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Soccer must be a popular sport for kids this season. The store’s shoe shelves are incredibly sparse, despite the leftover pairs and empty boxes strewn everywhere. Lucifer would really prefer going elsewhere, but the twins’ soccer game starts in less than an hour and the next closest store is all the way on the other side of town. He’s just going to have to make do with whatever he can find here.
“Guess your kid left it to the last minute too, huh?” says the guy next to him, picking up a pair off the shelf and inspecting them. “My Barbatos never tells me when he needs new boots.”
“Not so much last minute, more so the dog chewed everything to pieces this morning,” Lucifer replies absentmindedly. He’s getting more frazzled as his search turns out nothing, but at last he spots a box on the very top shelf with Beel’s shoe size marked on the outside. He reaches up for it.
He’s too short. His waving fingers just manage to brush the corner but it’s not enough of a grip to bring it down. “Ugh,” he groans, running his hand through his hair in frustration. He’s not really all that short, but he’s also not going to ask for a stool.
“Here, let me,” the same guy beside him offers, plucking it off the dusty shelf and passing it down to him.
“Thank you–” Lucifer says as he turns to meet the friendly tone, but good lord, the man’s voice does not match his appearance at all. “Ah, sorry stranger, I do not know your name.”
“No worries. It’s Diavolo.”
Lucifer has no idea where to put his eyes. He might be a dad of two himself, but even his sense of fashion isn’t this bad. His current t-shirt and flip-flops are socially acceptable for a man of his age. Belphie once made fun of him for wearing a wifebeater but Diavolo’s got it all going on – Bermuda hat, Hawaiian-print shirt, socks and… of all things holy, crocs. Lucifer must be in hell and the punishment is seeing terrible dad outfits for eternity.
Diavolo tucks his box of soccer boots under his arm. He most definitely did not miss those eyes on him. “I should go,” he says, patting the box. “Good luck for your kid’s game.”
His grin makes Lucifer’s heart do a flip but heavens, it’s almost half past eight and if he wants the duo of ten year olds to be ready in time for their soccer match, he’s got to go too.
Fate is a strange thing sometimes, Lucifer discovers, as he finds himself standing next to Diavolo yet again. Not even an hour later, in fact. One of the coaches blow their whistle from the side lines to signal kick-off, and the soccer game begins.
Fate has also determined their children to be on opposing teams.
“You know, I didn’t catch your name before,” Diavolo says to him conversationally.
“Lucifer,” Lucifer says, sipping from his cup of coffee as he watches Belphie loitering around in his wing of the field. Oh no. He hopes his child is paying attention today.
“Where’s your kid?” Diavolo asks, scanning the field. A breeze blows and he puts a hand on his head to stop his hideous hat from blowing away.
“I have twins. That’s Belphie. Beel’s over there.” Lucifer points to the home team’s goalkeeper, a big kid with shiny new soccer boots, who looks like he could sumo-wrestle his whole team without breaking a sweat.
“Ah. It must be quite a struggle for you when you all go out as a family.” Diavolo’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs.
A whistle blows shrilly. One point to the home team.
“Double the trouble,” Lucifer nods grimly. “One constantly wants to eat and other constantly wants to sleep.” His face breaks out into a proud smile when Belphie runs past them, high fiving everyone as he goes. It wasn’t him who scored the goal obviously, but Belphie’s always been the type to just participate and not do much more.
“What a handful. I almost wish I could say the same for Barbatos,” Diavolo remarks. The boys dart back to their respective sides as the ball returns to the centre of the field. “He’s quiet to the point where I get concerned about him sometimes. He’s always been that way though, even before I adopted him.”
The whistle blows again. The away team are back with a vengeance this time, one of their mid-fielders zooming off with the ball. He weaves in between the opposing team’s players with expert footwork, passing to a teammate and back again as they start closing in on the goal. Lucifer can just about make out the words on the back of the boy’s uniform if he squints hard enough through his glasses. “Isn’t that your son–”
“Barbatoooooos!” Diavolo bellows in a deafeningly loud voice, hands cupped around his mouth, “YEAH! Dad’s got your back, son! Go, go, go!” The amount of arm-waving, cheering and fist-pumping that follows has some of the other parents turning their heads away in embarrassment – Lucifer included. He sidles a step or two away in the hopes that nobody will associate him with Socks and Crocs Dad if there’s enough space between them.
And if Diavolo thinks Barbatos can score that easily, he’s got another thing coming his way.
Beel catches the first shot at the goal squarely in his gloves. He tosses it into the field, but Barbatos chases it back for a second attempt. Beel blocks another shot, and the third and fourth one too.
“Behold my son,” Lucifer says under his breath, when Diavolo moans in disappointment.
Beel’s streak is broken when his teammate kicks the ball to Belphie, who misses the pass. He loses the ball to the opponent and they deliver it back to Barbatos for an epic shot over Beel’s head and straight into the net.
Lucifer wonders when, if ever, his ears will stop ringing. Diavolo points out the score with much enthusiasm as he gushes about his son.
“That was good,” Lucifer says in a monotone when asked for his opinion.
Diavolo blinks at him from underneath his Bermuda hat. “Oh,” he says, in a more level voice now. “Sorry, Lucifer. But that was your kid, yeah? The goal keep?”
“Yes.”
“Wasn’t he great, though? Nobody’s ever kept Barbatos out of the goal for that long. You should be so proud of him!”
The home team switch Belphie out for a sub. The whistle blows for another kick-off, and the teams go head to head. Barbatos has the ball but it’s not getting to the goal anywhere near as fast as last time.
Lucifer’s a proud dad, of course he is. He just doesn’t feel the need to let everyone know, just as he doesn’t need to let everyone know that he’s a dad by wearing a Hawaiian-print shirt.
“Say, Lucifer…” Diavolo looks at him questioningly. Weren’t they just two feet apart a minute ago? He considers his next words carefully. “Are you single?”
Shameless. Lucifer expected just as much from a person with the gall to wear such appalling attire in public.
“Not if you’re dressed like that,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. Oh, god.
“Really? I was told this was the trend.” To his credit, Diavolo doesn’t seem offended in the least. “Would you mind if I asked for your number?” he says.
Partially out of apology, partially possibly-maybe-perhaps because of other reasons, and one undignified cough later, Lucifer scribbles his cellphone number on his empty coffee cup and hands it over. Diavolo may be dressed in dad gear, but underneath it he definitely does not have a dad bod.
“The kids could carpool next time if they both have games here,” Lucifer says awkwardly. He forces himself to watch the match so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with anyone. Surely he is too old for the whole dating thing now, being in his forties, going on fifty. “I suppose having my number will be handy for you.”
On the field, Barbatos is attacking the home team’s goal once more, sending ball after ball at Beel as he defends with his life. His uniform is muddy from all the dives he’s made into the grass. He catches the ball again and gives it a solid kick, sending it flying back to the centre.
“So, who do you think will win?” Diavolo asks curiously.
“My son’s team,” Lucifer replies, without missing a beat.
“No way! It will be my son’s team. I’ll start cheer–”
“You don’t have to. I would prefer you didn’t.”
Diavolo only gives him two seconds’ reprieve before he leans in close, a stupid grin on his face. “If you’re so confident in your team, Lucifer,” he says slowly, “will you agree to have a date with me if they lose?”
Metaphorical sparks fly between them as the words hang in the silence. The soccer match is momentarily forgotten and with the wind, Lucifer realizes the sky overhead has darkened considerably since the game begun. There might be some rain today. His feet feel cold in his sandals, but Diavolo’s probably snug as a bug in his socks.
“Fine,” Lucifer says to Diavolo, smirking as he rises to the challenge. “But after this, feel free to lose my number, just as your team is going to lose to mine.”
It is an even crueler twist of fate that Diavolo’s team wins. Or perhaps not, depending on who one asks.
The end of the game comes with a boom of thunder and a flash of lightning as the rain suddenly pours down, sending the parents and worn-out children scrambling for cover.
The twins huddle together with Barbatos under a large umbrella, watching Lucifer still standing shell-shocked by himself in the rainstorm. He hasn’t moved since the game finished.
“Why’s he just standing there?” Beel whispers to his brother worriedly. “Is he okay?”
Diavolo appears behind the three of them with another umbrella from his car, which he hands to Belphie. “Here,” he says, urging the boy to take it. “Give this to your dad, he looks like he’s getting soggy out there.
“Oh, also,” he adds, once Belphie’s got the umbrella open, “tell him I’m free on Friday nights.”