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They get a bus ride back to Leipzig, which sucks. Most of the team is still drunk enough at nine in the morning that they only hit hungover an hour into the ride, and Booker’s not the only one who vomits. (Actually, by the time they’re on the bus Booker has managed to absorb a liter of water and sleeps the whole way.) Nicky dozes, aware of Joe a row behind him even in his sleep. Boyfriend. His boyfriend.
It's a terrifying thought.
He's pretty sure he smiles in his sleep.
It’s mid-afternoon by the time they’re home, a small miracle given the state of the roads, and Joe and Nicky go with Booker to Celeste’s office. He’s still in bad enough shape that she doesn’t do more than glare at Joe before they explain, piecemeal between the three of them, about Booker wanting help. That is, in the end, easy enough; he’s hardly the first professional athlete to have substance use issues.
Nicky doesn’t think Booker should be alone, so he drives him back to Joe’s house while Joe works out damage control with Celeste. Nicky’s not sure what Joe is going to tell her, but he trusts Joe. And, ultimately, Celeste, though he’s expecting some glares on his own behalf next time she sees him.
Joe gets home half an hour later, sees Booker dozing on the couch with a glass of water and the Real Madrid recording on, and walks right into Nicky’s arms where he’s sitting at the kitchen bar top. “You are amazing,” Nicky murmurs to him, rubbing his back, trying to remember that Joe is probably actually tired and not restless like Nicky from forced inactivity and sleeplessness. “Thank you so much for talking to Celeste.”
Joe pushes his face into Nicky’s shoulder. “She’ll let us— pick our time. With her advice.”
Nicky knows a frission of white-hot fear, all through his body, at the thought of everyone knowing his business. No one knows his business. But: Joe knows his business. And now Celeste, apparently. So, “Of course,” Nicky says, because they are all rightfully terrified of Celeste, and it is always better to follow her advice.
“I still have to call my mother.” Joe doesn’t seem to be afraid of that thought, just tired; Nicky envies him that.
He rubs Joe’s head and Joe pushes into his hand like a cat. “Do you want me to stay? Only I am very very sick of these clothes, and the trainers have ordered me to report to them again this afternoon, on pain of further injuries. But I will be here for your phone call, if that will help you.”
Joe opens his eyes and smiles at Nicky. “No. I’ll only be more nervous if you’re here too. Go, change, get healed, I don’t know how to play without you anymore. But maybe—“ he hesitates, and Nicky almost pulls away for a moment before he recognizes, with wonder, first-date nerves— “maybe come over for dinner tonight? We’ll get takeaway, find a dumb movie. I would— really like to do that with you.”
Nicky smiles, and can’t help kissing him. Joe doesn’t seem to mind. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”
“Yusuf,” says Joe’s mother as soon as she picks up, “what have you been saying?”
“I know, Mama. I’m sorry, it’s been a tricky few weeks.”
“You need to be more careful. You know these people, they will look at you and see only your skin and your name, you speak for more than just yourself.”
Joe sighs; it is a familiar lecture. “I know, Mama,” he says again.
“You know I don’t want to lecture you. Inshallah when you have children yourself you will understand, you must make the world better for them, so they can make the world better too.”
It’s as good a segue as any. “Mama, you know I’m gay, right?” He thinks she does. It’s been years since she’s asked if he’d met any nice girls.
Her turn to sigh. Joe jiggles his knee up and down, pushes his free hand on it to hold it still, can see his mother rubbing the tips of her fingers together the way she does when she’s looking for words. He got his restlessness from her. Finally she says, “I did not know, to swear to it. But I know you, my Yusuf, so. I knew enough.”
“Okay.” He has to force the next words out: “And Baba?”
“The same. But he does not want to talk about it— if you meet a nice boy you may bring him home, and that is all that needs to be said about it.”
Joe rubs his hand over his face; there are tears in his eyes. “I met a nice boy, Mama. I’m not ready to bring him home yet. But you’ll like him when I do.”
“Oh? Who is he?” He can picture her at the sink, washing breakfast dishes or mixing spices, paging through the cooking magazines he buys her.
“Nicky. Nicolò di Genova.”
“That one? Oh, Yusuf. You couldn't make your life easy and find a nice boy who isn’t also in the eye of the media?”
“I don’t like things too easy.”
“And it is even more important to be careful what you say, Yusuf! How many layers do you represent, now?”
“I should introduce you to our publicist. She agrees with you.”
"I hope you listen to her, then.”
“Sometimes. This time, I’m trying. She says we’re going to make her career.”
“Why is that?”
“We’re going to have to come out, Mama. Sometime soon. You said it, we’re too much in the public eye to hide. And I don’t want to be that guy. I’d have come out before if I’d met anyone worth it.”
“So this Nicky is worth it. All right. You want me to tell your Baba, don’t you.”
Joe sighs. “I can tell him. Tell him I’ll call this evening.”
When Nicky knocks at Joe’s door again Joe opens it with his phone to his ear, smiles like he can’t help it when he sees Nicky, rolls his eyes at whatever is coming out of the phone. Nicky smiles too, and brushes Joe’s hand as he walks past into the house. He has his practice bag, because why not, with a spare change of real clothes and a toothbrush added. He’s feeling reckless with emotion, and anyway he could always feel the extra effort it took for Joe to peel himself away from Nicky, after all those hotel room encounters: Joe will want him to stay.
“Yes, Baba,” says Joe into the phone. “Yes, I did, I—” he listens some more, closing his eyes. “Love you too. Yes, I told Mama. Good-bye.” He tosses the phone on the counter before opening his eyes at Nicky. “So my parents might come to a game.”
“Oh?” Nicky doesn’t think this is something that happens often—certainly it hasn’t happened yet this season. He puts a hand on Joe’s shoulder.
Joe steps closer and nuzzles into the side of Nicky’s head. “They want to meet you. They don’t trust me to not hide you away.”
Nicky turns closer to nibble Joe’s earlobe; Joe hums contentedly. The fizzing in Nicky’s belly is a new kind of trepidation, butterflies wanting Joe’s parents to like him. “I would be honored to meet your parents. You’ll pardon me if I don’t produce my own so quickly.”
Joe pulls back to look at him. “You absolutely don’t have to. They won’t make it for another few games, anyway, my dad has to get off work for a day to make it worth the trip for them.”
Nicky leans in again to kiss his cheek. “I would like to meet my boyfriend’s parents, I think.”
“Hm.” Joe smiles, and kisses his mouth, and they stand there wrapped up in each other and slow sweet kisses until Booker comes in to ask if Joe has ordered anything for dinner yet.
They order Indian; Booker takes some and retreats to his own room to eat and continue texting with Celeste or whichever peon is arranging his life now. Joe has found them something very silly to watch on the main TV, and Nicky eats and watches, relaxed fully with the length of their thighs pushed together as someone with too many muscles jumps out of a helicopter. After they’ve both finished eating they slide together gradually, until they’re more of a single lump on the couch than two different people. The credits start to roll. Nicky is full enough, and tired enough, that his eyes are starting to close, even with Joe’s fingers petting through his hair.
“I told Celeste I want to come out.”
Nicky opens his eyes. He turns his head up so he can see Joe’s face—somehow he is pillowed in Joe’s lap—and asks, “What did she say?”
Joe looks down at him. “She said I’ll never play for Tunisia again. Which I knew. And I might lose some endorsements. But she also said the way we’ve been playing, management’s not dumb enough to mess with our contracts.”
Nicky nods slowly. His heart beats faster again, and he can tell Joe is scared too, but there’s hope mixed in there somewhere. “What did you tell her about me?”
Joe shakes his head. “I’m not outing you without your say-so. But—“ he hesitates— “She said it would be good to do it soon, be a good counter to the mess on Friday, and I said I had to talk to you about it. Celeste’s not dumb.” His hand stills in Nicky’s hair. After a minute he adds, “I’m sorry.”
Nicky sits up and waves a hand impatiently, still pressed against Joe. “It’s okay, it’s okay, just let me think for a minute.”
Nicky is good at thinking in a straight line, good at blocking out all the noise and distractions and focusing on what matters. Usually, these days, that is the ball on the pitch, but here and now it is the way Joe’s arm tenses under his hand, the way Joe’s fingers curl around his when he slides his hand past Joe’s wrist.
Nicky closes his eyes. He is twenty-seven; he has, realistically, ten more good years of football left to play, maybe a few more if he is lucky, a few less if he is not. The number of people who know that he, Nicolò di Genova the footballer, is gay has doubled in the last twenty-four hours. Prior to Joe, he had a few anonymous encounters in clubs and bars— more in Sicily, when he was younger; not many at all in Hamburg. As he got less and less satisfied with those encounters, he got less and less satisfied with himself, with how he was handling this, with the thought that he would always be alone.
That’s the crux, in the end. What matters is that he is not alone; Joe is next to him. Joe wants him here. He is young— if he steps outside the skewed mindset of professional sport— he has his whole life ahead of him, if he can reach out to take it.
He opens his eyes. Joe is watching their clasped hands, holding himself still, his natural urge to move subdued to support Nicky. Nicky smiles. “Joe,” he says. “It is too early to ask this, but— are you in this for real?”
Joe looks up at him, eyes wide with hope. “Yes,” he says hoarsely. “Yes, Nicky, whatever you want— I’m no good at casual.”
Nicky leans forward to kiss him; he tastes like tikka masala and ghee. It’s a few minutes before Nicky can pull back; they’re both breathing hard. “Then I think we should come out together. Or else they’ll try and find a boyfriend where there isn’t one— or— oh, you know what I mean, yes? They’ll dissect both our lives anyway. At least if we do it at the same time we can hide together.”
Nicky wakes up unsure of where he is, but before he even opens his eyes he takes a breath and can smell Joe, so he smiles and nuzzles a little closer. He’s in Joe’s house, in Joe’s bed, in Joe’s arms. Yesterday should have sucked— almost no sleep, sore leg, the tedium of a bus ride full of hungover or still-drunk teammates, what could have been a very uncomfortable encounter with Celeste— but it hadn’t, because of Joe. Nicky had known, really, that he was falling in love with Joe— that’s why it had hurt so much, Joe’s answer to that question— and yesterday made it real. Because Joe wants him too, Joe who is kind in the face of Booker’s shitshow of a life, Joe who has spent years laying the groundwork for coming out. They had talked more after the movie, and there’s a statement Celeste is putting out today, a not-really-apology from Joe with questions about homophobia in sport and what we all do to perpetuate that; that’s Joe’s work. Last night Nicky was watching over his shoulder as Joe tweeted, How many lesbian footballers can you think of? Now how many male gay footballers?
It's not a coming out, not yet. They want that clean, want that on their own terms, not to cover up a mistake. Nicky is starting to get used to the idea, starting to feel it settle down in his belly where it steadies him.
Nicky rolls over and watches Joe sleep, the corners of his mouth relaxed down, tiny crow’s feet making his eyes smile even at rest. How did he get here, with Joe, so fortunate. Nicky remembers being twenty-one, twenty-two, so afraid and so angry at being afraid. He had watched Joe on the field, seen the press Joe got, been envious that someone could speak out, let the envy stoke his anger. He hadn’t even wondered if Joe was gay until later, until the bruises from Joe’s head had faded and Nicky had finally, finally, asked himself what he had done. Who he was becoming. “Fear is the original sin,” Nicky had read somewhere in childhood, a phrase that had stuck with him, and he looked at his life and realized how much fear ruled him.
He is determined that fear will not ruin this.
Nicky doesn’t sleep in late in strange beds. He won’t go back to sleep here, he knows, but he threads his fingers through Joe’s where they curl over his stomach— Joe sighs against his neck— and enjoys the peace for a while, hearing vague sounds that are probably Booker from somewhere else, Joe’s breathing deep and quiet almost pulling him back to sleep after all. He gets up when his bladder makes him, kissing Joe’s hand as he goes. Joe hums in his sleep before sighing again, and sleeps on undisturbed. Nicky stretches his hamstring as he gets up: sore, but the good kind of sore, and already better than yesterday: he won’t be out for long. After the bathroom Nicky contemplates waking Joe up, but there’s the faintest waft of coffee under the door, so he goes in search of that instead.
The noises weren’t Booker. There’s a woman Nicky doesn’t know sitting at Joe’s counter; it takes Nicky a minute to place her as Andy Scythia. Joe’s mentioned her a few times, and Nicky knows they’re friends. He knows something, after last night, of a dumb bet Andy and her girlfriend Quyhn (who is even more terrifying for being so small) made that backfired spectacularly, but he’s not sure of the details.
“Huh,” Andy says as he comes in to the kitchen. “Not who I was expecting.”
“No?” Nicky’s never been to Joe’s house before last night, but it’s not hard to find the mugs. He pours himself coffee; whoever brewed it put too many grounds in, but they’re high enough quality he can stand it anyway. He sits diagonally across from Andy, close enough to converse easily, not direct enough to be threatening.
“Nah. Not that I have any room to judge.”
Nicky looks into his coffee. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve even implied judgement, these days. “You are here why, exactly?”
Her mouth twists, and she looks away from him, toward the window over the sink, where a twig taps against the glass. “We all come to Joe for life advice.”
They sit in silence for a while. Nicky’s starting to think about exploring the fridge when there are quick footsteps down the stairs and Joe comes in. He stops when he sees Nicky. “There you are.”
Nicky smiles at him, knowing he’s as goofy and starry-eyed as Joe is, smiling back. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You should have.” Joe comes over and kisses Nicky, briefly because of Andy, but lingering close to Nicky’s face a minute more, searching for something. He must find it, because he smiles again as he steps back.
“Not Ed Sheeran,” Andy says from her side of the counter.
“Not Ed Sheeran,” Joe agrees, nonsensically. “Nicky’s much better looking.” He goes over to Andy and makes some motion with his shoulders, and she stands to be wrapped up in Joe’s arms. Her face goes down to his shoulder, and Joe rocks her back and forth a little. “You fucked up good,” he says into her hair.
Andy pulls away, sniffling only a little; Nicky can pretend he doesn’t notice. “Remind me why we come to you again.”
“Because occasionally I can get my shit together. Witness, please, a real live boyfriend, here in my kitchen, and a real live plan to keep our jobs and also come out.”
“Have we gotten that far?” Nicky asks lightly, liking Joe’s enthusiasm, but wanting a say at the table. Fighting down the last flutters at the thought of coming out.
“Well, we told Celeste. She’s gonna waylay us today with a plan, watch.” Joe pours himself coffee. He goes to the fridge and adds a splash of milk.
“Heathen,” Nicky says, and gets another kiss on the side of his head.
“You’re in a good mood,” Andy says as Joe puts the milk back and gets eggs out, finds a pan, pushes a loaf of whole-meal bread toward Nicky.
Joe smiles at Nicky, secret, content. They’re in this together. Nicky smiles back. “I am. What can we do sort out your life?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“You know—“ Nicky clears his throat around the lump Joe’s smile has left in it— “I have recently found that open communication can be very helpful. In sorting out misunderstandings.”
“Did anybody ask you?” Andy snaps, then sighs. “Sorry.”
Nicky raises his eyebrows, but nods acceptance of her apology. Joe pulls the details out of Andy as he cooks: eliding emotions with a bet rather than actually talking, hurt feelings, lashing out, more hurt feelings. Andy has licked her wounds just enough at this point to come to Joe for advice, Nicky gathers, but not enough to swallow her pride and have an actual conversation with Quyhn. God knows what practice for them will look like, but Joe offers Andy a spare room for a week while she sorts herself out. Privately Nicky thinks Nile will be the one to force a resolution: he’s watched her play a little and she is long-sighted beyond her years on the pitch.
Joe starts a group WhatsApp for everyone using the house right now: Andy, Joe, Nicky, Booker. Booker emerges a moment after Nicky’s phone pings with the notification. “What is this, Joe’s home for fucked up footballers?” He takes the plate Joe pushes at him. There’s a car coming at ten to take him— someplace. Celeste didn’t say much yesterday, and Booker’s not talking now.
Nicky’s not surprised to see Celeste waiting for them when they walk in for practice. They’re not late— neither he nor Joe have ever been late for practice. They are serious footballers— they are, they are, even if it seems like recently football is one of the least important things.
But they’re not early either, so there’s a steady stream of players entering. Celeste looks even more forbidding than usual as she meets Nicky’s eyes. “Joe and Nicky, my office after practice,” she says, turns on her heel, and leaves. The guys behind them make a few noises like they want to tease them for getting in trouble with Celeste, but it falls a little flat: no one quite knows where Joe and Nicky stand after the interview in Munich, and no one wants to add to the drama and get Celeste mad at them too.
Nicky stretches and does PT with the trainers during the first part of practice, and comes out to watch as the team is running plays and scrimmages. Joe, always nimble, is flying today, dancing, his footwork the most beautiful Nicky has ever seen. When the team comes off Joe is already laughing with the reserve goalie, but he looks at Nicky and somehow glows even more. Nicky grins back. Good thing they’re coming out soon; no way would they be able to stay in with that warmth in Joe’s eyes. Probably Nicky’s just as bad. He’s been told about his resting stone face often enough, but for Joe he smiles.
In Celeste’s office they drop into her nice chairs; Nicky closes the door. Celeste levels a look at them he can’t interpret. Surely if they were getting fired management would be there. Joe’s their reigning star; surely they wouldn’t fire him. “You two are going to make my career,” Celeste says finally. Nicky looks up. She’s almost smiling. “Don’t look like that, the contracts have all the nondiscrimination clauses in them that all contracts have these days, and this will give RB Leipzig so much press, management will be thrilled. And I get to orchestrate that.”
Nicky and Joe look at each other. Not alone, not alone, not alone, chants the voice inside Nicky’s head. “Better than Red Bull commercials?” Joe offers.
Nicky smiles, and loves him. “Low bar. Am I going to have to talk about my feelings in public?”
“Only if you want to,” Celeste says. “That’s why you’re here.” She pushes a piece of paper across the table. “Joe, I’m sure you’ll have an opinion on this statement. We’ve got a week to workshop it. First a little more damage control from Munich: I need the two of you to have lunch somewhere visible in the next two days.”
Joe looks up from reading. “A date, or just lunch?”
“Just lunch. A friendly meal between teammates. Then you need to tell the coaches what’s up, and probably the team so they don’t fuck it up when the news breaks. And then you don’t say anything until after the next game, understand? You play your football and you adjust without Booker and you can pick your time. I’ll have this statement ready to go out whenever that is.”
Out in the hall Joe looks at Nicky. “You okay?” Nicky nods, leaning his head against the wall. Celeste said they could pick their time, but it’s clear she wants it to be soon, from the cadence of her instructions and the tiers of coming out. The team is too big for everyone to keep their mouths shut for long.
He is, suddenly, exhausted despite not practicing. “Joe, I’m scared.”
Joe leans against the wall, shoulder against Nicky’s, and that makes it a little better. Joe is so beautiful, so supportive of his friends, let alone a boyfriend— Nicky is so lucky to get to call him that, whatever else may surround it. “I’ve been terrified for years,” Joe says a little hoarsely, and Nicky realizes he’s not alone in that way, too. “When we met— “
“You mean when I called you a pejorative and accurate name?”
Joe smiles, eyes closed. “Yeah. It was worse then— Tunisia was talking about me, I’d been mouthing off, I didn’t know myself if I wanted people to make the assumption or not. I wouldn’t have reacted so badly if it hadn’t been right at that point.” He opens his eyes and looks at Nicky. Their fingers brush. “I’m tired of being scared.”
Nicky nods. He is too. “But you are so brave, Joe, to say such things even when you were so scared. And now—even in fear, I am not alone.” He wants to say more, as Joe’s fingers brush his cheek; he can feel the words in his throat. Fear holds them back, even from Joe.
Joe leans in to Nicky, noses brushing, before he kisses him. Nicky's eyes close; he is caught between Joe's mouth and the wall, swaddled, cradled, safe. Nicky parts his lips and sighs into Joe’s mouth, their arms starting to tangle in each other’s clothes—
Celeste’s door bangs open. “If you cannot learn a little discretion I will wash my hands of you and send you the nastiest journalist I can find.”
Joe jumps and pulls away from Nicky a little. “We can shower at home,” he tells Nicky, who nods.
“Discretion!” Celeste hisses again.
Before they left Joe’s house that morning Nicky had offered to cook tonight, so he goes back to his apartment for another change of clothes and a pot he’ll need. Joe trails after— they drove together so it only makes sense, and Nicky doesn’t want to leave him anyway— and they make careful love in Nicky’s shower so as not to strain Nicky’s hamstring more, and then Joe reads him snippets of Celeste’s statement as Nicky packs.
“It sounds like corporate bullshit,” Nicky says. The statement is mostly slightly embellished diversity-supporting phraseology, nothing of real substance, though there are a couple quotations from upper management that Nicky wonders about— Did Celeste make up something appropriate, or did she tell them?
“Yeah, but it’s corporate bullshit in our favor,” Joe says.
Nicky supposes that’s fair. “How many days am I packing for?” Maybe it’s too early; four days ago they weren’t doing more than fucking occasionally. Three days ago they hadn’t shared a meal, besides team breakfasts. But— it feels right. Joe hasn’t revealed any nitpicky habits Nicky can’t live with yet; he likes to talk more but Nicky likes to listen. He likes Joe’s enthusiasm, and how he sees the world.
Joe won’t look at him. “Whatever. I don’t want— I don’t know, as you like. I won’t ever turn you away.”
Nicky kneels in front of Joe. “Hey.” Joe looks up, forehead furrowed. “I like Joe’s Home for Fucked-Up Footballers. Proud to be a resident.”
Joe leans his head into Nicky’s, one knee bouncing. “It’s a fucked-up life, Nicky. But I’m glad you’re here with me.”
Joe browses Nicky’s bookshelves while Nicky finishes packing. They go back to Joe’s house, and Nicky cooks, and Joe and Andy praise his culinary skills extravagantly. And sleep is better in Joe’s bed.
It’s one of their long breaks, ten days between games. Nicky appreciates the brief release from scrutiny. They have their highly visible lunch, laughing together but not touching; Nicky is cleared for practice the next day. Practice goes well, so they come out to the coaches at the end of that day, earning a response of grunts and hums and “as long as you keep playing the way you’ve been…”. Joe’s nostrils flare, so Nicky takes him home and fucks him over the couch before Andy’s due back, and that helps them both. It’s hard, afterward, to keep the words from coming out, as Joe kisses him so gently, holds him so sweetly, but Nicky has been keeping his mouth shut for decades; that habit is stronger.
The next day Joe jumps up on a bench at the end of practice and announces their relationship to the team, with an attitude of fuck-you-if-you-don’t-approve. Nicky adds, placatingly, “We are planning on coming out to the press in the next week or two. We don’t want it to surprise you.”
Celeste has slipped into the room and adds, “And anyone who leaks this, or says anything more negative than no comment, I’ll have your balls on my desk in twenty-four hours.”
The reserve goalie protests that— they all like Joe and Nicky, he says, who’s going to have a problem with that— Keane and a couple others are more quiet than Nicky likes—but it’s not bad, really. Nicky’s smiling as he follows Joe out.
The next day is off entirely. Andy makes pancakes for breakfast, and crows when Nicky tries the maple syrup rather than Joe’s strawberries. Nicky grins, though the syrup is too sweet for his taste. They’re going to a new art exhibit later, he and Joe, but first he’s going to his apartment again, to check the fridge and grab a few more things he wants.
He calls his sister as he’s cleaning out the fridge. She’s in Rome currently; he told her when he first started getting paid well that he’d pay for any schooling she wanted to do so she’s got two bachelors degrees, several certificates he doesn’t fully understand, and has moved on to auditing classes. She says she’s too old to turn in papers to teaching assistants younger than she is.
He can’t say Bianca is the most functional adult, but she’s his sister, the one who was always by his side when they were teenagers with a mother who couldn’t make ends meet if she’d tried and a father who popped up occasionally to pick a fight. Bianca was nominally the oldest, but with only fourteen months between them that didn’t mean much. He has wondered, in the most hidden places of his thoughts, if him being good at football kept Bianca from turning into their mother. Bianca was always there for Nicky’s games, learned how to eat right for him, kept an eye on their mother during her worst times so Nicky didn’t have to. It didn’t mean she made good decisions always: Bianca’s ex-boyfriends are a motley bunch and Nicky wouldn’t want to meet any of them again, but she hasn’t descended into anything so far she couldn’t pull herself out again. Nicky loves her fiercely, guiltily, because she’s still the one who looks after their mother so he doesn’t have to; and he knows she loves him back just as hard.
“Nicky!” Bianca greets him. “Honey, how’s your leg? Which muscle was it?”
He laughs. None of Bianca’s classes have been anatomy. “My hamstring, Bee, it’s fine now. I’m back at practice.”
“Not at this time of day, you’re not. Angel, baby, tell me things, you haven’t called me for weeks.”
“Sorry, Bee, it’s been a lot. Munich was the way Munich is, but we won at least. We got snowed in there, the airport closed, I had to babysit the whole team after. You’d have been proud of me.”
“Always, angel. Did you know Michaelangelo…" she’s off telling him weird facts from the tour she’s on, art history this time. He’s pretty sure not all her facts are straight, but she’s never minded about getting all the answers, it’s the process of learning, she says. “What are you doing today? Practice later?”
“No practice today. Joe and I are going to a museum. I’ll tell you if it’s any good, you could come visit, maybe.” They don’t see each other all that often anymore. Nicky’s tied up with the team; when Bianca’s not traveling she feels obligated to keep an eye on their mother and the alcohol levels. Spending time with Booker felt familiar to Nicky, in many ways, though their mother’s never admitted she needed any help.
“Joe! Babe, you have a museum buddy?” Nicky sighs and dumps moldy yogurt down the sink; Bee doesn’t always remember he’s grown up. “Wait, which Joe? Yusuf Al-Kaysani? Honey, he wasn’t very nice about you last week.”
“It was just a misunderstanding. We figured it out.” Silence on the other end: no one can hold a grudge like Bianca. “Do you follow him on Twitter at all?”
“No babe, just the team. You know how I feel about people who attack my baby brother.” Her voice is fierce for a moment.
“You should. He’s going to be in the news soon. Me too.” Nicky has never been more grateful to be off social media.
“Nicolò.” Bee used to be the only person to know Nicky is gay. Joe was the second; Andy and Celeste third and fourth.
“It was a misunderstanding, Bee. And at the beginning— I was young and stupid and shouldn’t have called him what I called him. He was right.”
Silence on the line. “Nicky, what are you doing right now?”
“Cleaning out my fridge.”
“Is it so stinky?” Nicky likes to cook; he cycles through his fridge contents regularly. Bee knows this.
“I haven’t stayed here the last few nights. I’m at Joe’s; he’s got a nice house.”
“Nicolò, are you sure?”
Nicky nods at the phone. Probably they should be video calling, but Bee has standards about her public face and doesn’t always let even Nicky see her before she’s put on her makeup. “Yes, Bianca. Yes. Very sure.” He adds, “You’ll like him.” This is true: he can imagine Joe and Bianca freewheeling through a conversation for hours, one-upping each other on art history and concerts and general hilarity. Nicky is the serious one.
“If you say so, Nicky angel. You call me sometime with him, I want to put the fear of God in him.”
“Okay, Bee. I’ll tell him.”
He tells Joe about Bee at the museum, about his mother, about the father who probably is dead since he hasn’t shown up asking Nicky for money. They’re in public, because Nicky wants something else to focus on while he’s telling Joe all this, and because art museums always make him think of Bianca. Joe listens seriously, solemnly, taking it all in the way he does, seeing everything Nicky’s not saying; puts his hand on Nicky’s back between his shoulder blades when Nicky talks about his mother. Nicky leans into the touch. Joe laughs when Nicky tells him Bee wants to give him a shovel speech, rubs his thumb on Nicky’s back before dropping his hand again. Nicky leans against his shoulder instead. Maybe this would have been better in private. Maybe they can’t come out soon enough.
Augsburg comes to them for the next game, a good game, clean and beautiful and theirs for the taking. Nicky is never in any doubt that they will win, though no one would say so out loud. Joe runs rings around everyone, Nicky feeds him the ball and never lets it get as far back as their own defenders; they win three-nil as sun bursts through a gray sky.
Joe and Nicky are pulled for media, of course. A few questions about the game, then someone asks, “Nicolò, do you have anything to say about Yusuf’s outburst in Munich?”*
Joe’s eyes meet his, smiling at the corners. Nicky laughs; they’re flying as surely as they do on the pitch. “It was true. He wasn't my boyfriend."*
Joe adds, “Even now, it's a very juvenile word. He's so much more."*
The reporters can’t switch directions that quickly; Joe and Nicky run away while they’re still sputtering. It’s the shortest media session they've ever done. Nicky pulls Joe into an office, abandoned for now. “Joe.”
“Nicky… ya amar….” Joe breaks into Dutch sometimes, can keep up with Italian most of the time, switches between German and English without thinking. This is a language Nicky hasn’t heard from him before.
“Amore mio,” Nicky says softly in Italian, so Joe will know he’s serious. “In what way, please, am I more than your boyfriend?”
Joe has such impossible hope in his eyes as he looks at Nicky. “You are the moon when I’m lost in darkness. You warm me through the coldest sleet. Nicolò, how many people have this, to work together and play together and not get bored even in the quiet moments?”
Nicky traces the line of Joe’s cheek, across his temple to his ear, down the line of his neck. He has learned already, in just this week, how much of a romantic Joe is. He thinks he might need that, might want it to feed his courage and soothe his fear for a very long time. “Let them tell us we can’t have this,” he whispers. “We know better.”
Joe kisses him then, with all the adrenaline and exhaustion of the post-match crash, and all the terror of their new vulnerability. Nicky pulls back too soon, but only so he can say, still in Italian, “Joe, I love you.” He says it again, in Dutch, and in German, and English. Joe whispers something Nicky doesn’t understand, the same cadence as ya amar, and repeats it too, English and German and Italian and finally Dutch. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.
And Nicky is not afraid. There will be obnoxious interviews, and media requests, and cold shoulders from teammates who will resent their visibility for something they didn’t choose— but Nicky and Joe will be there together, and so Nicky is not afraid.