International Break
Sometimes you just have to settle in and make yourself comfortable at rock bottom. Nothing to be done for it.
When Oliver was eighteen, when it was futile to pretend, at least to himself, any longer, he came up with a paradoxical set of rules.
Don’t tell anyone, except you have to tell Maggie.
Don’t look at anyone, but if you do, don’t look at footballers.
Don’t think about it, unless you have to.
All he’s done since January is think. And now he’s done a damn sight more than tell or look: he’s confessed and he’s acted on it, with another Rose.
He has to look at Leo across the pitch every day until Willem or Finch says otherwise, for work, for Camden, for a shitload of cash, and now whenever he does it, he won’t be thinking about midfield formations or shots on goal, he’ll only be remembering the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him.
It would be simpler if kissing Leo had been stumbling or awkward, easy to classify as a mistake.
Instead, it was incredible and thrilling.
It’s going to linger in Oliver’s bones and haunt him forever.
Somehow, at some point, he convinced himself that there was no guilt in hiding, only practicality.
But why would you need to confess something you aren’t ashamed of?
he wonders, full to the brim with self-loathing.
He doesn’t want to feel shame. There’s no embarrassment in him, no thought of being weaker for it, only the nauseating sensation of keeping up a lie.
When Oliver thinks about people finding out that he’s gay, that he likes men, his fight-or-flight kicks in.
It doesn’t feel safe. He has to keep the disparate pieces where they belong, or his life is going to come crashing down around him—like it is right now.
When he lost his father, football was the only thing that felt right.
But with every passing day, Camden—the home and the football club—looks less recognizable to him.
The one thing he knows how to keep is who he is, who Oliver Harris is meant to be.
And he’s meant to be a footballer, staid and straight.
He was supposed to support Leo and teach him, not antagonize him and fantasize about him and spoil things between the two of them before they’d ever shared a pitch.
He’s still injured and for sale, Willem is still on the brink of getting fired, and all Oliver has done in months is pick fights he can’t win.
· · ·
No matter how depressed you might be and no matter how justified said depression is, Thou shalt not be late to practice.
Show up on time or suffer the consequences.
Anthony has a particularly harsh rule in place: three grand if you’re tardy, with interest accruing every fifteen minutes until you show up.
It’s not even about the cash (though the money will be donated to charitable causes at the end of the season)—the public shaming is the worst of it.
All told, sleeping through five alarms and waking up at half past nine on Friday will probably cost Oliver nearly ten thousand pounds.
He takes the stairs two at a time, half-dressed and wholly stressed, landing gingerly on his injured leg.
He heaves himself through the entry doors eight minutes later, but he was not expecting Willem to be prowling the front hall, holding a porcelain cup and saucer.
Oliver actually doesn’t even clock his presence until he’s a few steps beyond him.
“Training begins at nine o’clock, Mr. Harris,” Willem says reproachfully, over the rim of his mug.
“Jesus H,” Oliver swears, wrenching his head behind him. “Er, I—sorry, sir, didn’t see you.”
“Evidently,” Willem replies, sounding as peevish as Oliver has ever heard him. “Why don’t you and I have a cup of tea in my office, seeing as the rest of the team has already gotten started?”
It is quite deliberately not a question: classic Willem.
Oliver follows him up the stairs, feeling for all he’s worth that the ghosts of Camden Football Club past are physically frog-marching him into the manager’s office.
While Willem busies himself with pouring another cup of—frankly, oversteeped-looking, stupid Dutchman—breakfast tea, Oliver stares resolutely at the rug, nudging the woven flower pattern with the toe of his shoe like his life depends on it.
He waits for a lecture or a series of leading questions, but Willem leaves them in silence for a good long while.
“It’s not like you to be tardy,” de Boer says eventually, raising one eyebrow up into a parenthetical arch. “The others might start getting ideas.”
Oliver groans, scrubbing at his eyelids with his knuckles.
“I am sorry, Willem, genuinely. Overslept, innit.”
“You look awful.”
Even though Willem’s right, it’s not nice to say.
Oliver can’t bring himself to raise his gaze and confirm how out of sorts he looks, so he continues studying the floor.
Willem doesn’t push him, but eventually the weight of the quiet is unbearable, reminding him irresistibly of the stretch of drawn-curtain hours he’s spent with his own thoughts over the last two days.
“Did Sebastian ever tell you that we—ah, me and Leo—were training together after hours?” Oliver asks, retching the words out involuntarily.
“He did.”
“But you didn’t punish us?”
“I thought that might be counterproductive. Would you have kept helping him if Sebastian shouted at you for it?”
“What if I’d been out there sabotaging him?” Now that Oliver’s started this line of questioning, he can’t seem to stop.
Willem doesn’t laugh, taking the question on its face.
“If I thought you were capable of that, I’d send you to Brighton tomorrow on a loan and never look back,” he says firmly. “Oliver, permit me to ask the question this time: did something happen between you and Leonardo?”
Oliver scuffs at the rug even more diligently. It’s a perfectly fair question, which makes him feel even more woefully unprepared to answer. Especially about the definitions of “something” and “between.”
“I’m not trying to get shipped off,” he begins. “I’d be wasted on the seaside. But I don’t know if I was cut out to be a mentor, honestly. I reckon Davito would agree with me.”
Willem cocks his head and gives him a curious look, then pauses, leaving room for him to continue. But Oliver, leaden with a deathbed confession, will go no further. He takes a gulp from his teacup instead to buy time.
“What makes you say that?” Why don’t you ask him, Oliver wants to reply, snappish thoughts pushing out at his temples.
He doesn’t want Willem to ask Leo, though; he doesn’t want anyone to ask Leo anything about him ever again.
He shrugs instead, keeping his attention fixed on the tea.
Willem, of course, is no stranger to filling silences.
“Well, for what it’s worth, you’re off the mark on this one, Harris.
From my point of view, it’s clear that you and Leo will be well matched in the midfield.
I brought him here from Spain because of it.
” Oliver can’t help the tight shake of his head, the visceral reaction to being called any kind of a match with Leo now.
“Mentor or not,” Willem insists, “he’s here to play with you.
And he’s done brilliantly. He has you to thank for this opportunity.
And you’ll have him to thank when you’re healthy and have someone who can keep up with you out there,” he continues, leaning back slightly as his chair creaks in protest.
“Time will tell, I suppose,” Oliver manages, choking on the words.
Maybe Leo will play so beautifully for England that Valencia realizes what they sent away, regrets it, and puts in a billion-pound bid.
Perhaps Oliver and Leo will never speak again except across opposite ends of an international friendly, all of France safely separating them.
Something like concern breaks out in wrinkles all over Willem’s forehead, but Oliver is spent.
De Boer lets him leave without another word, but everything said and unsaid follows Oliver around for the rest of the day like he’s dragging it around in a suitcase.
Even his truncated version of the workout feels like it’s being pulled out of him against his will, until his legs are jelly and his arms quiver with exertion.
He’s still wobbly-legged when Anna comes into the appointment room that afternoon, putting on her reading glasses and picking up a clipboard full of medical charts.
“Heard you were late to training,” she says without looking up.
“I had a meeting,” he lies unconvincingly. “What do those say?” He gestures feebly for the papers, trying to snatch them out of her hands without sitting up from the exam table.
“Nothing you would understand, I’m afraid,” she replies, brushing him off with ease and keeping her eyes on the papers. She takes her time with it and by now Oliver knows better than to interrupt, settling in for the long haul of her analysis. Eventually, she hands him a printout.
“What do you see?”
Even when he presses his nose all the way to the paper, his eyes can’t follow the pattern of muscle and bone that makes up his leg.
“Nothing,” he admits, thinking he’s proven her right.
“Exactly.” She’s smiling at him for the first time this calendar year. “The muscle reknit itself very neatly. Well done.”
It’s not as if Oliver had anything to do with it, but he’s flushed with pride anyway.
“So I’m cured?” he asks in a whisper, not sure if he deserves it.
“You’re healed. This part of your leg is vulnerable now—it’s likely to strain itself more easily than it would before. You have to listen to it, stop when it tells you, and keep it strong. No shirking exercises, no late appearances. Best behavior.”