Matchday 24 #3
The pleased look transforming into mock outrage is delicious, and Oliver lets himself fall backward from the force of his laughter, sliding off the roller entirely—it’s fully worth the payback of getting pelted by every filthy towel from the hamper.
That’s how Henri and Ji-Hoon find them, breathlessly laughing and throwing shit at each other.
They join in without a second thought, which is how all four of them get subjected to the great Respect the Equipment Dressing Down of 2017—that feels worth it as well, even with the laundry duty, for the sight of Leo’s bashful expression the whole time they’re folding everything.
“All I’m saying is, tomorrow’s dinner had better be worth it,” Leo says as the lot of them are changing out of their trackies. He has his head halfway into his pullover, muffled by the layer of cotton.
“You’re the one who asked for salad. At no point did I offer,” Oliver reminds him. “Come to think of it, I don’t even really remember inviting you.”
“I don’t remember you inviting us either,” Henri chimes in. “Which is very rude.” Ji-Hoon nods solemnly in agreement.
“Absolutely not,” Oliver says, in anticipation of their next question.
He’s disappointed and relieved at the same time, again, as an evening alone with Leo slips away from him in real time.
“I’ve been duped into cooking for him, but not the whole grimy lot of you.
Do not come over. Do not invite the others.
Look me in the eyes, Henri. Look at how serious I’m being. ”
Warning delivered or not, he doesn’t trust Henri as far as he can throw him.
Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands, which he does by calling the French restaurant in Marylebone that’s in a converted church and has a ridiculous tasting menu.
When it comes down to it, Oliver’s willing to take out a loan if it means he can avoid hosting.
He’s not above bribery either. He asks the hostess who answers the phone about booking the private dining room for tomorrow, tone edging toward pleading.
She huffs down the line in a way that suggests she’s going to enjoy telling him no, so he goes for broke before she can.
“Sorry, I know it’s in poor taste to call so last-minute, and in poorer taste to name-drop, but I’m hoping you could help me out. My name’s Oliver Harris—”
“The Oliver Harris?” she cuts in, sounding disbelieving.
“I—well, yeah,” he says lamely. “I mean, if you’re thinking of the footballer, then yes, that’s me. I’m, er, him.” The only thing more pathetic than using your celebrity to your advantage is being self-aware while you do it.
“Then I think we can make some room for you, of course,” she tells him. Suddenly her voice has a lump of sugar stirred into it. “You said this was a party of five?”
She’s true to her word and does make room for them at half past seven, smiling brightly as she escorts Ji-Hoon, Leo, Henri, Joe, and Oliver to the back room, where a handwritten sign reading Welcome, Camden FC is placed on the table amid the floral centerpiece.
Her hair is full and glossy, she has a cheeky, white-toothed smile, a very readily flirtatious sense of humor, and her hand lingers at Oliver’s elbow when she takes his coat.
In other words: trouble. Oliver’s gay; he’s not blind—only a fool or a homosexual would take in her attentiveness and her pretty black dress and turn it away, and Nicola did not raise a moron.
They have a waistcoat-wearing server as well, but the hostess keeps checking back in on them, appearing like a beautiful phantom in the arched doorframe to ask if they want another bottle of wine or tell them the chef wanted to send over an appetizer, with his compliments of course.
It happens all the time, the dawning look of recognition that comes paired with something darker than desirous, like they’d devour Oliver if they could.
Some men get off on it; a warm bed can make the dark, cold hours of winter training worth it, it can stave off the sting of a manager’s criticism when someone beautiful worships your body, tongue-first. Oliver supposes he’s not sure what he’s missing, since his chief goal when he’s hooking up with someone, even more than the orgasm, is to keep things pitch-dark and not be recognized.
When she appears again over dessert, bearing a carafe of coffee, Ji-Hoon turns his brightest smile on her and she blushes when he says, “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.
” Still, she turns her attention back to Oliver, hesitating over his cup, waiting for him to indicate one way or the other that he’s received the silent invitation to ask for her number, to stay for one more round of drinks, just the two of them.
He thanks her while staring resolutely at the scuff on the back of his dessert spoon.
She leaves, deflated, and as soon as she’s out of earshot, Henri whips his napkin at Oliver’s head.
“Are you stupid?” Henri hisses. “Even you couldn’t possibly be this choosy.”
“I’m not pulling at dinner,” Oliver replies, deciding to go for obstinate rather than oblivious. “That would be rude.”
“You are not pulling ever! Rejecting every woman in the city of London and leaving them heartbroken, swearing off men forever, that’s what’s rude. Who are we supposed to go out with?” Henri sighs. “Look at Jiji! Now he cannot ever win her over. You’re going to make him feel douleur.”
Ji-Hoon assumes a hangdog face, right on cue. They’ve had this exact conversation before, Oliver is certain.
“Oh, leave him be,” Joe says, having the time of his life. “Ollie’s married to Camden. He’s just being faithful.”
“Well, the least Camden could do is give him a free pass while he’s injured,” Ji-Hoon says fairly.
The four of them keep up the good-natured bickering, Oliver’s unforgivable lack of sexual follow-through mostly forgotten, but he has a strange twinge of nerves in his stomach that’s from something other than the late-night coffee.
It feels off to him that Leo had observed the whole interaction silently, so very out of character for him, almost judgmental.
“Sorry, mate,” Oliver says to Leo as they wind their way back to the restaurant entrance. “The night got away from us. I hope you enjoyed the salad, at least.”
“More the merrier,” Leo says, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I still think you owe me one, though.”
· · ·
Regent Road has a cloud of forbidding air settled over it as the fans trickle in before the match against Hull City.
Oliver doesn’t blame them: they’ve not exactly been on a streak of form that inspires confidence.
As he hangs his coat in the team box, James Finch beckons him over.
It’s the first Oliver’s seen of him since Willem told him about the conditions of his hiring, and it makes Oliver feel almost violent to see the big boss now, holding court with his model of a wife and their son in a full kit, knowing he’d ax them all without a second thought.
“Oliver!” Finch says companionably, smiling as if they’re the best of chums. “There’s a good lad. Have you met Jenny? And Junior?”
“I’ve had the pleasure, yes.” Oliver fashions his face into a smile and crouches down to the kid’s level, mostly to avoid getting sucked deeper into the conversation. “When will we see you out there, huh, Jamie?”
“Not soon enough!” Finch booms on his behalf. “And when will we get you back, Harris? I must say, they look like they’re missing you.” It’s somehow both a compliment and a threat.
“Just as soon as they let me, boss,” he promises as he extricates himself, making a beeline for his seat.
He’s getting sick of the sidelines—he’s been sick of them, but now more than ever.
By every metric, Camden should be ready to smash Hull City.
The beauty and the blasphemy of football, though, is that it doesn’t care about the metrics.
Every statistic evaporates over the green of the pitch, and it’s anyone’s game to lose or to win, if they’re only strong enough to run it down and take it.
Camden isn’t strong enough. Frankly, they look a bit shit.
Oliver’s teeth are achy from grinding them when he holds back a curse.
The first half is muddy and unlucky, full of bad bounces, overhit shots, and underhit passes.
Willem motions for Leo to come in right when play resumes, along with Noah.
The two of them come out sprinting, changing the pace of play completely.
That’s it, Oliver thinks, watching Leo shove back when one of the defenders grabs for his shirt.
He keeps playing scrappy, skirting the edge of nasty.
Beckett used to always say that football isn’t a gentleman’s game, it’s for artists and ruffians, and all the better if you can play at both.
Leo certainly can; it pays off in the dying stages of the match.
Anthony slides in hard to keep one of Hull City’s forwards out of Joe’s box, and Woodsy chases down the loose ball, hoofing it forward in Leo’s general direction.
That’s enough to be going on with; Leo takes off after it, whacking through a smear of opposing kits and bodying his way into the penalty box.
He pokes a shot with his weak foot, sending the ball right and the keeper to the left, and there it is, right in the back of the net.
“Go on, then!” Oliver roars, jumping to his feet and clapping, even smacking a high five to James Junior’s little palm. “Get after it, Davito!”
Down on the field, Leo runs toward the home dugout, waving madly up toward the stands.
“There we are,” Finch says at the referee’s whistle, like he had anything to do with it. “Look at him go! I knew I kept him around for a reason. I tell you, Harris, it’ll be quite a nice return on investment with you two in midfield. I didn’t pay a pound for either one of you!”