Matchday 20 #3
There were no gay men in the Premier League when Oliver’s career began, nor in any other top flight in any country, and technically there aren’t any now either, because he’s not telling.
Someone tried once, in the nineties, but he never made a team sheet again.
One guy in America came out and the day the news broke Oliver cried in the shower until he felt woozy from the steam, partially because it was a huge deal, but mostly because it still felt like it hardly counted—not when it happened somewhere where they call it soccer.
It’s a different kind of serious in England.
The stakes are higher—too high—for him. Oliver wants to believe he can’t be the only one, that he’s not totally alone in the life he chose, but he is.
There’s no one like him, Camden fans like to say, no one like Harris.
And it sure feels like there isn’t. All his life he’s taken the pitch with ten other teammates and thousands of screaming people in the stadium, but he’s always been alone.
Even when he hasn’t wanted to be, or hasn’t wanted to believe he is, something—someone—always reminds him.
In December, it was a midfielder from Southampton, who Oliver had snapped at, told him to stop tugging his shirt.
Yeah, all right, he’d said back to Oliver, almost conspiratorially.
Don’t get yourself in such a fucking strop.
Acting like a faggot, you are. The way he’d said it, so casual, like they might have a laugh about it together after the match was over, tore Oliver in two.
He’d gotten himself into a bigger strop, and he’d shoved him down, hard, right to the pitch, unprovoked in the eyes of anyone standing more than a foot away from them.
He couldn’t defend himself, to the referee or his teammates, nor to Willem later.
To admit why he’d done it would reveal why it bothered him so much—so Oliver accepted his suspension, watched Camden lose the match and then the two he was forbidden to play in, and read all the headlines, all of them right but none of them knowing why: Harris Loses His Cool.
Camden’s Rose Has Its Thorns. Is Oliver Harris What He Used to Be?
“Ground control to Major Harris,” Maggie says, drawing him back from the memories. “Sorry, shouldn’t have said that. I’m only teasing.”
“I know you are, Mags. But it’s not…that’s not why,” Oliver says vaguely, afraid of what Millie might hear.
“I believe you. But I also believe this kind of thing will solve itself. Try not to resent him too much.”
Maggie’s right, but Oliver will allow himself the dignity of not admitting that to her.
“You’re running late to the studio, aren’t you?” he asks, pleased when it comes out airily, as if it just occurred to him.
“Someone called in a crisis and kept me,” she replies. “Goodbye, Ollie. I love you,” she reminds him as they hang up.
· · ·
Oliver dreams about the World Cup. It’s in England and the final is at Wembley, a misty night with stars somehow visible overhead.
There are the three lions on his chest and it’s the seventy-fifth minute, but his uniform is starchy white.
His hair isn’t sweaty at all, still neatly sweeping across his brow.
He’s not tired, either, tracking the whole massive length of the pitch faster than he’s ever run before, the ball fairly glued to his left foot.
The team scores again and again and again.
When he finds the stands, he sees his parents and Maggie all together, dancing and shouting with face paint on their cheeks.
His own face aches from smiling—he’s so happy, so incredibly happy, he’s going to be a world champion.
He scores again, a chip from outside the box, such a sexy little thing.
He wants to run to the nearest teammate, wants to jump into their arms. Then he spins around toward his left and standing there laughing brightly, curls askew under a headband, hands reaching for him, is Leo.
Oliver sits bolt upright in bed, chest heaving.
His bedroom is meant to be calming, with crisp white sheets and a smattering of tapered candles lining a deep-set window.
Somehow his whole body is thrumming anyway, gasping for each breath.
When was the last time he dreamt of his parents like that?
Why on earth would he be celebrating the World Cup with Leo Davies-Sodding-Villanueva, even subconsciously?
How is 2017 already so weird and cursed and awful, just four days in?
He works his way up, registers the stiffness in his left leg, and immediately sits back down at the foot of the bed, rubbing at his throbbing forehead.
He wants to skip training, an urge that’s unfamiliar and unwelcome to him.
Of course he won’t, of course he can’t, especially because Joe is picking him up and that means he’s already late.
Joe is the Premier League’s most underrated goalkeeper and Oliver’s best football friend, since they were the only first team players too young to go out drinking.
He is also always two things: overdressed and ten minutes early.
When Oliver limps down the icy stoop, Joe is leaning out the window, wearing a freshly pressed shirt and shaking his head at Oliver’s running leggings and ratty old team hoodie, mismatched under his calf-length winter coat.
“You didn’t need to come get me,” Oliver grumbles, once he’s gingerly climbed into the passenger seat. “I’m doing great, as you can see.”
“Are you?” Joe says. “I was actually going to say I have a New Year’s resolution for you: cheer up.”
“It doesn’t feel like a new year,” he replies. “It feels like the end of an era. Every time we get to the Crossing I wonder if it’ll be the last time. I worry we might never play together again. I’m perfectly cheery, under the circumstances.”
“Is that it, then?” Joe asks, sounding shocked.
He reaches over to jostle him—Oliver bats him away and points insistently at the road.
“De Boer is in your head, man. I’m not going anywhere, I swear to you, neither of us are.
You’ve been stringing Camden along by the laces of your boots since you were a kid. They’ll not let go of you.”
“Willem might.”
“No, he won’t. He just wants to see what we’re made of. What we had wasn’t working for anyone, so he’s trying something new.”
It’s a generous read, and Oliver has never had a reason not to trust Joe’s judgment before, but he doesn’t buy it.
“He called back Davies-Villanueva, the one on loan in Spain. He asked me to mentor him. He’s coming to training and he’ll probably debut before I’m back,” Oliver says.
“I think Willem wants me to shape him up to take my spot. I have this horrible feeling, like I’m actually finished here.
” His voice is tight and hoarse with the effort of holding back tears, which embarrasses and infuriates him.
Joe regains his grip on Oliver’s biceps and gives him another shake.
“Ollie, you beautiful fool. You’re missing the forest for the trees.
Why would Willem want anyone to learn from you if he thought you were shit?
This is a gift. He’s finally giving you a midfield partner.
No more having to do it all alone.” Oliver shakes his head, still not looking at Joe, chewing on his lower lip.
Since his arrival, Willem’s piercing looks seem to see all the weakness in him, the stuff worth punishing, not preserving.
Joe, bless him, loves Oliver too much to see that, but he can feel it in his gut.
Willem is testing him, first with playing time and now with an unbearable boy.
Oliver doesn’t think he can handle it. He’s always coasted on being young and healthy in addition to being talented, but now he knows that you can only ever see the light of a dying star, and he has no idea if he might be about to burn out.
And if he’s not a footballer, he’s not sure who he is.
He’s given everything up for the sake of being one.
He thought it would be worth it, for Camden; he never anticipated it would mean this.
“I wouldn’t lie to you, mate,” Joe insists, less forcefully.
“Christ, Joe, of course not,” Oliver says quietly. “I know you wouldn’t.”
“So do you believe me?”
“I believe that you believe it, sure.”
“You’re not going anywhere. We’re gonna get old and retire here and then they’re going to bury us under the pitch,” Joe says as he pulls into his parking spot.
“Speak for yourself.” He turns to face Joe. “I’m getting cremated and the urn is going on your bloody mantel. Now leave me to brood, would you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Joe says, ruffling Oliver’s sandy brown head as he exits. “Lock it behind you. And if you’re not inside in five minutes, don’t think I won’t send Charles to get you.”
It’s no idle threat—Charles is built like a bulldog and about as friendly—so Oliver only waits three minutes before getting out of the car.
He wasn’t expecting Leo to be skulking in the fog, blocking the players’ entrance to Camden Crossing from beneath a bundle of hat and gloves and scarf.
The newcomer looks decidedly chagrined; somehow, even the way he lifts a hand to wave feels passive-aggressive.
As they stand across the car park appraising each other, Oliver feels a sweeping shame that someone could witness him glowering at a new teammate. It’s accompanied by continued annoyance at Leo, who seems to always appear when he’s least welcome and ruin even the best of feelings.
Oliver takes his time walking to the door, both to delay the inevitable and to demonstrate some kind of masculine mastery of the chilly air.
When he reaches the building, Leo still hasn’t moved or spoken, so Oliver raises his eyebrows in an approximation of a question, hoping they communicate something along the lines of, Well, you’ll have to go first, because I could stand here comfortably all day.