“Actually,” I tell her, “I was going to say—"
“Goal!” Linnea screeches, wide-eyed with adrenaline, fists high in the air. The room explodes in celebration.
Laughing, Amobi rolls the ball back to Linnea and tells me, “I’m scared, man. If I’d had moves like that at three—”
“And a third,” Linnie says, dribbling off with the ball.
“She legitimately got me last week,” Carlo says from behind me. “Maradonna-ed my a—I mean, butt—straight to the floor.”
“Yeah, I did!” Linnie yells. Everything she says is at FULL VOLUME. Wiggling her eyebrows, she grins up at me. “I’m gonna score on you, Uncle Ollie.”
I flick my hands in a give me your best shot gesture. Which Linnea does. She completes a few step overs, pulls back the ball, then cracks it straight into my nuts.
“Oooh.” A collective groan of sympathy echoes in the room.
I drop like a sack of flour. “Son of a biscuit.”
“Sorry, Uncle Ollie!” Linnie hollers, throwing herself on me.
Yanking her onto my chest, I tell her, “Good thing I know just how to get you back.”
Linnea shrieks as I tickle her, then quickly climbs off of me, shoves me onto my stomach, and gets my arm pinned behind my back. “No tickles!” she yells.
I spin, gently rolling her off of me, and give in to our typical wrestling match. As usual, the entire locker room starts cheering on my niece.
“Linnie! Linnie! Linnie!”
“Ack!” I’m in a chokehold that’s pretty impressive for someone so tiny when the noise abruptly dies away.
Slowly I glance over my shoulder. Linnea flops off, scrambling behind me as I sit up.
Coach stands, arms folded over her very pregnant stomach. And next to her stands Gavin Hayes. World’s best player in recent memory, grumpiest grump, curmudgeonly captain, and once upon a time, my idol.
After a stunning fifteen-year career playing exclusively for England’s most prestigious clubs, he moved home to the States two years ago to play for the Galaxy. Ever since then, he’s either ignored me or scowled at me, like he does now, eyes dark with disapproval.
I flash a dimpled smile.
His scowl deepens.
This is how it goes. Because the man I once looked up to—whose public coming out as gay inspired me to come out to more than my friends and family, to be openly bisexual in my professional public life—is an asshole of epic proportions. Life’s too short to be a jerk, especially when the media always has an eye trained on you, and the repercussions of a few harmless Bergman pranks could blow up in my face, so I’ve opted to kill him with kindness instead.
Linnie gapes at Gavin, looking intimidated. She hides behind my shoulders. To her credit, he’s intimidating. I remember being similarly gape-mouthed when I first saw him in person. I remember my throat working with a rough swallow, my gaze sliding up his body. He looks the same today as he did two years ago when he joined us: towering height, a broad, powerful body. Suntanned skin, coffee-dark eyes, a tight beard and thick hair—cropped on the sides, a bit longer on top, the same rich, bittersweet color.
Gavin looms over us in that aggressive stance that I’ve watched him take before every free and penalty kick since I was in grade school and he was a young hotshot teen who’d ascended to the highest level of soccer before he could even legally drink. His eyes never leaving mine, he flicks Linnea’s ball up into the air with his foot and catches it, palming it in his hand.
“Bergman,” Coach says, her black box braids swaying as she bends to see past me. “And Linner the Winner, of course.”
Linnie peeks out from behind my shoulder. “Hi, Coach.”
“Keeping these boys in check?” Coach asks her.
She nods.
“Good. Well—” Coach clears her throat, dabs her forehead and the sheen of sweat glistening on her dark brown skin. Like Freya, Coach seems to be experiencing one of advanced pregnancy’s not-so-pleasant symptoms of being unbearably hot all the time. “I was looking for you, Bergman. Mind escorting Miss Linnie back to her mom so we can have a quick chat?”
I stand, setting a reassuring hand on Linnea’s shoulder when she wraps her arms around my leg. “Sure thing, Coach.”
“Uncle Ollie,” Linnie stage whispers, because she’s incapable of speaking softly. “Can you get my ball from the grump?”
“Oh shit,” someone mutters.
Gavin glares down at her. He’s massive. Six-four, built like a linebacker. For his size, he defies physics with how fast his feet are, and they aren’t even as fast as they used to be, not that I’d say that to his face—I like my limbs intact, thank you very much.
As I stare at him, debating the most diplomatic way to tell the crank to give the kid her ball back, his gaze meets mine for just a moment. Then he blinks, drops the ball, spins, and storms out of the room.
Coach glances over her shoulder as he whips open the door and disappears, a sigh gusting out of her.
“Uncle Ollie.” My niece taps my shoulder. “I have to pee.”
“My office in five,” Coach says. “And don’t forget the goods.”
I smile. “I got you covered, Coach.”
“Uncle Olllieeee,” Linnie whines, starting to do the I have to pee dance, hopping from one foot to another, clutching her shorts.
“Okay, bud. Let’s go find Mommy.”
Per usual for these Linnie visits, I left Freya talking shop with our physical trainers on staff, Dan and Maria who’s a friend of hers from college days. If the past is any indication, Dan and Maria will be in their swivel chairs, sipping the coffees I brought them, Freya with her feet up on a massage table, hands propped on her stomach, which is currently home to Bergman-MacCormack baby number two.
Crouching, I give Linnie my back, and she hops on, soccer ball clutched in one arm. “Bye, Coach! Bye, guys!” she calls. “See ya next time when I beat your butts!”
They laugh, saying their goodbyes as we exit the locker room.
“Hurry, Uncle Ollie!” Linnie yells. “I’m gonna pee my pants!”
After handing off Linnea to Freya, I’m halfway to Coach’s office when I stop and backtrack, remembering what I need. At my cubby in the locker room, I open the cooler and grab the container holding one of Viggo’s homemade semlor. With a quick jog back down the hall, I’m at Coach’s office. The door is cracked, so I step in, then shut it behind me.
“Oh, thank God,” Coach says, rubbing her hands. “You’re the best.”
Smiling, I set down the dessert that makes her eyes light up—semla, a cardamom-infused bun bursting with marzipan whipped cream, a sliver of the bun resting on top, dusted with powdered sugar.
Gavin watches this transaction with his usual unreadable, albeit chilly, expression, but I can imagine what he’s thinking: Kiss-ass. Brown-noser. Suck-up.
When, really, I just like making people happy. I like that Viggo gets sales for his baking side-hustle, and Coach gets the sweets she’s craving. It makes me feel good to give people what they need and put a smile on their faces.
But I’m long past expecting Gavin to understand where I’m coming from. He’s made it clear since day one that he can’t stand me.
It stung when he first joined. I’d hoped we could at least be friendly teammates—that is, after I got over being starstruck. And maybe it’s because I looked up to him so much that his disdain cut so badly. He’s not only the world’s greatest player in modern history—he’s one of the first and few openly gay professional soccer players.
His coming out, given in that low, authoritative growl at a press conference with so much succinct confidence and poise, inspired me to be out everywhere in my life. It emboldened me to talk openly about being queer with my college and then professional soccer teams, about my hopes for the game to become safer and more accepting—whether players were questioning, out just to themselves, to their families, to their friends, or to the public.
I hoped as two openly queer guys on the same team, we could have each other’s backs in a sport that has failed me many times over the years. Toxic masculinity. Blatant and subtle homophobia and biphobia. In locker rooms, on the field, at tryouts, in the media.
But no. Ever since he joined us two years ago, all Gavin has done is act like he sees this career move as a thoroughly unpalatable demotion. All he’s done after scoring each one of those beautiful goals is scowl at the camera, shower off after the game, growl his way through interviews, and walk out.
“So,” Coach says around a bite, gesturing for me to sit down. “Bergman. I have some good news.”
Good news sounds promising. I should be excited, but I have no idea what it’s about, so anxiety and my mind’s pervasive tendency to worst-case-scenario everything I don’t have clarity about clouds over the moment. Somehow, my brain twists “good news” to “good news but.”