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In a weird kind of way, John’s grateful for the injury.
The distant fear of what it means for the rest of his season isn’t real and present, not yet, and it gives him an excuse to get off the pitch, away from the noise and emotion and the French celebrations. In some ways it feels worse than last year, because losing a final on penalties, as hard as it is, could happen to any team. And this group of players is, he firmly believes, way better than the record of defeat in a quarter-final will suggest.
And John isn’t the same person he was at the Euros. He feels...destabilised, ungrounded. Less equipped to deal with the fall-out of yet another international tournament defeat. Maybe they’re just building up.
So he hugs his team-mates, shakes hands with his opponents, applauds the fans, and presses swift, reassuring kisses onto the cheeks of his closest relatives. Then, he allows himself to be escorted to the treatment room, where the physios waste no time in assessing the injury.
The ankle’s swelling, already, and his foot looks bloated and ill-defined, like a child’s vague drawing of a foot. They test the movement carefully, then – apparently happy that nothing is broken – plunge his foot into an ice bath.
As the ice does its work, they chat to him carefully, and he responds the best he can. They’re part of the team, too, and they’re upset about the defeat. But John feels numb, all his feelings retreating to a place in his head that he can’t quite reach, and he knows he’s bordering on rude in the curtness of his responses, but he simply can’t access the part of him that knows how to be polite and engaging when he doesn’t feel like it.
A quarter of an hour later, they’re inspecting his foot again, and seem a little happier with its condition.
“D’you want a shower?” one of the physios asks.
John shrugs. Shakes his head, then nods. He doesn’t really want anything, but he’s sweaty and grass-stained.
The physio raises an eyebrow. “Okay, Stonesy,” he says, decisive. “Get in the shower, then come back here and I’ll bandage you up, okay?”
He hobbles over to the shower just off to the side of the treatment room, stumbles out of his clothes – it's nothing the medical staff haven’t seen before - and dips his head under steaming-hot water.
He stands there, hardly able to raise his hands to wash himself. It’s so long since he felt like this. He’s spent years working to be better than this, to feel his emotions and deal with them, to stop them festering. But something has changed, and the resilience he’s worked so hard to build falls away easily, chasing the grime of the match down the plughole.
Washed as much as he can manage, and feeling perhaps a little revived, he gets out of the shower, dries himself off and wraps a towel around his waist.
Back in the main room, he sits down. “That was quick,” the physio smiles. “We’re just grabbing some clothes for you, but put your foot up for me and I’ll sort out the bandage.”
John nods and allows his foot to be lifted from the floor. The bandage is applied quickly and efficiently, a firm grip that’s not too tight.
“You listening, John?” the physio asks.
John snaps his attention to the man sitting in front of him.
“There we go,” he says. “I don’t think you’ve done a lot of damage but we’ve got to be careful with your history of soft-tissue injuries, yeah? So I’m going to want to reassess in the morning when the swelling should have gone down a bit, and we’ll see if it needs a scan, too.”
John nods. He’s heard this before.
“You need to keep the bandage on tonight,” the physio continues, “And rest it. Elevate it if you can, try and prop it up, okay? And I want you putting ice packs on it regularly as well.”
“Yeah, alright,” he says. His voice doesn’t feel like it belongs to him. It’s a small, croaking thing.
The physio pauses, like he wants to say something else, but they’re interrupted by the arrival of John’s clothes, so the moment’s gone.
Once he’s in his England tracksuit, it’s time to get on the bus for the short ride back to the hotel. He’s not the last one there – the others have been doing media duties, or spending time with their families – so he slides into a seat inconspicuously, only needing to fend off a few queries regarding his well-being from players and staff who are largely in their own thoughts.
Kyle’s one of the last people on to the bus, and he wastes no time in sinking into the seat beside John, who looks at his best friend closely through the corner of his eye.
“You okay?” Kyle asks, quiet enough for no-one else to hear.
John shrugs.
“Your foot?”
“Find out more tomorrow,” John says.
Kyle gives him a searching look before pulling him into a hug. It’s an awkward angle, sat beside each other on the bus, but Kyle is determined, wrapping his arms around John and patting him on the back.
After a moment, they sit back in their seats in a companionable silence. As the bus moves through the night, John watches the blackness of the window, taking nothing in.
Everything feels small and insular. He can hardly focus on his team-mates around him, can hardly even register that they’re there. Everything feels boiled down to the quiet, dark stillness he finds is growing inside him.
At the hotel, the staff are as professional as ever, hitting exactly the right notes of sympathy and respect. The squad and staff mingle a little, and John exchanges a few words with Gareth, then with Kieran, but he finds he’s struggling to keep it together. Talking about it seems pointless. There is no comfort in being around others who have shared the experience. John’s not sure where comfort might be found, but his instinct is to rely on his old, old favourite technique of being alone.
“I’m going to my room,” he mutters, accepting a half-hug from Kieran. “Got to rest my foot.”
Then, he wanders off, before anyone can respond.
In his room at last, he sits on the edge of the bed. There’s a dressing table and mirror in front of him, and he looks his reflection directly in the eye, hardly recognising himself.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Mindfulness kicks in, the learned habit of checking in with each part of his body in turn, really feeling what’s going on there, and breathing out the tension if he can.
He finds the aches and pains of his muscles and joints to be almost welcome, a reminder of how hard he’s worked, how much he’s put into this tournament. The throb of his ankle feels hard-earned, a badge of honour, his proof he’s put his body on the line. The tension in his shoulders grows, although that’s not his intention. He can’t let go of the pains because they’re his evidence, his defence. I did what I could.
The truth is, something is missing, and it’s knocked him entirely off-balance.
Jack.
They’ve been keeping their distance since they got to Qatar. They talked it over for weeks before the tournament started, trying to decide what was best to do. Jack’s preferred approach always leans towards the slightly reckless, but John has tried to be the sensible one. They’ve decided to obey the laws of their host country, however much they think those laws are, to quote Jack’s regular irritable mumbles, total bollocks. And it’s about respect for their team-mates, too, and the risk that a scandal would pose to their progression through the tournament.
John gasps a little at the thought that that progression is over.
From the minute they decided to act like friendly colleagues, John’s known it’d be hard. What he perhaps wasn’t so prepared for is the disconnection he feels, not just from Jack but from himself.
He’s been trying to fill the gap left behind by spending time with his friends, people he loves and in whose company he’s always previously been comfortable and happy. And he is. But they’re not Jack.
Truth be told, it’s surprised him how unsettled he feels without Jack by his side.
Then, there’s a knock at the door. He doesn’t answer.
Another knock.
“C’mon,” says an unmistakable voice, the accent John’s come to love. “I know you’re in there.”
John rises to his feet and, limping slightly, makes his way over to the door. When he opens it, he sees the man who’s been occupying his thoughts.
Jack, two cups of tea held precariously in one large hand, bending over to stroke between the ears of a now-familiar cat that’s rubbing against his ankles. “This is a role reversal, ain’t it?” he grins. “Take these off us, will you,” he says, holding out the cups.
John grabs both cups and takes them into the room, setting them down carefully on the dresser. When he turns back, Jack’s fully stood up, cradling the cat in his arms.
“I didn’t think you liked Dave,” John says, moving towards them and then placing a hand on the cat’s back.
“He’s grown on me,” Jack says softly, nuzzling his face against Dave’s. Something deep inside John’s heart breaks open, just a little. “He wants a kiss,” Jack tells him.
John presses his mouth to the cat’s head, feeling Dave strain towards him. This is something, at least, a relationship he wasn’t expecting, but one that feels real and, in its own way, meaningful. He strokes the cat’s velvety-soft ear.
“Can I have one, too?” Jack asks quietly, eyes searching.
John steps back carefully. “You can come in,” he says.
Jack places Dave, who’s just started straining to be set free, onto the floor, and the cat scurries down the hallway. Then he follows John into his room, letting the door shut behind him.
They stand in silence for a moment, half a metre or so apart, not knowing what to do.
“How’s your foot?” Jack asks eventually.
John makes a non-committal noise.
“What did they tell you to do?”
“Rest it, raise it, ice it,” John recites dully.
Jack raises one perfect eyebrow. “And, what, you didn’t fancy that?”
John doesn’t answer.
“Right, come on then, let’s sort you out,” Jack sighs. “D’you want a shower? A bath?”
John shakes his head.
“Alright, and what have you been wearing to bed?”
He gestures towards the bed where his sleepwear lies, a pair of loose boxer shorts and a baggy t-shirt that Jack immediately recognises as an old one of his own.
Jack closes the space between them in an instant, pressing a kiss to John’s cheek. “C’mon then, get ‘em on,” he says briskly. Then, as John clumsily removes his tracksuit and starts to put on his sleep clothes, Jack busies himself by moving John’s drink to his bedside table, pulling back the top sheets, fetching spare pillows from the wardrobe and arranging them towards the bottom end of the bed.
When they’re both done, John slides into bed in a sitting position, resting his foot on the extra pillows.
“Did you get an ice pack off the medical team?” Jack asks
John’s silence is its own response.
Jack tuts and heads towards the bathroom, as John picks up his cup and takes a sip. Almost without knowing it, his shoulders relax a little.
The tea is hot and strong and exactly how John likes it, so he knows Jack’s been nagging the hotel staff for John’s favourite tea bags, and he feels a rush of affection.
“Nice?” Jack asks, coming back into the bedroom with a towel, in which he starts to wrap a bag of ice taken from the room’s sadly-depleted mini-bar.
John nods, offers a half-hearted “thank you”.
With a huff, Jack presses the makeshift ice pack against John’s foot. “Does that feel okay?” he asks.
“Cold,” John says, wriggling a little.
Jack picks up his own drink and takes a sip, looking skeptical. “No shit,” he grins, sitting down beside John and turning to look at him.
“How is everyone? John asks.
“Sad,” Jack tells him, tugging at a thread that’s hanging from the bottom of his trouser-leg. “Pissed off. Looking after each other. Jude says he’s going to send the ref a turd in the post. I think he’s joking.”
“Wouldn’t be so sure,” John says. “And you? How are you doing?” he asks. He faintly registers that maybe he should have thought to ask that earlier. Jack’s eyes are rimmed with red and there’s a visible tension in his jaw.
“I’m okay,” Jack says, taking another gulp of his drink. “Didn’t get on for long enough to feel like I’d fucked up, did I?” he says wryly. “I’m getting used to it.”
John reaches a hand between them and entwines his fingers with Jack’s. They sit in silence, sipping their tea, touching hands.
Jack takes a deep breath. “What’s going on, John?” he asks. His voice is quiet and careful, like he’s scared of startling him. “You’re so quiet.”
John swipes a thumb across Jack’s palm, but doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what to say.
“Is it just your foot that hurts?” Jack asks.
A nod.
Jack reaches behind him to put down both their nearly-empty cups, then swings a leg over John’s thighs so he’s sitting in his lap. He squeezes his knees against John’s hips and put his hands on his shoulders. “Hey,” he says.
John puts his hands at Jack’s narrow waist. “Hey,” he responds.
They look each other in the eye. John lets out a breath he hasn’t known he’s been holding. Jack’s dark, concerned eyes look like home.
“I don’t,” he starts, then gives up. “I can’t -”
Jack leans forward and kisses him softly, then draws back slightly, just for a moment, to quietly say, “I love you so much,” before kissing him again.
John strains forwards, allowing his hands to drop to Jack’s hips, seeking out the kiss. The closeness of it. It’s something he can bear to feel.
They kiss, slow and contented, just being together, for several minutes. John feels like a man who was drowning but is suddenly safe, taking big, vital gasps of precious air. “D’you want to lie down?” Jack asks.
John nods, and Jack extricates himself from his grip to get up and move to the bottom of the bed.
“Shuffle down, then,” he says, pulling the pillows closer to the edge of the bed, adjusting them as John shifts into a lying position, so that he can keep his foot up. He lifts the towel-wrapped ice off John’s foot, unwraps it and sets the towel to one side, casting the bag of now-slush into the bin. “You can ice it again in a bit,” he says. “Sheets on or off?”
“On,” John says in little more than a whisper. The room is perfectly air-conditioned to allow him the comfort of wrapping the sheets around him.
Jack lifts them up and places them lightly on top of John, allowing him to pull them into a more comfortable position. “I’ll go,” he says, “If you want me to -”
“Please don’t,” John croaks. “I need you.”
“What about the rules?”
“Fuck the rules,” he says firmly. “We’re going home tomorrow. I need you,” he repeats, urgently.
Jack slips out of his joggers quickly so that he’s in a similar state of undress to John, switches off the bedroom light and scurries across the room to slide into bed alongside him. He wraps an arm around John’s waist and kisses his shoulder. “You got me,” he says.
In the darkness, with Jack pressed against him, it becomes harder to feel nothing. He takes several deep, shuddering breaths.
Jack does nothing. Says nothing. Just lies there, a solid comforting presence, not demanding anything, just being there.
“Jack, I - “ John starts. He can hear his voice cracking. “Is it my fault?”
“Not a chance,” Jack says immediately, scooting up the bed so he can cradle John’s head against his chest. “I know we win and lose together, so it’s on everyone, and all that, but you’ve been - “ he strokes John’s hair. “You’ve been fucking incredible. You know that, right? Best defender in the tournament, for me.”
A sob bursts out of John’s mouth unexpectedly. Like a dam has broken, the tears begin to flow.
“John,” Jack says, kissing his forehead, stroking his hair, holding his head against his heart, allowing that familiar slow, steady heartbeat to thud in John’s ears. “I promise,” he says. “You did everything you could.”
“But if I -”
“Bullshit,” Jack tells him. “I don’t care if you think you could have done something better. We’d have been knocked out sooner if we didn’t have you.”
John grips on to Jack’s t-shirt, his fingers grasping desperately. “I think -” he starts, quietly, then stops. He knows what the thought is, but is afraid to voice it.
“It’s okay,” Jack says, kissing his cheek.
“No, it’s not, it can’t be,” John says, rambling now, his heart shattering into so many pieces. He has to say it. “I think that was my last chance.”
The tears are cascading freely now, the sense of stuckness melting away, to be replaced with desperation and despair, which feel worse.
Jack doesn’t speak for a moment, just shifts a little in the bed so that they’re lying level with each other, faces close, resting on the same pillow. He leans forward to initiate another kiss, and John can taste his own tears on Jack’s beloved lips.
“S’not true,” Jack says simply. “World class centre-backs, you play forever. Look at Thiago, he’s got ten years on you -”
“But my injuries -”
“Always get better,” Jack says firmly, kissing him again. “And you always get better. And you deserve a big international trophy to go with all your domestic ones, and when I came on the pitch tonight for two fucking minutes all I could think about was what can I do to keep us in this competition?” His voice wavers. “’Cause I didn’t want to see you upset. ‘Cause you deserve the fucking world, and I want it for you. I want it for you almost more than I want it for me.”
John pushes his face against Jack’s shoulder. Wrapped in his comforting arms, he feels like Jack is putting him back together carefully, one piece at a time. “What have I ever done to deserve you?” he asks, in a voice full of reverence. It’s something he wonders all the time, how someone so kind and funny and talented and beautiful could even want to be in the same room as him, let alone love him.
“Every time,” Jack says, a little shakily. “Every time you ever look after me. Remember after the Euros?”
And John does remember. Jack’s wild, despairing face. His desperation for a distraction, a connection, a feeling he could cope with. And John’s own thrill of surprise that he was able to provide it.
They’re not the same, the two of them. They don’t react to things in the same way. But they know how to bring each other back to themselves. If he didn’t know it before, he knows it now. Jack is everything to him.
“I love you,” he says, in one forceful exhale, a truth that can’t and shouldn’t be concealed.
Their faces aren’t even touching, but John could swear he feels Jack’s smile. “I love you too,” Jack says simply, raising a hand to touch John’s cheek. “Forever’s not such a long time, is it?” His voice is sad and small.
John stills. “What do you mean?”
Jack takes a deep breath. “I was just, I was thinking – I want to be with you forever. My whole life. Holding you and kissing you and kicking a football with you and watching box sets and drinking tea and travelling to interesting places and seeing stuff and making memories but mostly just...you. Me and you. And I thought, I don’t think the rest of my life will be enough time. Give me a whole lifetime of you and I’ll still be wanting you.”
John rolls over, kicking away the pillows - “Fuck ‘em,” he mutters – leans over Jack and kisses him, thorough and passionate and the tears are rolling down both their cheeks, now, making the kiss salty and wet, becoming a mess that makes them laugh shakily, even in the middle of such emotion.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” Jack says, resting his hands at John’s chest. “We go again. Euro ‘24, yeah?”
But John can’t think about that now. “When we’re somewhere we don’t have to worry about getting arrested,” he says. “I want you to come and meet my family.”
“I’ve met your family,” Jack says. “Your mum gave me all that cake, don’t you remember?”
“I want you to meet them,” John says firmly. “Not as my team-mate, or my very close friend, but as what you really are.”
Jack leans up to kiss him, and John knows for certain now that he feels that smile. “And what’s that?” Jack asks, allowing a little teasing to slip into his voice. They both know that he knows, but that he just likes to hear it, and John is more than willing to oblige.
“The love of my fucking life,” he says fervently.