Matchday 33 #4
A secret can be sexy, is what Oliver thinks later, looking across the room full of lads in downward dog.
Even the unsexy, utilitarian pieces of Leo’s body are tantalizing to him—just now, as Leo pulls his socks up over the little bones in his ankle in between stretches, all Oliver can think about is getting his mouth on him, on whatever part he can reach.
It aches so good, Oliver can feel the pang of it in the back of his teeth.
He’s feverish with whatever they’ve unlocked within each other.
He knows Leo is sick with it too, because when yoga is done, he looks neither Zen nor rested, but God, he does look flexible.
They shouldn’t have arrived together, they shouldn’t leave together again, for the second day in a row, but Oliver can’t say no to Leo when he trails after him.
He’s weak, he’s horny, he’s bordering on reckless. He drives them both home.
Up in the kitchen, Leo raids Oliver’s pantry like he’s the one who pays for groceries, scarfing down organic pine nuts that were originally meant for cooking, not nibbling. Affection has made him a weak man: Oliver only takes a fistful for himself and kisses one of Leo’s bulging cheeks.
“You have a whole room full of snacks,” Leo says, replacing the bag and going back in for some chocolate, but he wipes his oily hand on a tea towel before touching anything else, which is very considerate of him. “This is going to be the best part of dating you.”
“Dating” hits Oliver like an emergency siren.
Is that what they’re doing? He has no frame of reference for what any of this means, not with his teammate, not with Leo.
Somehow Oliver is both greedy for the idea and sweaty with nausea when he pictures it.
This is the kind of thing that’s better blown up earlier, day-one achy instead of year-two brokenhearted.
He’d rather go back and spend another lifetime yearning for something he can’t have than finally get what he wants and lose it all anyway—Leo, his career, his reputation, take your pick.
“It’s complicated,” Oliver says lamely, belatedly, trying to shake off the images of transfer windows and tabloid journos staking out the canal bridge. “What we’re doing. What to call it.”
Leo sets the chocolate bar down on the counter very deliberately, like he’s lost his taste for it, and gives Oliver a withering look.
“Seeing someone else, are you?”
“I’m not seeing anyone.” Oliver feels himself clinging desperately to the last vestiges of a onetime thing.
All the good reasons for staying quiet are sounding incredibly loud now that Leo is clothed and no longer kissing him.
The secret doesn’t feel so sexy anymore.
“We just have to be actually fucking careful about this. Famous people get papped getting the mail. We’re under a spotlight. ”
“I’m barely famous, Ollie. One friendly for England isn’t going to count, in the long run. But you’re the real deal. You’re worth a lot of money,” Leo says. There’s something unhappy forming in the crinkle between his eyebrows.
“It’s not about money.” Oliver feels the words that will explain himself slipping away.
It sounds so self-important when he says it out loud, like James Finch is talking through him, but inside everything feels urgent and dangerous and all-consuming.
“It’s the attention. People will notice, Leo.
If you’re with me, if we’re out together.
There’s no way people won’t see what we’re doing. ”
“Right, well, I promise I won’t plant one on you at Regent Road, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Leo says tetchily.
We could do a lot less and people would still be able to tell, he thinks. Every time I look at you, it must be all over my fucking face.
“Look, I’ve had a lot of time to think about this, the limits of my situation,” Oliver says, reaching for Leo’s shoulder and feeling bereft when Leo shakes his hand off.
He couldn’t even make it a day without ruining everything.
At this rate, Leo will be playing second division in Romania by tomorrow and Oliver will probably break his ankle trying to lace his boots.
They don’t even need anyone else to give them ultimatums or threats; Oliver can spoil Camden’s season and his entire life just fine on his own.
“I made my peace with it. It’s football now and gay someday, or gay now and no football, ever again. ”
And it has to be football; that’s what he picked, all those years ago.
“Then we don’t have to call it anything,” Leo replies evenly.
“Or, you know, it doesn’t have to be serious.
We can hook up, no strings. Nothing more.
Just tell me now if that’s what we’re doing, would you?
I don’t want to play any games. If I have to start pretending something about myself, then I don’t want to pretend anything with you. ”
It is exactly what Oliver was pushing Leo to agree to: something noncommittal and nonchalant. He’s a hypocrite; he hates hearing it.
“It’s not pretending,” Oliver says, somewhere between defeated and defensive. “I want to be careful so I can keep doing this, not because I don’t want it.”
“Sure, Ollie,” Leo says quietly. It doesn’t sound like he believes him. “You make the rules.”
The length of the room between them, the site of their first kiss and their, well, not quite first fight, is too much. He just wants to be close to Leo, as close as he’s allowed, for as long as he can manage. “Come on, then,” he says. “Let’s go get something else to eat.”
“In public?” Leo asks, half-joking, half-exhausted. “Won’t that be suspicious?”
“I’d like to have dinner with you,” Oliver says. “The rules are for everyone else, not for how you deserve to be treated. I want you to know that. Besides, won’t it be hot? When the waitress tries to hit on me again, but you know I’m thinking about you fucking me?”
He offers Leo his arm just to make his intentions certain.
He can be chivalrous when they’re alone, in his kitchen.
Leo smacks the crook of Oliver’s elbow down to his side, a little harder than necessary, but he puts one hand in Oliver’s back pocket and keeps it there as they walk out, bumping into each other all down the stairwell.
· · ·
They’re model citizens for the next two days, two bosom buddies who live in separate houses.
And if Oliver organized an outing to play pool at the pub tonight, picking the spot that’s just one street over from his place and not owned by Conor Bishop, that’s just because he’s a great teammate. Altruistic, even.
Being able to spend the evening with Leo without arousing any suspicion was supposed to be a bonus, but now that they’re crowded into a booth, Oliver wonders if it was a terrible mistake.
Something else is arousing, is the problem.
Have billiards always been so phallic? Sticks and balls, et cetera.
Under the neon beer signs, Joe interrupts his indecent thoughts and passes Oliver a cue with one hand, pulling him to his feet with the other, sparing him some torment and introducing a new method of it.
Oliver isn’t even any good at pool. He’s got coordinated feet, no hand-eye to speak of.
“This was a stupid idea,” Oliver grouses.
“It was your stupid idea, though, wasn’t it,” Joe replies sweetly.
“Put your phone away!” Oliver manages to ignore him until Joe brings in reinforcements, Trevor joining him in pinning both of Oliver’s arms to his sides and marching him over to the sea of cheap felt.
“Riddle me this,” Joe goes on, laughing.
“You are always glued to that thing, but never once have you responded to any message in a timely manner. I had to change you as my emergency contact!”
“It’s a power play,” Anthony adds sagely. “He thinks his time is more valuable than ours.”
“Joe, you changed your emergency contact to your wife,” Oliver says defensively.
“He shouldn’t have had to!” Finn says.
“Oh, come off it,” Leo says casually from the booth, looking down at his own phone. “Oliver texts back.”
Joe’s face quirks into one of amused betrayal.
“So there is someone else!” He points at Oliver with the menacing end of a cue. “And here you told me I was your number one.”
“He said that to me too,” Trevor sighs.
Oliver squirms, the only one in the uncomfortable middle of a gay joke.
Well, maybe not the only one, because of Leo, who is just now pink as boiled prawn and busying himself with shredding the corners of a damp coaster to ribbons, avoiding everyone’s eyes.
Oliver brandishes his own cue and initiates a fencing match with Joe to distract the lads into placing their bets rather than continuing the conversation, which, surprising no one, works like a fucking charm.
He’s so busy poking blue circles of chalk onto the back of Finn’s sweater, he doesn’t even notice they’re one man short until Leo texts him from the loo.
Didn’t realize I was such an exception
Leo is an exception to every rule he’s ever set.
Oliver wants to go kick the toilet door in and say, Duh.
Instead, he stomps off to the bar for a refill on water—being responsible is not all it’s cracked up to be; when this season is over, he’s going to become ninety percent pina colada—where he can look at his screen in peace.
who’s this? he writes stubbornly on his way back to the table.
I think you know. Oliver feels sparks down from his abdomen to the tops of his thighs. And between them. He knows, all right—the idea of it is so thrilling he barely notices the follow-up text. what are you wearing?
cheeky. come have a look, because I’m not going to sext you
like hell you aren’t. tell me what you want to do to me.
There’s so much he wants to do to Leo, none of it safe to type in public. Oliver can barely remember to breathe, much less heckle his pool opponents.