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The roar of the jet engine faded into a dull hum inside James Marriott’s skull. Forty-eight hours, three countries, one cancelled connecting flight, and a truly unholy amount of his own brand of coffee had led to this moment: the back of a tinted-window SUV, crawling through the traffic-choked streets of North London.
God, he was exhausted, his leather jacket smelled like aeroplane and stale perfume from how many people tried to throw themselves on him when he left his concerts. All he wanted was a shower and twelve hours of unconsciousness.
On the seat beside him, his phone buzzed incessantly. His publicist. Again. He ignored it, instead pulling up a live stream. The tinny audio of a football commentator filled the car.
“...and a beautiful cross from Gordon, but it’s just over Lenney’s head! The Newcastle number nine has been a constant threat today, but he just can’t seem to find the finishing touch…”
A slow, tired smile spread across James’s face. On the screen, Will Lenney, in the black and white stripes of Newcastle, threw his hands up in frustration (most likely not agreeing with something the ref said, as usual) before turning to jog back into position.
James couldn’t help but adjust himself in his seat, as even pixelated and through the smudge on his phone screen, the focused intensity was palpable. He always found that so bloody hot about Will, even if it was just him doing his job.
For years, he’d watched Will behind a keyboard, behind a desk, behind a meeting table - his boyfriend, however, was truly in his element on the field.
“Almost there, sir.” The driver said, catching his eye in the rearview mirror. “Bit of a paparazzi scrum at the usual entrance, I’m afraid. We can loop around, lose them in the backstreets if you’d like? Make your entrance less loud?”
The sensible thing, the normal thing, would be to do just that. To flee the flashing lights and the shouted questions, to go home, to collapse. At least, that’s what most of his mates did, even if they had loved ones. James, on the other hand, looked back at his phone.
The camera was back on Will, who was wiping sweat from his brow, his expression one of sheer, gritty determination. James couldn’t blame him this time. Twenty minutes left on the clock. Newcastle were a goal down to Tottenham.
He wasn’t missing this.
Sensibility had never been their strong suit. In fact, it went out the nearest window.
“Actually, new plan.” James said, his voice raspy from overuse. “Drop me at the main gate.”
The driver’s eyes went wide. “Are you sure, sir? They’re like piranhas out there.”
“I know it’ll cause a scene, yeah-” James said, the smile turning into a familiar, reckless grin. “-but it’ll be fun. I want him to hear me coming.”
The driver shared his smirk as they pulled up on the last street, parking the car smoothly on the curb. “Very well, sir. Let me know when you are wanting to leave for Brighton.”
“Will do, mate.” The moment he stepped out of the car, the air erupted in a synchronicity of clicks and shouts. “James! Over here!” “James, how was the tour?” “Any comment on the rumours of a rift with Will?”
He ignored them, shoving his hands in his pockets and striding purposefully towards the stadium’s executive entrance. He moved with a rockstar’s practised nonchalance, the chaos around him just another part of the backdrop. He flashed his pass, gave the barest nod to the stunned security guard, and slipped inside.
The roar that hit him was a physical force, a wall of sound so different from the screams of his own concerts. This was deeper, guttural, a mix of hope and fury from 60,000 souls. He found a space in the family section, 4 feet and a large railing, which he leaned against as it overlooked the pitch.
To most, if they didn’t know him, he was just a spectator among many, but to those who mattered, he wasn’t just any spectator.
Meanwhile, down on the lush green pitch, a free kick was being set up. Will was standing just outside the box, chest heaving, arguing lightly with a teammate about who should take it.
He waved the other player away, insisting. As he stepped back to take his run-up, his eyes instinctively scanned the crowd—a nervous habit, a search for a familiar face he never truly expected to find…only to stop dead.
His head tilted. He blinked, as if clearing sweat or disbelief from his eyes. Amid the sea of thousands, one figure stood out like a spotlight was on him: a shock of dark, curly, mulleted hair, a leather jacket and a lazy, proud smirk directed right at him.
James saw the exact moment Will recognised him.
The footballer’s entire posture changed. The focused fury melted away, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock. His jaw went slightly slack. He pointed, a small, incredulous gesture, and James just grinned wider, giving a one-fingered salute that Will returned automatically with his tongue poking out before it melted to giddy excitement.
A loud noise broke the spell as the referee’s whistle blew for the kick to be taken. Will, now utterly flustered, snapped his attention back to the ball and skied it miles over the bar. The Tottenham crowd erupted in mocking cheers, but he didn’t even seem to care. He was already looking back up at James, a slow, dazzling smile breaking across his face like the sun as he was pulled away back his teammates to get back into the game.
The chaos James had been listening to via his subscriptions all the way from Prague restarted, a frantic scramble in the midfield. Will was running, but his focus was shot. Every few seconds, his eyes would flick up to the family area, throwing off his aim and earning him the ire of his teammates and, James would bet, his manager, who would most likely try to strangle James later for distracting their top player.
Before long, a TV timeout was called for an injury to a Spurs player. The pace slowed. This was it. This was Will’s chance. The slightly shorter of the pair started jogging towards the touchline, as if getting a drink or catching up with teammates who were sidelined, but, with a sudden, explosive burst of acceleration that left fans and players alike confused, he veered off and sprinted straight for the family area like a man on a mission.
The crowd murmur grew into a wave of confusion. What was he doing? Was he hurt?
James’s smirk faltered, replaced by wide-eyed alarm. It had become a common problem, over the years, after both living together during the pandemic and becoming disgustingly co-dependent (Dan and Phill, eat your heart out) over the years since they started dating, that he and Will tended to share the same braincell.
This was definitely one of those times, because James knew exactly what he was about to do. “Will, no-” He muttered to himself, straightening up. “Don’t you dare.”
Will Lenney dared. He shifted his feet during the run, got to the bottom of the wall of the family area and in one fluid, powerful motion, vaulted up, gripping the railing for dear life as he hauled himself over it effortlessly.
The stadium gasped as one. Security guards started moving, but they were too slow as James suddenly had a heap of Will Lenney in his arms, smelling of grass, sweat, and deep heat, still breathing hard from the game. He didn’t say a word to him, not at first. He just grabbed James by the face, pulled him in, and kissed him fiercely, right there in front of the confused fans, and the millions watching at home.
It was all heat and passion and seven weeks of missed greetings. James melted into it for a glorious second, his hands coming up to grip Will’s damp jersey, but then he came to his senses. He broke the kiss, pushing firmly at Will’s chest.
The bubble burst once again, the world crashing back in with a wave of deafening noise, the flashing cameras from phones all around them as James laughed, his ears burning red, but his eyes shining. “William Jonathan Lenney, what the hell are you doing?”
“Welcome home.” Will breathed, his forehead resting against James’s, a grin splitting his grimy face. “Saw you smirking. Couldn’t resist.”
“You’re losing! You idiot, you’re meant to be playing!” James insisted, still pushing him away, though his hands were now fisted in Will’s shirt.
“Worth it.” Will said, stealing another quick kiss. “You’re a distraction. A very pretty, jet-lagged distraction.”
“Go win your game, you moron.” James said, his voice full of a fondness that belied the insult. “Then you can kiss me properly after you take a bloody shower.”
“Only if that shower is with you.” Will’s grin was blinding. He gave James one last, swift kiss, then turned and, with a whoop, leapt back over the railing onto the pitch, landing with the easy grace of an athlete before he jogged back towards his furious manager and bewildered teammates, waving a casual apology to the referee.
The stadium was in an uproar, a mixture of boos, cheers, and utter confusion. The commentator on the stream was sputtering, lost for words and even the home team was cheering, despite it not being for a player of their own jersey.
James, however, just leaned back against the railing, his heart hammering against his ribs as he ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to fight the utterly besotted smile on his face. Down on the pitch, Will looked back up, winked, and turned to face the game again, his posture transformed. The distraction was over. The focus was back.
Two minutes later, Will Lenney received a cross on his chest, brought it down, and volleyed it into the top corner of the net. An absolute worldie. The away end exploded.
As he ran towards the corner flag in celebration, he didn’t look at his teammates. He looked straight up at the family area and blew a kiss, aimed directly at a blushing, laughing rockstar.
James just shook his head, mouthing the words he knew Will could read perfectly.
You’re such a show-off.