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The sulphuric low-tide smell of the Wear is what greets Frank when he steps off the coach at the hotel in Sunderland. He curls his nose.
There's something flat and grey and hopeless about British seaside towns. Paint peeling on long-shuttered amusements. Boarded up pubs named after forgotten collieries. A sense of a life slowly slipping into the sea.
His room offers stunning views of a red brick box office building in the Stadium of Light carpark. Beyond that there's a sculpture of a miner's lamp in the middle of a roundabout. Finds himself transfixed by the light. Imagines the roar of fire damp tearing through the underground dark.
Squeezes his eyes closed. Has his phone in his hand before he realises what he's doing.
Anthony answers on the second ring. Says, "Alreet, pet?" in a terrible Geordie accent.
Frank chuckles. "That Scouse accent ent coming out in the wash, then?"
"You stopping at the Hilton?" Anthony asks. Never one to dance around the point.
A growing number of Sunderland fans cross the carpark, flocking to burger vans and shipping container bars. He unfocuses his eyes and they become an undulating red and white mass. "I'll leave a key at reception. Wait til after kick off."
Anthony audibly rolls his eyes. "Obviously."
"Oi."
"See you at full-time, gaffer."
"Good lad."
***
He hadn't counted on losing.
Anthony jumps to his feet when Frank lets himself into the room. He blinks hard, expression unreadable. Pushes a hand through his messy hair.
"Getting long." Frank says. He hangs up his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. Takes off his watch, his wedding ring. Shoves his hands into his pockets. "Suits you."
"I know."
"Cheeky little cunt," Frank says, without feeling.
Anthony absently worries his bottom lip with his teeth. "Didn't know if you'd still...it's sound if you're not...I can go. If you want."
The moments in which Frank knows what he wants are fleeting and few and far between.
He remembers their time in America. A different time. Different people. Just the two of them, locked in their own little world as soon as the hotel room door closed behind them. Ordering sloppy room service desserts that Anthony couldn't eat but happily fed to Frank. Getting his fingers licked clean as a reward, sucking melted chocolate from them and lowering his eyes. Knows exactly what his eyelashes do to Anthony.
Anthony with his meals that are nothing more than a nutritional equation, percentage of fat and protein intake accurate to four decimal places. Powders and shakes and supplements. The death rattle of joy that is the protein shaker.
A far cry from when Frank was his age. Eating whatever you wanted when nobody was looking, and using cocaine as a health food to keep the balance. Showing up to training with hollowed out eyes and cheeks and every other word punctuated by hard sniffs, relying on the knowledge that football abides loose morals and abhors loose talk.
They're not the same. But they're not different. Even now. Anthony looks as lost as Frank feels. Twists his smart ring round his finger. The one that tracks his sleep and activity and heart rate and body temperature and feeds it all back to his keepers on Tyneside. Not something Frank had needed, not with his dad's omnipresence.
"Stay," Frank says, eventually.
He watches Anthony twist his ring round and round his finger before he takes it off and puts it on the bedside table. Beside Frank's wedding ring.
Not the same but not different. Like parallel lines. One hundred and five metres long.