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Mike drops his keys into the bowl near the front door, tosses his messenger bag toward the hall closet door, and bustles into the living room.
“Harvey,” he exclaims. “I scored us tickets to the greatest matchup of all time!”
“The Red Sox aren’t in town for another month, Mike.”
“Not that game,” Mike says. “The World Cup final next weekend. We’re sitting right behind the dugouts. Dugouts? I’ll have to ask Lauren.”
“Who is Lauren?”
“One of the researchers at work whom you never meet because you send me to talk to them.”
“Hanging around with the research team now?”
“She in fraud investigation. She’s funny as hell. You’d like her.”
“Why are we talking about her?”
“Huh?” Mike asks, jogging to catch the train of thought before it completely leaves the station. “Oh, yeah. She’s my football coach.”
“Taking up the pigskin?”
“First of all, gross. Second, football. You know. The game everyone in the world calls football, but Americans call soccer.”
“We’re in America,” Harvey says.
“Really? I didn’t realize that.”
“Smart ass. I mean you should call it soccer in the States.”
“Whatevs,” Mike says mischievously. He shrugs then returns to the original topic. “Anyway, we have tickets to the World Cup final. Aren’t you excited?”
“Oh, yeah,” Harvey says sarcastically. “Overjoyed.”
“Killjoy.” Mike may or may not pout a little bit. Harvey may or may not be moved by a little pout now and then.
Right on schedule, Harvey’s face transforms from a smirk to something less smirk-like. “OK, Mike. Tell me about the great matchup.”
“Don’t know who’s playing yet because they’re in the semis now.”
“What?”
“The matches started last month with the group stage and now the teams are in the knockout rounds.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Harvey asks. “Where’d you learn all this? Have you been reading books again?
“Ha ha. No,” he says. “I message Lauren questions during the matches.”
“You’re watching soccer, I mean football, at work?”
“You know I work better with ambient sound.”
“One of your great failings.”
“Hey, now,” Mike says. “That’s not very nice.”
“I’m not paid to be nice, Mike,” Harvey purrs. “Plus, you like it when I’m not nice.”
Mike’s neck pinks as he coughs.
Harvey loves teasing Mike until he blushes. It’s easy, really. A whisper here, a quiet growl there.
“Fine,” he says. He sits back in his chair. “Tell me more.”
——————
They’re on the couch watching highlights from earlier World Cup matches when Harvey asks, “Why are they wearing pink shoes?”
“Boots,” says Mike.
“Huh?” Harvey’s eyebrows furrow.
“They’re wearing pink boots, not shoes,” Mike explains.
“Boots, shoes, whatever.”
“No,” Mike says. “We need to use the right words to be real fans.”
“Who said I wanted to be a fan of soccer?”
“Football.”
“Soccer,” Harvey says firmly.
“C’mon, Harvey.”
“Fine, football. You happy now?”
“Very.” Mike smiles gleefully.
“So, Mike,” Harvey says, smirking. “Why are the players wearing pink boots?”
“Oh,” Mike replies. “I have no idea.” He grins and reaches for his phone.
A few clicks of the thumbs and he looks up at Harvey. “Lauren says that the sponsors decide the colors of the kits,” he says. “Oh, look. She sent me an article.”
“Kits?”
“Yeah, what we’d call a uniform. The sponsors come up with the designs. I mean, I’m sure the kit manager has some say, but... This year, the boots are pink.”
“When did you have time to learn all of this?”
“Lauren.”
“She’s the who, not the when, Mike. Have you been watching socc— football during work hours? I need to give you more work.”
“I’d still get it done faster and better than anyone else, so that’s not much of a threat.”
Harvey growls playfully. “I’ll give you a threat.” He stretches his arm around Mike’s shoulders.
Mike smirks. “Yeah, yeah.” He pokes Harvey in the arm. “You’re so scary.”
“Ow,” Harvey jokes. “I liked it better when you were scared of me.”
“Nah,” Mike says. “This is way better.” He leans into Harvey.
“For you maybe.” Harvey caresses Mike’s arm absently.
“For me definitely,” Mike says. He pauses, pulling back to look at Harvey. “For you, too, if you want my opinion.”
“What if I don’t?”
“You’re getting it anyway,” Mike laughs.
“Go on.”
“I’m not scared of you anymore because I know you’re not the hard ass guy you portray. At least not when it’s just us.”
“Don’t know about that,” Harvey mutters.
“Harvey,” Mike says seriously. “I’ve seen you with all your walls down. And I love what I see.”
It’s Harvey’s turn to blush. He runs a hand through his hair and rests it at his nape. A few seconds tick before he returns his gaze to Mike’s.
“What else have you learned?”
“About you? Well—,” Mike launches.
“Not about me,” Harvey interjects. “About football. What else have you learned about football?”
“I’m still learning the rules. I can’t really tell the difference between a foul and legal contact,” Mike says. “And the offsides thing is baffling.”
Harvey smiles. He loves it when Mike finds a new fascination and dives into the waters of discovery. Harvey knows when Mike gets excited, he’ll get wet, too.
——————
“I didn’t know it was full-contact.”
“Well, yeah. I mean, they’re not supposed to trip or push, but depending on the ref, sometimes they get away with fouls that should be called.”
“Ouch!” Harvey exclaims when two players leap for a header and their heads collide. “That’s gotta hurt.”
“They have concussion protocols. If a player doesn’t get up right away, the medical techs come onto the pitch to check.”
“I would hope so.”
“But you like it, right?”
“Yeah, Mike,” he says. “I like it.”
——————
The crowd noise is physical. Pulsing with chants and songs. Harvey and Mike wear neutral colors to indicate their impartiality. That doesn’t stop Mike from singing along. Every missed shot, every time a player steals the ball, Mike’s right there, shouting. So much for neutrality.
“Offsides!” Harvey yells at the pitch. “C’mon ref!”
He’s always been a quick learner.
Mike beams.