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Sometimes, Mohamed closes his eyes and lets the waves swallow him whole, as though the sea might wash away his sins. Sometimes it is a relief to forget everything—who he is, what his name is, where he comes from. Nothing is chasing him. No sorrow is tightening its grip around his throat.
only him and the emptiness.
Then comes the ringing in his ears. Hands press against his body, and a familiar, beloved voice calls his name in panic.
He slowly opens his eyes.
The first thing he sees is Mostafa's worried face, his trembling fingers checking for a pulse. He blinks again. Medical staff surround him.
Right.
He's in a match.
The World Cup.
Egypt versus Australia.
His head aches. His foot throbs. But he has to stand. He has to keep playing.
One hundred and twenty million Egyptians are watching him.
So he gets to his feet.
And he keeps playing.
The first time Hany ever spoke to Shobier was in 2019.
He had just turned twenty-three. The air was cold, but training warmed his blood.
Everyone was talking about the goalkeeper, Mostafa Shobier.
"He's so lucky."
"They're definitely going to promote him to the first team soon."
"That's what happens when your father is Ahmed Shobier, one of Egypt's most famous goalkeepers."
Hany said nothing.
He continued his warm-up, curling his hand into a fist until his knuckles cracked.
Truthfully, it was easy to believe the rumors.
Egypt had never been the fairest place in the world. Everyone knew that having a relative in a position of power could open doors for you.
But Hany knew something the others didn't.
He remembered the first time he had seen the boy, about two years earlier.
Hany had already been with the first team for several years, but after a dreadful performance the week before, he had taken permission to train alone that morning.
He hadn't expected to hear footballs slamming into the net so early in the day.
Nor had he expected to find the famous seventeen-year-old goalkeeper standing in front of the goal while a ball machine relentlessly fired shot after shot at him.
He's ashamed to admit it now, but back then he believed every rumor claiming Shobier had earned his place because of his father.
How could he not?
He had seen how people treated the children of the wealthy. He still remembered the anger and humiliation he had felt in 2015, when the son of an influential man had been picked over him simply because his father had 'recommended' him.
So yes.
Maybe he had believed them.
Watching a seventeen-year-old train alone at eight in the morning, drenched in sweat, made him wonder how long Shobier had already been there.
How many mornings had he done this by himself?
Hany couldn't look away.
The determination and unwavering dedication in Shobier's eyes filled him with shame.
That morning changed something inside him.
It made him even more determined to become a better player.
So, two years later, when Mostafa Shobier was finally promoted to the first team, Mohamed Hany was the very first to walk up to him.
He smiled, extended his hand, and said,
"Welcome.
_________________________________________________________________________
Mohamed 's throat burned raw from all the shouting, and his head felt as though it were about to split apart.
None of it mattered.
Not when they had just become the first Egyptian team in history to reach the Round of 16.
He wanted to cry.
He wanted to call his parents.
Without warning, the team doctor swept a penlight across his eyes. Mohamed swallowed the groan that threatened to escape. The light stabbed through his skull, sending another wave of agony crashing through him. A steady hand cradled the back of his head while muffled voices overlapped around him, fading in and out like distant echoes.
He wanted it all to end.
He wanted to celebrate with his teammates, return to his hotel room, and sleep for an entire day.
"A mild concussion," the doctor finally said after finishing the examination. He gave Mohamed a list of instructions before leaving him alone.
Only then did Mohamed notice that his hands were still trembling.
They had won.
They had actually won.
They had done the impossible.
He buried his face in his hands and let the tears come.
He had scored an own goal.
What kind of idiot did that?
It was the second own goal he had scored
If it hadn't been for his teammates—for everyone refusing to give up—they would have lost because of him. Every sacrifice, every sleepless night, every dream carried by an entire nation could have disappeared because he had put the ball into his own net.
People back home would drag his name through the mud.
And they would be right.
Hell...
He wanted to drag himself through it first.
A quiet knock broke the silence.
His head snapped toward the door.
Mostafa stood there.
He didn't say a word.
He simply walked inside, closed the door behind him, and sat beside Mohamed. Their knees brushed together, and the warmth of Mostafa's skin seeped through the fabric of their training clothes.
Somehow...
It was comforting.
"We did it," Mostafa said softly.
"We almost didn't."
The words cracked apart as they left Mohamed's mouth.
He could feel Mostafa looking at him.
He couldn't bring himself to return the gaze.
Shame wrapped around his chest so tightly that disappearing forever suddenly sounded like a relief.
"We did it," Mostafa repeated. "We won. We're the first Egyptian team to make it this far."
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
"Mohamed..."
His voice was warm.
Gentle.
"We're champions."
Something inside Mohamed threatened to break.
He wanted to cry like a child.
Instead, he smiled, closed his eyes, and whispered,
"Yeah...We won."
Silence settled between them after that.
It wasn't awkward.
Their teammates' celebration echoed faintly from somewhere down the corridor.
"How's your head?" Mostafa asked.
"Hard as steel," Mohamed joked weakly. "Just a mild concussion. I'll be good as new tomorrow."
Mostafa reached over and rested his hand against the back of Mohamed's head, carefully feeling the spot where he'd hit it.
Mohamed forgot how to breathe.
Mostafa was close—
Close enough that he could make out every tiny pore across his skin , enough to notice the flecks of amber hidden inside his brown eyes ,to feel the warmth of every quiet breath against his face.
"No swelling," Mostafa murmured with visible relief, pulling his hand away.
Only then did Mohamed remember how to breathe again.
He remembered very little about the moments before he had blacked out.
Or the moments afterward.
But he knew one thing.
He had scare them.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly."I didn't mean to worry everyone."
Mostafa studied him in silence, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.
Then he stood.
"You should go take a shower. "He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting. "You smell awful."
Mohamed shot to his feet, heat flooding his face.
" Mostafa!"
For as long as he could remember, Mohamed had believed something rotten was growing inside him.
Like a cactus rooted deep within his chest, its thorns scraping against his lungs every time he breathed.
So he ignored it.
What else could he do?
He had convinced himself that whatever lived inside him wasn't normal.
That he was broken.
That he deserved to be condemned.
So despite the fear...
Despite the pain...
Despite the suffocating feeling that never truly left him...
He told himself it was only a trial.
One day, it would pass.
Then he met Mostafa.
It wasn't love at first sight.
There was no lightning bolt.
No miraculous revelation.
Just one ordinary training session.
Their eyes met across the pitch.
And, with absurd simplicity, a single thought slipped into his mind.
I want to kiss him.
I want to spend the rest of my life with him.
The thought hit him so hard that he immediately stumbled over his own feet and landed face-first on the grass.
The following week, he requested medical leave.
He locked himself inside his room.
He prayed. Then prayed again.
And again.
He begged Allah to cleanse him of whatever darkness had taken root inside him.
Why couldn't he just be normal?
Why did his heart have to choose men?
Why...
Why did it have to choose his best friend?
Why did he have to be like this?
Nothing changed.
Eventually, he returned to training.
He closed his eyes.
He shut out the noise in his own mind.
He would rather suffocate than face what his heart had become.
And all the while, the rot inside him continued to grow.
_________________________________________________________________________
They lose to Argentina, and rage and grief tighten their grip around his throat.
Because it isn't fair.
It's cruel.
It's sickening.
He cannot understand how anyone could do something like this.
He closes his eyes and forces down his tears. When he opens them again, his gaze lands on Mostafa, sitting in front of the goal, despair written across every line of his face. A lump rises in his throat, and he quickly looks away. He can't bear to look at him any longer.
His eyes catch sight of an Israeli flag, and anger surges through him all over again. Before he can think twice, he raises his middle finger in its direction.
Time seems to slip through his fingers. One moment, he's still standing on the emerald pitch, the roar of the crowd deafening, his heart heavy with grief.
The next moment, he's back in his room, lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.
If he concentrates hard enough, he can recall the events of the past few hours. But he's tired. Exhausted. Disappointment fills him so completely that he almost feels like throwing it up.
A soft knock at the door pulls him out of his misery.
He lets out a quiet sigh, wipes a hand over his face, then pushes himself to his feet and opens the door.
... Mostafa.
Mostafa stands there with sorrow in his eyes, exhaustion etched across his features, water still dripping from his hair.
Is he sick? Did something happen? Why is he here?
Mostafa gives him a tired little smile.
"Are you going to leave me standing at the door for much longer?"
Mohamed blinks before stepping aside.
"Come in..." He hesitates. "Are you okay?"
Mostafa walks inside with heavy steps before letting himself fall backward onto the bed, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"Neither of us is okay..."
"...Yeah. Right," Mohamed murmurs.
His mind is too exhausted to think, so he moves on instinct, dropping onto the bed beside Mostafa.
"It wasn't your fault," he says at last.
"I could've saved those shots..." Mostafa whispers, his voice weighed down by self-loathing.
"Maybe you could have. But it still wasn't your fault. No one could have done the impossible—especially with the referee on their side."
Mohamed turns his head to look at Mostafa, who continues staring blankly at the ceiling.
"I hate this world," Mostafa murmurs.
Mohamed doesn't take his eyes off him.
"Yeah... it's a terrible place."
Mostafa shifts, and suddenly they're face to face. His warm breath brushes against Mohamed's skin, while silence settles gently around them.
"I'm tired," Mostafa whispers.
"From the match?"
"No..." Mostafa closes his eyes, and a tear slips down his cheek. "I mean... yes. From the match. From the injustice. But..."
He opens his eyes again. They glisten with tears as he looks straight at Mohamed, as though he can see beyond the rot Mohamed believes lives inside him.
"I'm tired of resisting."
Mohamed doesn't understand what he means by resisting, but he says nothing. If Mostafa needs someone to carry even a fraction of his pain, Mohamed will be there.
"Resisting what...?"
Conflict flickers across Mostafa's eyes before settling into something Mohamed can't understand.
Slowly, Mostafa raises a hand. Mohamed shivers as warm fingertips brush against his cheek.
"You're beautiful," Mostafa whispers with quiet reverence.
Mohamed's thoughts come to a complete stop as those fingers glide gently across his face until they reach his lips. His lips tremble beneath their warmth.
" Mostafa..." he breathes.
Another tear slips from Mostafa's eye as his fingertips trace the outline of Mohamed's lips.
"This world isn't fair..."
A tear slips from Mohamed's eye.
"I know."
He doesn't know who starts the kiss.
He doesn't care.
There is only warmth against his lips, salty tears whose owner he can no longer tell as they mingle on his tongue, hands clutching at his back, and teeth grazing his lip.
He knows that when this moment ends, everything will fall apart. Their relationship. Their lives. What if someone finds out?
But he doesn't think about any of it now.
Mostafa is kissing him.
And for the first time in a long time...
He feels like he can breathe.
Flowers bloom inside his lungs.