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The atmosphere inside the O2 Arena is electric, with anticipation hanging in the air as fans from around the globe fill the stands, waving flags and chanting. The field, a flawless expanse of green, awaits the start of one of the most eagerly anticipated matches of the World Cup.
It's the quarter-finals, and the UK is set to face off against the US.
Alex is doing some last-minute stretching while half-listening to his teammates' banter. His gaze flickers discreetly to the opposing team—more specifically, to their captain.
Henry Fox.
This isn't Alex's first encounter with Henry on the field—not by a long shot. Henry is an incredible player, and Alex's competitive spirit thrives on the challenge of having such a formidable opponent.
He just wishes Henry weren't so distracting .
He's half-tempted to draft a strongly worded letter to FIFA about it. Because seriously—those thighs in those shorts? It's obscene . Bordering on illegal. Fucking Criminal .
The teams start to line up, and Alex jogs on the field, meeting Henry at the center circle. The referee, holding the match ball, stands between them, and Henry extends his hand for Alex to shake, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes and a playful grin on his lips.
“Ready to get your ass kicked, Fox?” Alex asks good-naturedly, and Henry shakes his head, chuckling.
“Famous last words, darling.”
The referee goes over the rules, emphasizing fair play, while the captains nod in acknowledgment. Alex, having heard it all countless times before, instead focuses on how the blue of his football jersey enhances Henry’s azure eyes, or the sheen of sweat over Henry's upper lip and the beauty mark nearby. Alex briefly wonders how much chaos it would cause if he leaned in for a kiss.
He really needs to get it together.
A few lewd whistles from the crowd punctuate their handshake. The press and fans have speculated about the nature of their relationship for years. Some days, they’re painted as bitter rivals; other times, rumors swirl of them being secret lovers—just because they’ve been spotted laughing and sharing a drink at events.
Apparently, simply being friends who enjoy each other’s company is too dull for the public imagination.
The shrill blast of whistles pierces the air, signaling the start of the football match and sending a wave of excitement through the packed stadium. Alex catches Henry's eye across the field as players swiftly take their positions. With a subtle, confident smirk, Alex delivers a playful wink. The gesture has its intended effect; a soft blush blooms across Henry's fair cheeks, visible even from a distance. Inwardly pleased with this small victory, Alex's chest swells with pride as the match begins in earnest.
The first quarter-hour unfolds like a choreographed dance, with both teams testing the waters with cautious passes and strategic positioning. The cacophony of cheers from the stands fades into a distant hum as Alex's mind whirs, plotting the perfect strategy to breach their opponents' stubborn defenses.
Suddenly, an opening presents itself. Spencer executes a brilliant maneuver, and the ball reaches Alex's feet. In an instant, he's off, a blur of motion as he weaves through the opposition's defensive line. He darts past Henry, their eyes meeting for a split second, charged with competitive energy. Alex pushes on, his legs pumping furiously as he races towards the goal.
The next minute, Alex finds himself flat on his back, the lush grass cushioning his fall. A searing pain explodes from his ankle, radiating up his leg in agonizing waves. He clutches at it instinctively.
The piercing sound of the referee's whistle cuts through the sudden roar of the crowd. Through watering eyes, Alex sees the official reaching into his pocket, producing a yellow card, which he brandishes towards the English player who tackled him.
Alex hasn’t even seen him coming.
The game comes to a standstill as Alex’s teammates and some British players gather around him. He grimaces, watching his ankle begin to swell rapidly. A hand touches his shoulder, accompanied by a British voice asking, “Alex, are you alright?”
Lifting his head, Alex meets Henry's concerned blue eyes.
“Yeah, the game’s over for me. Fuck,” Alex mutters.
Henry’s expression falls, and Alex feels a jolt in his chest. Henry should be relieved by this turn of events, not upset. Losing their captain and one of their best players—his coach's words, not Alex’s—is a significant blow to the U.S. team.
“I called for a gurney,” Spencer interjects, and Alex nods, a heavy sigh escaping him. He tries to focus on the throbbing pain in his ankle rather than the crushing disappointment of seeing things coming to an abrupt end for him. He had been eager to win this game and lead his team into the semifinals. They were supposed to face the Belgian Red Devils, and Alex, who had been friends with their captain Kevin for years, was looking forward to the match.
Now, even if his team manages to pull off a win—and Alex is convinced they can do it—he doubts he'll recover in time for the semi-finals in just three days. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, and he struggles to maintain his composure as the reality of his situation sinks in.
Alex extends his hands to Liam, who grasps his arm firmly. With Spencer's assistance, they cautiously attempt to hoist Alex to his feet. The moment his injured foot grazes the ground, a sharp, unbearable pain shoots through his leg, and he lets out an involuntary cry.
“Where on earth is that gurney?” Spencer mutters in frustration. Alex shares his concern, desperately wanting to leave this fucking field and escape the prying eyes so he can indulge in a moment of self-pity in the privacy of the infirmary.
Before he can process what's happening, strong arms encircle him, and his feet leave the ground. Startled, he finds himself cradled against a firm chest, looking up into Henry's determined face.
"Enough of this," Henry says, his voice low and authoritative. "We're not waiting for the gurney."
Alex opens his mouth to protest, but the words die in his throat. Henry’s arms are secure around him, one supporting his back and the other carefully cradling his legs, mindful of the injured ankle. Despite the circumstances, Alex can't help but notice how effortlessly Henry seems to carry him. He also notices Henry still smells really good despite having run across a football field for the past twenty-five minutes.
A hush falls over the stadium as Henry strides purposefully towards the sidelines. Cameras flash, capturing this unexpected moment between the rival players. Alex can already imagine the headlines, but right now, he's too grateful for the relief from pain to care.
"Couldn't resist playing the knight in shining armor, could you?" Alex quips, his voice a mix of gratitude and exasperation
Henry's lips quirk into a mischievous smile. "I could always bend you over my shoulder instead if you'd prefer," he suggests, his tone playful.
Alex's mind stutters to a halt, fixating on the words 'bend' and 'over.' His imagination runs wild with far less innocent interpretations, none of which involve Henry’s shoulder.
The momentary distraction from the pain is almost worth the mental whiplash.
Regaining his composure, Alex mutters, "You know this is going to set the rumor mill on fire, right?"
And Henry, the cheeky bastard, grins. “I’m very well aware of that, love.”
Alex tries—and fails spectacularly—to suppress a shiver at the endearment, earning a knowing smirk from the Brit.
"Oh, shut up," Alex grumbles, his cheeks flushing.
Henry's rich laughter fills the air, and Alex can practically see the social media storm brewing. Tomorrow's headlines are going to be relentless.
As Henry gently lowers Alex onto the infirmary bed, a doctor and nurse immediately spring into action. After a thorough examination, they declare his ankle sprained, not broken. Despite having suspected as much, Alex can't help but feel a wave of relief wash over him. The doctor, however, insists on precautionary X-rays at the hospital.
"I'm not going anywhere now," Alex protests. "I need to see how the game ends."
The doctor sighs, obviously accustomed to stubborn football players. "Very well, Mr. Claremont-Diaz, but I strongly advise you go first thing tomorrow morning."
Alex nods noncommittally, flashing a grateful smile at the nurse - her badge says her name is Kim - who turns on the TV, allowing him to follow the match.
Henry lingers by the bedside, his face etched with concern. "I'm truly sorry about this, Alex," he says softly.
Alex attempts a casual shrug, wincing slightly. "Not your fault, sweetheart," he reassures, the endearment slipping out before he can catch it. The painkillers are starting to kick in, dulling the throbbing in his ankle and loosening his tongue. He finds himself fighting the urge to ask Henry to stay, to sit beside him and hold his hand. Not exactly the right time.
"Basil's reckless move caused this," Henry explains, his jaw tightening with frustration.
Alex blinks, momentarily distracted from his thoughts. "Hold up. His name is Basil? I got steamrolled by a guy named after an herb? What kind of fucking posh nonsense is this, Henry?"
A smile tugs at Henry's lips, breaking through his concern. "’Steamrolled’ might be a tad dramatic, but he certainly did a number on you."
Their eyes meet, and they exchange a smile. The spell is broken when one of Henry's teammates bursts through the door, looking exasperated.
"What the bloody hell are you doing, Henry? The entire team's waiting for you to resume the match!"
Henry's posture straightens, and his voice takes on a crisp, authoritative tone that sends a shiver down Alex's spine. "I'll be there momentarily," he says, the subtle rebuke clear in his words.
Alex finds it incredibly hot.
Turning back to Alex, Henry's expression softens, a mix of concern and reluctance in his eyes. "Duty calls. Are you certain you'll be alright?"
Alex can't help but roll his eyes, though there's no real annoyance behind it. “Yes, mom . It’s a sprained ankle, not the ebola virus. Go. You have a game to lose.”
A smile tugs at Henry’s lips.“I’ll see you after the game.”
Alex gestures at his leg. “I ain’t going anywhere, baby.”
The nurse's eyebrows shoot up at their exchange, her gaze darting between them with poorly concealed interest. Henry catches her look and clears his throat, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Right. See you later, then.”
Alex grins. He has no doubt this exchange will be all over Twitter tomorrow.
🇬🇧 ⚽ 🇺🇸
As the final whistle blows, announcing Henry's team's victory, Alex finds himself oddly detached from the outcome. The events of the evening, coupled with the hazy effects of pain medication, have left him drained. All he can think about is the allure of home – a hot shower, a comfortable bed, and the promise of rest.
He drifts in and out of consciousness, the sounds of the post-game excitement a distant hum. When he finally forces his eyes open, he's greeted by the sight of Henry standing at the foot of the bed, showered, dressed, and holding a pair of crutches.
He’s a sight for sore eyes.
“Congrats on the win,” Alex says, rubbing at his eyes. “Guess you were the best.”
Henry's lips quirk into a soft smile as he leans the crutches against a nearby wheelchair. He moves to perch on the edge of Alex's bed, close enough that Alex can smell his subtle, expensive cologne.
"Alex," Henry says, his voice gentle, "we both know the outcome might have been vastly different if you'd been on that field."
Despite his fatigue, Alex can't help but grin. "Learn to take a compliment, Fox," he retorts. "It's not often I stroke your ego; you should savor it."
Henry's mouth opens, then closes, as if he's weighing his words carefully. Something flickers in his eyes, but it's gone before Alex can decipher it.
"I'm taking you home," Henry announces instead, his tone brooking no argument.
Alex's eyebrows shoot up, a smirk playing on his lips. "My, my. Not even dinner first?”
Henry rolls his eyes, but there's a hint of amusement beneath his exasperation. "You're a menace, Claremont-Diaz, and you're in desperate need of a shower. So, you have two options: get your arse in that wheelchair and let me ensure you get home safely, or attempt to navigate the nearest tube station on those crutches. Your choice."
The authoritative tone in Henry's voice, now directed squarely at him, sends an unexpected thrill through Alex.
"I'm sure Liam or Spencer can take me home," he counters weakly, more out of habit than genuine protest.
"They came by earlier, but you were asleep," Henry explains. "I assured them I'd see you home safely, so they've left. They'll check on you tomorrow."
Alex sighs dramatically, though internally, he's not as put out as he pretends to be. "Guess that leaves me no choice but to accept your gracious offer, then."
A slow, triumphant grin spreads across Henry's face. "Good boy," he says, his voice low and teasing.
The words hit Alex with unexpected force, sending a jolt of heat coursing through him. He bites his lower lip hard, barely suppressing a moan that threatens to escape. The sudden intensity of his reaction catches him off guard, leaving him breathless and slightly dizzy.
Acutely aware of the bustle of activity just outside the infirmary door, Alex forces himself to take a steadying breath. They've already provided enough fodder for gossip tonight; the last thing they need is for someone to overhear something that could be easily misconstrued.
"Right," he manages to croak out, his voice slightly strained. "Let's get this show on the road."
🇬🇧 ⚽ 🇺🇸
“Oh Christ…Alex!”
With a breathless laugh, Henry collapses onto Alex's chest, supporting himself on his forearms to avoid crushing him. Alex, however, wraps his arms around Henry's back, pulling their bodies flush together as they share a deep , lazy kiss, their bodies still trembling slightly from the force of their shared orgasm.
“Told you I could still rock your world, even with a sprained ankle,” Alex says, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. Henry responds with a soft, affectionate chuckle.
As they bask in the afterglow, Alex can't help but think that no amount of World Cup victories could ever compare to the rush of endorphins he experiences when having sex with Henry.
Henry reluctantly disentangles himself from Alex's embrace and heads to the bathroom. The sound of running water reaches Alex's ears as he takes his phone on the nightstand, idly scrolling through his social media feeds.
Returning with a damp washcloth, Henry begins to clean Alex. "Let me guess," he says, "my prince charming moment is trending online?"
Alex snorts. "What did you expect? You might as well have tattooed 'Property of Henry Fox' across my forehead."
Henry's eyes sparkle with mischief. "Now there's an idea."
"Keep dreaming, Fox," Alex retorts, rolling his eyes fondly.
"That's Fox-Claremont-Diaz to you, darling," Henry corrects him, leaning in for another kiss.
Alex takes his hand, pressing a soft kiss on the rose gold band that found its rightful place on Henry’s finger after the game. They returned to their apartment in London - a convenient haven when participating in the World Cup hosted in England . After a shower for Alex and a light snack, they fell back into bed, where Alex convinced Henry that a little post-game celebration was in order, even if one of the two parties involved had lost.
“So it’s celebratory sex for me and consolation sex for you?” Henry had inquired with a raised eyebrow.
Alex had grinned and shrugged. “As long as we both get our happy ending, you can call it whatever you want, baby.”
Henry climbs back on the bed and snuggles with his husband. The atmosphere shifts subtly, becoming more soft and tender.
"Should we tell people?" Alex finally broaches the subject, and Henry exhales softly.
“I mean, I’m not opposed to it. Shaan and Zahra suggested we wait until after the Cup frenzy died, but…”
“Yeah, but now they are married too, so I don’t think we should listen to them anymore.”
Alex turns to face Henry, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. "I'm ready for the world to know you're mine," he whispers, and the radiant smile blooming on Henry's lips lets him know that the feeling is wholeheartedly mutual.
"How do you want to do it?" Alex asks. "Should we ease into it or go for a hard launch?"
Henry pretends to ponder, though Alex knows his answer. He shakes his head fondly as Henry gives him a brilliant smile.
"I want to break the internet."
***
A few days later, Alex's Instagram features a new post.
The image captures their pajama-clad legs intertwined on the sofa, with David, Henry's dog, snoozing contently beside them. In the background, slightly out of focus but unmistakable, are their football jerseys draped over a chair, proudly displaying their names and numbers.
The caption reads: “I lost the World Cup, but I won at life.”
Photo credit: Hubby @hgfoxofficial.