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“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll finish it off.”
“Awesome, thanks,” Simo was getting up and packing all his shit into his backpack, clattering around.
“Later, boss,” he said as he went out the door.
“Later,” Joq said to the sound of the door clicking shut. The room descended into the kind of silence only possible after someone like Simo left it.
He watched the monitors. The players were heading into the showers. The support crew were packing their gear. The media room was filling with reporters for the pre-flight press conference. Joq glanced around at the other monitors—the stadium was empty like a ghost house, a cavernous space of empty seats, the field filling with seagulls under the lights.
Joq picked up his pen and flicked it in a rhythm on his notepad. He needed to make a note about the upcoming roster; he needed to train a backup for two weeks’ time when Cameron went on leave because his missus was having a baby; he needed to call maintenance about a camera outside the trainer’s room that was broken. His eyes kept drifting back to the monitors in the locker room.
The players were back in the room, in various states of getting dressed, and Joq sought out Finn. He was near the back, pants on, feet bare, turning to grab his shirt. Joq had seen enough athletes to not get worked up about their physical perfection, but he could appreciate Finn was in great shape. It was accentuated by his genetic gifts—incredible broad shoulders, thick biceps, an impressive chest. He was going to grow into a monster of a man. He was laughing at something one of the other guys was saying to him, at ease, even though it must’ve been weighing on him: to start out so well and then do nothing. Still, like George said, in the scheme of a career, a few games was nothing. Joq guessed, looking at Finn buttoning up his shirt, his smile not dimming as he looked down, he was actually listening to that.
George appeared in the room, suit on, and said something. Joq watched as Finn gave him a grateful look. The captain and Lacy followed George out to face the media.
Joq continued to tap his pen. He should pack up and head out. He needed to set the alarms. He had no reason to stay.
He watched as the players left in pairs, in groups, headed down the tunnel for the bus to the airport. Finn was still sitting, fiddling with his tie, then rummaging through his bag. He zipped it up, looked around the empty room, and went back to his tie, pulling the smaller part out and then tucking it back in.
Joq was still tapping his pen when George returned.
Finn stood.
Joq’s hand stilled as he watched George walk over to him. He’d give his left nut to hear what they were saying, but as he leaned closer, he noticed they weren’t speaking at all, they were just standing a few inches apart and looking at each other.
Oddly, it was George who broke first; shaking his head in a self-deprecating way and dropping his gaze. Finn’s lips parted like he was about to say something. George looked up at him, leaned forward. Finn went still, but George went for Finn’s bag. Their chests brushed and they startled away from each other.
Joq could make out the apology Finn was giving in the way his lips moved, the nervous way his hand ran through his hair. He watched as George shouldered his bag, said something and headed for the door, Finn close behind him a beat later.
And what the fuck was that? Joq wondered as he watched them fall into step with each other, George giving Finn a gentle shoulder nudge as they headed up the tunnel for the bus.
14
Away games didn’t always give Joq the chance to watch at home, the stadium often booked for other sports and events, but this Saturday was free and he took the opportunity to watch from the comfort of his living room.
It was wet. The rain coming down sideways, the wind blowing so hard the players’ hair whipped around their faces.
Joq settled in with a beer and smiled when they showed George at the centre of the huddle, his hand moving as he spoke to the players, looked at each guy in turn.
“Here’s hoping he’s telling Flynn the aim of the game is to score…”
Joq leaned forward and clicked mute. He always gave the commentators the benefit of the doubt, and they always managed to piss him off within the first minute. Finn might not be his favourite person, but this was still his team, George was still his man, and in a weird way hearing the insult made him like Finn more. Not that he didn’t like Finn; he didn’t know him well enough to outright dislike him, and while he certainly felt uneasy with whatever was brewing between him and George, he honestly assumed it would end up just being a fuck. He’d been with George for so long, the thought of them breaking up was unimaginable.
But that weird moment in the locker room had tipped his unease into something he couldn’t decipher, even to himself.
Lying in bed the night before, he’d scrolled through his possible hook-ups, read messages and invites to meet up from new guys, and then tossed his phone aside, turned the lamp off, and stayed awake thinking about it for a long time.
Seeing the camera focus on Finn now brought all those unsettled thoughts back. He watched as the players fanned out across the ground, the camera on Finn, his hair wet and plastered to the side of his head, his expression neutral as he jogged to his spot beyond the centre bounce. The veteran defender they had on him was already shoving him, and Finn was doing his usual Teflon routine like it wasn’t even happening. He was good at that, Joq thought, acting like nothing was going on when clearly something was going on.
The ball was bounced at the centre and the game was on. Joq tried to shake off his thoughts and simply watch the game. George would want to talk about it when he got back, and Joq rarely got a chance to give it his full attention.
But what had Finn been waiting for? Did he understand what an open relationship was? The operative word being ‘relationship.’ Even if George did do something with him, it’d just be fucking. But Finn had been looking at George like he expected something.
And he was back on camera now as he scooped up the water logged ball one-handed, evaded his defender with that characteristic explosion of speed, brought his saturated boot up and kicked a belter from the top of the fifty metre mark. It sailed through the centre of the goal. His team mates were jumping on him in a mob, the shot a close-up of his face as he laughed.
They cut to George in the box. He had his mouth covered as he spoke to the assistant coach, but Joq could see his eyes were crinkled and he wondered if he was covering what he was saying, knowing the cameras were on him, or covering his smile.
