One Room, Two Terrible Liars

My decision to share a hotel room with Rafa came from pride, which remained responsible for most of the administrative difficulties in my life.

Lucy had put a short clip from the coach on the club's account. Nothing incriminating: Ben complaining about the film, two academy players waving, a glimpse of Rafa's shoulder beside mine.

Naturally, Ben considered it his duty to investigate.

“You two looked cosy.”

“We were on a coach,” I said. “They're built that way.”

“Funny. I had plenty of room.”

“That's because everyone avoids you.”

We were gathering in reception before another preseason trip, and the team liaison was checking the room list. Usually I shared with Ben. Usually this allowed me to complain about his snoring with documentary evidence.

“Put me with Costa,” I said.

Rafa looked up from the luggage beside his feet.

Ben's grin became unbearable.

“Excellent. Peace at last.”

I realised what I'd done approximately half a second too late.

The hotel room had two single beds, a small desk, and a view of a delivery bay. I inspected the distance between the mattresses as though it might be relevant to structural safety.

Rafa put his case on the rack.

“Which bed?”

“The one furthest from your piano music.”

“I'll use headphones.”

“Then I suppose I'll survive.”

He smiled but didn't tease me about the room. I appreciated that enough to be suspicious.

After dinner and the team meeting, we returned upstairs with clips of the next day's opponents to review. I opened the laptop on my bed. Rafa pulled over the desk chair.

Within ten minutes he'd abandoned it because the screen kept reflecting the lamp.

“Can I sit there?” He indicated the foot of the mattress.

“You can, but any tactical analysis you provide will be treated as hostile.”

He sat, one leg folded beneath him, and pointed at the frozen image.

“There. Their centre-back follows the first movement. If you go towards him, then turn, I'll have the space to run behind.”

“And if he stays?”

“Then you have the ball facing goal.”

I played the clip again. He was right.

“You're very annoying when you're useful.”

“I've heard.”

We watched three more sequences. His sleeve brushed my bare ankle once when he reached for the trackpad, and I forgot everything I knew about defensive positioning.

His phone rang.

“Mum,” he said. “Do you mind?”

I shook my head and reached for the remote.

He moved to his own bed. His Portuguese came quickly, affectionate and animated, a version of his voice I'd never heard. I understood only my own name and the tone of an argument concerning whether he'd eaten enough.

He turned the camera briefly towards me.

“This is Owen.”

A woman with dark eyes and a bright kitchen behind her waved.

“Hello, Owen.”

“Hello. He's eaten enough. I've seen the evidence.”

She laughed. Rafa put a hand over his face.

After the call, he sat looking at the blank screen.

“Does she know?” I asked.

He looked up. “That I'm attracted to men? Yes. I told her last winter.”

“And?”

“She asked whether there was someone she should meet.” He rubbed his jaw. “I told her I'd been an idiot with someone I liked. She agreed that sounded like me.”

I smiled, then looked down at the laptop.

“Does she know it's me?”

“Yes. I told her I was trying to make things right. Nothing private.”

I took that in. He waited without filling the silence.

“Your mother seems sensible.”

“It's a difficult family trait to escape.”

Later, I changed into a T-shirt and shorts and brushed my teeth. When I emerged, Rafa had turned down the harsh ceiling light. The bedside lamps made the room feel smaller.

He stood between the beds, holding the spare blanket.

“You were cold on the coach,” he said.

“So you remember everything inconvenient?”

“Mostly.”

I took it from him. Our fingers touched.

Neither of us stepped away.

He looked at my hand, then back at me.

“Can I hold it properly?”

My heart did something far too dramatic for a simple question.

“You've kissed me, Costa. I think we can manage hands.”

“I wanted to check.”

I set down the blanket and reached for him.

His palm was dry and warm. He closed his fingers carefully, as though the ordinary act of holding hands required all his attention.

I had spent weeks waiting for him to be careless again. Instead he stood in a dull hotel room, looking absurdly happy because I'd let him touch me.

It made me brave.

“If I kiss you now,” I asked, “are you going to pretend tomorrow that it didn't happen?”

He looked straight at me.

“No,” he said. “I'll probably spend tomorrow hoping you'll do it again.”