Matchday 38 #7
“That part wasn’t so nice, you’re right.
But you mustn’t be sorry for the rest of it, for who you are.
Ollie, you didn’t have to tell me anything.
” Her voice is soft again, almost coaxing.
Their knees are angled toward each other and bumping together.
Her hand is still in his hair, scratching gently at the nape of his neck, the kind of comforting motion he’s gotten from her a million times before.
“So you knew something?” he whispers, putting his head in his hands. He wondered if she might have. “Jesus. Aren’t you angry with me for keeping it from you?”
“I didn’t know anything. I might have suspected.
” Nicola puts her arms around him. Anyone could walk by and not even know it was him; his mum has wrapped him in both a hug and in a kind of shield.
“But I would never have been angry, no matter what. I’ll love you the same, Oliver, no matter who you are or who you become. ”
“I was afraid. If you knew, like, it wouldn’t be a secret anymore. And I could only manage it secretly, barely even then. I just felt…I thought it had to be like this. We gave up so much, I didn’t want to lose football too. I didn’t want to lose the only parts of Camden we had left.”
“You’ll never lose them, Ollie. They’re part of us,” Nicola says, squeezing him tightly. She’s right—all around them, Regent’s Park looks the same as it ever has. They could have been here, just like this, at any point in Oliver’s life. His dad could have been sitting with them.
“I wish I was telling you differently. On my own terms,” he says quietly, voice cracking and muffled into her sleeve. He wishes he was telling Dad.
“You can tell me now, darling,” Nicola soothes. “Anything and everything you want to.”
So he does.
· · ·
Oliver takes one great breath, a steadying, slightly frightened inhale, when he reaches the house.
Tomorrow is all well and good, but tonight he needs to text Maggie and prepare her for the inevitable questions people will have for her.
He’s hoping Leo will help him with a script, but when he opens the front door and calls, “I’m home,” he gets two hellos instead of one.
“Oh, for fucking hell,” Oliver swears, hobbling up the stairs. “Does no one knock anymore? All year long, everyone has just been letting themselves into people’s houses and wreaking havoc. You’re supposed to wait until you’re invited in!”
Joe and Leo are standing two paces apart in the sitting room, grimacing guiltily.
“May I come in?” Joe asks.
“I tried to hide,” Leo adds sheepishly.
“Great job,” Oliver tells him.
“Davito.” Joe nudges Leo with one elbow. “Could you give us a minute?”
“I’ll just go upstairs,” Leo says. “If there is an upstairs. How would I know?”
He slips out of the room; Oliver gives him a very tired thumbs-up as he passes.
Joe watches the exchange silently, settling himself proprietarily on one of the armchairs and raising his eyebrows at Oliver in an invitation to speak first. Oliver shakes his head, then crosses the room so he can sit cross-legged at Joe’s feet, looking up at him expectantly.
“Oh, mate” is all Joe says. “I just came over to check on you,” he goes on. “I didn’t have any expectations one way or the other. My plan was, like, affirm and support. Open door for anything you wanted to talk about. But obviously I kind of, you know, found out what’s what.”
Oliver snorts a sad little laugh, shaking his head helplessly.
“And what’s that?”
“Oliver,” Joe says gravely, resting his hand on Oliver’s tousled head like he’s giving a priest’s blessing. “You stupid bastard.” It’s not the first time someone’s called Oliver that this year. It’s been true every time. “Well, you’re certainly punching above your weight class, looks-wise.”
“Don’t I know it,” he replies, feeling the heavy weight of Joe’s hand on his head, the only thing keeping him from floating away. “I was just hoping no one would tell him that, you know, before I’ve gotten things locked down.”
“I tried, but I don’t think you need to worry,” Joe soothes him, scratching at Oliver’s tired scalp now like he’s petting a feral cat. “He’s absolutely arse over tit for you.”
Oliver tips forward, resting his head on Joe’s knees and letting his shoulders shake—again somewhere between laughter and tears—just for a minute.
“I am too. For him. Well, arse over cock, maybe.”
“I can tell, brother. How long has it been going on?” It’s a credit to Joe that he doesn’t even blink at the word “cock.” Oliver can’t wait to abuse this shamelessly in the future.
“With him? Not that long. For me, though, like, always. But, Joe, listen—I am…completely spent, emotionally. I want to talk about this stuff. I don’t ever want to keep a secret from you again. But I feel like I’m gonna pass out.”
“There’s lots of time for us to talk,” Joe says evenly, standing to go like it’s as easy as that. “There’s no rush, Oliver. I’ll be here. Starting with tomorrow, hey?”
When Oliver turns back toward the rest of the house, Leo is crouched on the second-floor landing, still making a guilty face. “Sneak,” Oliver greets him. “At least I don’t have to debrief you.”
Leo scampers down and tentatively touches Oliver’s wrist with two fingers, halfway to holding hands.
“Well, that went better than I expected,” Leo says, totally lacking in remorse for someone who was eavesdropping on a personal conversation.
“Not that I expected anything bad from Joe, like. But it’s nice.
If anyone tries anything next season, he’ll pop their Achilles tendon with the power of his mind. ”
“Don’t give him any ideas,” Oliver warns, taking Leo’s hand properly and interlacing their fingers.
“Hmmm,” Leo says, squeezing their knuckles together tightly. “I think we should order two large pizzas and not look at the internet again until July. You in?”
“But what will you eat?”
“You are not even a little bit funny,” Leo replies, but cheerfully, peppering Oliver’s face with kisses, loud, smacking ones. “Get the good stuff, would you? Not Pizza Express.”
Oliver has his marching orders: two margherita pizzas and a side of halloumi, panna cotta for dessert, more dairy than the human body should be able to tolerate—they’re on vacation.
It’s been a spell since he’s walked for takeaway, saving his legs for the pitch, and when Oliver reaches the restaurant’s red awning, dotted with flower boxes, he sees that the great brick wall over the ceiling up toward the roof is the home of the same mural Leo took a photo of so many months ago, that beautiful portrait of Oliver himself.
It’s still there now, only it’s been recently defaced.
Pizza Express will have to do. Sorry, Leo, he thinks, turning to head back the way he came and immediately bumping right into a teenager who yelps and almost tips over a bucket of paint.
“Sorry, mate, sorry,” Oliver says, wishing he’d thought to wear something with a hood or at least put on a hat.
“It’s you,” the paint holder says, sounding surprised and pleased, rubbing his shirt hem at his glasses’ lens to get a better look at Oliver.
“Kind of embarrassing, to be honest. I just fancied a pizza. Though I suppose I might have known something like that might happen,” he says, gesturing at the big F at the start of the graffiti.
“It’s my uncle’s place,” the kid explains. “He hit the fucker with a broom when he caught him at it.”
Oliver can’t help but laugh, picturing a mustachioed old man in a sauce-stained apron chasing off the vandal, screaming in Italian.
“It’s really beautiful,” Oliver tells him sincerely. “Davito—er, Leo—sent it to me, months ago. I’m glad you wanted to keep it up, after all this.”
“After all what?” the gangly youth asks, fumbling around his pocket for a cigarette, like it’s nothing.
“Oh, Harris got us back into the Champions League for the first time in decades, let’s tear down his mural because he might like blokes!
Who wouldn’t fancy Leonardo Davies-Villanueva, after the season he’s had?
Come off it. I’m going to fix it and then paint him too. ”
“Well, thank you, then,” Oliver stammers, bewildered. “I’ve always thought you did a great job on it. Glad I got to tell you in person.”
“Cheers, mate. Thank you for scoring all those goals.” They laugh and Oliver starts to be on his way, waving awkwardly, before the kid calls back to him. “Say, do you, actually?”
“Actually?”
“Fancy blokes. Him, Leo.”
“I really, really do.” Oliver’s voice shakes, but he doesn’t lower it.
“Right on, Harris. Good luck next season.”
· · ·
In the morning, all the cheese they eventually got around to scarfing, after several more phone conversations and many more missed calls, threatens to make a reappearance—Oliver doesn’t think he could keep down water, much less coffee.
Leo is, predictably, dolloping jam into his yogurt on top of half a bag of muesli like it’s nothing.
If Oliver offered to cook, Leo could probably put away a dozen eggs, no problem.
“Aren’t you nervous?” Oliver asks, straightening Leo’s shirt collar for the fifteenth time.
“Of course I am,” Leo says, batting him away. “That’s why I’m stress eating.”
He can’t argue with that; Oliver suspects Leo might have had the right idea once they get to the Crossing and his nerves compound with his empty stomach, leaving him feeling faint.
They’re early, the locker room is barren, but that’s almost worse, standing in the front of the room in business casual, waiting for the beginning of the end.
It’s a small consolation that Leo looks so dashing next to him, as if he’s planning on coming out as a high-fashion model rather than a bisexual.
Everyone arrives in one jumbled flood only moments later.
Charles is missing, Gavin arriving last and all alone.