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The own goal happens in slow motion. And Nick is surprised, afterwards, how quiet it is in his head. Like his own thoughts have abandoned him. Probably for the best. Can't afford to test the weight of those feelings when you're barely one minute into the second half.
He recently fell down a Wikipedia rabbit hole about people bursting into flames. Spontaneous human combustion. Wonders if he can manifest it.
Bruno grabs him. Voice loud and clear above the noise. "Head up, Nicky. Vamos."
Glances at the bench hopefully; being hooked now would be like a mercy killing.
Twenty nine minutes. They make him trudge around for another twenty nine minutes. The rational part of his brain understands it's not like that. Being kept on the pitch isn't a punishment.
Knows it's not like that. But still.
Still. Those twenty nine minutes are an out of body experience. When his number is finally up he walks to the bench in a daze, not stopping when Malick calls for him. Doesn't want to hear anything else anyone has to say. Their criticism or their platitudes. Pity or anger. Doesn't want to see what expression crosses their faces before they school them. Doesn't want to have speak.
"Hey," Malick shouts, grabs his arm. But Nick shakes him off without looking.
His presence is barely acknowledged as he leaves the pitch. But then Eddie claps him on the back without looking up. The bench gets blurrier and blurrier. Comes back into focus when he blinks.
With the full-time whistle comes the walk of shame to clap the fans. Catches Malick watching him side-long. Forces himself to keep looking straight ahead. Through the fans, not at them. Through them, all the way past Tyneside, all the way back to Bremen.
The bus is quiet. Dim lights, dimmer mood. Nick sits on the outside seat with his head back, eyes closed, headphones on but not listening to anything. Other than the rushing of his own blood and the hum of the engine.
Someone nudges his knee with theirs. Without opening his eyes he knows it's Malick. "I'm asleep."
Malick kisses his teeth and nudges him again. "Bro." Stands over him until he moves along.
When he sits down Malick says, "I don't wanna talk about it."
He could mean the yellow card he picked up in the dying embers of extra time or the goal. Either way, Nick is grateful.
Malick shifts his weight, settles with his knee pressing against Nick's.
Nick waits to see if he moves it. Counts slowly to ten in English in his head. Malick is watching him out the corner of his eye, smiling bashfully. Hard to properly appreciate the way his freckles look when he blushes under the weird bus lighting. Nick stretches so their legs press more firmly together.
"Don't wanna talk about it," Malick reiterates, still smiling faintly.
Nick nods, fighting for his life not to giggle. Grateful to forget the heavy feeling. Or share it. Or whatever this is. Just for now.