.
Something hot cuts straight through me, but I don’t understand it. No. I refuse to understand it.
I force my face into something neutral as I approach them. “I thought you were back at the hotel,” I say calmly. Coker jumps at the sound of my voice, his whole body jolting. “Did you forget we’re leaving early in the morning?”
He turns towards me, eyes wide for half a second before he schools his expression. His hand falls to his side. The blondie looks between us, confusion flickering across his face. I hate that the small, petty part of me feels satisfied when Coker puts space between them.
“Uhm. We are?” he asks, and for a brief moment I think he’s about to argue with me. His mouth opens, then he glances at the man in front of him and exhales. “Too bad,” he says, and he sounds apologetic. “I guess I need to go with my captain.”
He steps away from the wall, fully turning towards me now, leaving the blond behind. The man glares at me for reasons unknown. I turn back towards the hotel, already walking, trusting him to follow. And he’s following all right—I don’t realise I am tugging Coker’s hand until he speaks.
“I can walk by myself.” There is a trace of laughter in his voice.
I drop his hand like it’s on fire. “I’m sorry about that.”
He smiles for real this time. Lips parting, teeth bright in the dim streetlight. “No, it’s okay.”
I speak before I can stop myself. “I didn’t know you have a friend in Copenhagen.”
He snorts, a little laugh that makes me want to laugh, too. “He’s not my friend.”
He doesn’t explain further, and even though I have a dozen questions burning in my brain, I shove them down. I don’t want to think about the blond man, or what could’ve happened in that corner, or why it matters. I tell myself I don’t care.
Coker steps closer, shoulder brushing against mine as we fall into stride. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Our flight doesn’t leave until afternoon. Do you want to tell me why you snatched me from my good friend?”
The words snatched and friend make heat crawl up my neck, but I shake it off and ignore him. I just give him a casual shrug as we keep walking side by side to the hotel.