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The first time Michael saw Jobe bleed, he was in his own apartment in Munich with the television turned up too loud.
He had told himself it was just background noise. Just something to have on in to fill the empty silence as he tried to appreciate what little free time he had these days. His day had already been long. He’d finished training hours ago, showered, eaten something vaguely resembling dinner and had collapsed on his sofa. He didn’t have any real reason to watch football tonight. He really should just call it a night and go to bed.
Except Jobe was playing.
And Michael always watched when Jobe played.
But this wasn’t something he would ever admit. Because Michael and Jobe were not friends. They weren’t anything. They were two footballers who had both grown up in England. They were both two footballers who happened to play for two rival football clubs in Germany and, over the last year, had had an arrangement that neither of them had even bothered naming.
Whilst both men refused to put a name on it, they did have some ground rules for how it would go.
Rule one: nobody knew. Not Jude. Not Jamal. No one.
Rule two: nothing happened when others were watching.
Rule three: this arrangement was strictly about sex.
Rule four: it didn’t mean anything.
Nothing about whatever unnamed thing they had going on between them ever did change the ninety minutes of hatred they felt when their teams played against each other. Before and after there was shoves, there was complaints to the refs, there was Michael calling Jobe a prick and Jobe calling Michael a cunt. The occasional foul still existed. The occasional smirk across the field to the other when one, usually Michael, scored. The games were bitter, they were poisonous and they made Michael feel the most alive he had felt throughout his whole career.
It turned into something else after one particularly venomous match. Between the shoves and the taunts and the insults, something had shifted. A brewing and lingering attraction that had probably always been there suddenly rose above the surface. They knew it, it only took a quick glance at Jobe across the field, the heat and anger and fire in his eyes for Michael to also notice the attraction and the desire that threatened to burn out of control. He knew for certain now, Jobe felt it too. Both of them found themselves alone in the players tunnel after the final whistle. It was like a magnetic pull they both had towards each other, like they both physically couldn’t stay away. Jobe had been the one to break the omertà and finally speak.
“What is your room number?”
Two hours later, both men were on a hotel room bed, kissing and touching as aggressively as they played. For Michael, the moment Jobe had kissed him felt like he was finally coming up for air after drowning for months. He wasn’t a virgin by any stretch but the intensity of it all made his head spin. The way Jobe touched and kissed and fucked him felt different, there was a possessiveness in it that Michael found kind of addictive. Though he would never admit that. He would never admit any of it.
After that, it became a pattern. They’d meet in hotels. Apartments on the very rare occasions. Hotels were preferred. They both became masters of the art of quietly slipping into the other’s hotel room or apartment buildings after midnight. Masters in discretion, in staying in the shadows, staying invisible.
Sometimes there would be a message.
You up?
Nothing more.
They never talked about what happened afterwards. Neither ever stayed for breakfast. Never kissed goodbye. Never asked what it meant. They tried to tell themselves over and over that it didn’t mean anything at all.
Because the thing was, neither of them was stupid. Both understood what a dangerous game this was. The risks they were taking. They’d seen it again and again. They’d heard the jokes in the dressing rooms and the slurs on the field. Michael often was torn between flinching at hearing those words or feeling gratitude that for the most part, it wasn’t usually aimed at him.
So, they were careful. Painfully careful.
Michael had gotten particularly good at it.
He could walk past Jobe in the tunnel without even glancing his way.
He could celebrate a goal against him. The finger to his lip had become a message as much as a celebration these days.
He could lightly shove him during a corner and try to hide a grin when Jobe shoved him back.
Sometimes, the risks they were taking felt like too much, like no matter how careful they were, how detached they were in public, that the net was very slowly closing in.
But see, when they were together, wrapped up in each other, lips on lips, fingertips on skin and it was like time stood still. Like everything else just stopped, just faded into the background. The way Michael felt, once it had happened, once they were lying there, catching their breaths, the smell of sweat and sex filling up the room, it felt like peace. It felt like freedom.
And that was the problem. Because Michael could tell himself that Jobe was simply somebody he occasionally slept with. Someone who occasionally fucked him in the ways he wanted and needed to be fucked.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
The problem was that somewhere along the way, Michael had stopped believing himself.
—
Michael knew he would watch that damn match.
There really was better things he could be doing with his time. He could have just gone to bed.
Still, at eight o’clock, his tv was on and he was sat in front of it. He did pull out his phone, occasionally scrolling, occasionally replying in the Bayern group chat. Trying his hardest not to watch every second, scan the whole field just until he saw Jobe.
Jobe looked like he was having a decent game. It was funny, how he always seemed to play better because he knew that miles away in Munich, Michael would be watching him.
The camera followed Jobe as he collected the ball near the halfway line. Michael tried not to smile.
“Fucking show-off.”
Jobe beat one defender. Then another. Michael shook his head, smiling genuinely this time.
“Prick.”
He was still smiling when it happened.
The dropped between Jobe and an opposing defender. Both went for it. The defender arrived late. His foot coming up as Jobe turned, the studs of the boot catching him across the side of the neck and shoulder.
The entire sickening collision played out on screen. Played out directly in front of Michael.
He watched as Jobe’s body jerked sideways, his arms instinctively flying up towards his neck as his long legs gave way beneath him.
When he hit the grass hard, Michael shot upright, his blood ran ice cold.
“Fuck.”
The referee’s whistle came almost immediately.
Jobe didn’t move. Didn’t get up.
Michael stood up, standing closer towards the screen now. He felt sick. He felt an overwhelming panic he had not felt in a long time, possibly ever.
“Jobe get up.”
The television showed the medical team running onto the pitch, running to the still not moving Jobe. The panicked teammates standing by as one medic knelt beside him, another grabbing the medical bag.
Michael was already shaking when he saw the blood. The blood that was running beneath Jobe’s collar, running down his shoulder. There was just so much blood.
Then the camera cut away.
“Fuck! Go back!”
Michael swallowed hard. He was trembling now. He felt a mixture of terror, uselessness and panic. He couldn’t look away from the tv, he stared at the shots of the same expressions of fear and dread in the faces of the other players and concern in the crowd. He couldn’t do anything but stand there and feel his whole body tremble.
When the broadcast finally returned to the pitch, Jobe was sitting up. That should have made Michael feel better, but it didn’t. There was still so much blood, too much blood. The medics were trying to get Jobe stable, pressing gauze against the wound and help him stand, he made it about halfway before his knees buckled.
All Michael could do was watch, watch as the younger man sat on the grass whilst the medics waited for the stretcher to appear. The television commentary had become background noise as Jobe’s hand instinctively went to his neck and when he pulled away, his fingers were red.
Michael’s stomach turned. He felt a sob escape his lips.
“No.”
In a panic he grabbed the remote. He switched channels, then almost immediately switched back again. He couldn’t look away. The medical staff were still pressing thick gauze against the wound now and even though the camera tried to apply some distance, Michael could still see the material immediately becoming stained through. Then it switched entirely to shots of Jobe’s teammates who had gathered nearby. Carney crouched beside him, another with both hands on his head. The stretcher finally made it onto the pitch, Jobe looked furious about it, he started shaking his head, trying to convince the medical staff he could walk but they wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he was lowered carefully onto the stretcher. As they began to lift him and remove him from the pitch, Joel turned his head towards the stands and Michael was met with a man who’s terrified face looked ten shades too pale and his shirt stained with blood.
Suddenly, Michael couldn’t breathe properly anymore.
He tried to steady himself. Jobe was conscious. He was surrounded by medics, by his teammates, by his coach. He knew if he really tried to think as logically as he could, this was just a flesh wound. This wasn’t a career ending injury in the slightest. Sure, it was gory. It was gnarly. But an ACL would have been worse in the long run. Statistically, Jobe was probably going to be okay. This was all going to probably be okay.
But right now, none of that mattered.
Because for a moment there, just a moment, Michael had thought the worst had happened.
Then Michael watched as Jobe disappeared down the tunnel on the stretcher. And something inside him snapped.
He looked at the clock on the wall.
Then at his car keys.
He didn’t think.
If he thought about it, he’d talk himself out of it.
So he didn’t.
Instead, he grabbed his jacket.
And left.
—
Thankfully the road was quiet as Michael drove north in the darkness. Following the A9 out of Munich before hitting the A3 further north. Hours had passed before he even turned onto the Sauerlandlinie and finally settled into the long, dark stretch towards Dortmund. At this time, the motorway had become almost empty, the occasional car or lorry appearing in the headlights before disappearing behind him.
Michael was exhausted, but every time he even entertained the idea of stopping, he saw the blood, he saw Jobe’s terrified face as he was carried off that pitch. He didn’t stop as he stared ahead and thought about how any of those studs could have hit a major vein in Jobe’s neck. How Jobe could have bled out. How he could have lost the best fucking thing that had happened to him. How he would have had to grieve in private, because everything he and Jobe did was in private. And they weren’t even anything so what would he have been grieving? He would have lost something that was so real to him but didn’t exist anywhere else. He gripped the steering wheel as he sped up, ignoring the tears falling freely down his face.
Throughout the drive, his hands never left ten and two. Every so often, his phone lit up as it sat in the passenger seat beside him. Messages from teammates, the group chat likely discussing the Dortmund game, discussing Jobe’s injury. He ignored all of it. He only wanted to know one thing, that Jobe was okay and he knew he wouldn’t be able to find any sort of calm until he laid eyes on him.
He knew deep down, this was ridiculous. He knew they weren’t together, they’d never even put a name on what they currently were. Maybe Jobe wouldn’t want him there. Maybe this whole thing was a huge waste of time.
He kept driving anyway.
—
Jobe had been home for a couple of hours.
The hospital had discharged him with a prescription bag full of painkillers, given him stitches and ordered him to rest. The injury looked worse than it actually was, according to the doctor anyway. A deep laceration they said, heavy bleeding, a growing map of bruises across his shoulder and neck. But no serious damage.
He’d been lucky.
The last thing Jobe felt though, was lucky.
He felt sore, exhausted and strangely empty. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone, there was dozens of messages. He’d only spoken to his mother and to Jude. He’d let the doctor calmly, with classic German stoicism, explain to his mother than Jobe would be fine. She had needed the reassurance. He’d let Jude talk about how he was going to deal with that defender whose cleat had met Jobe’s neck. He’d tried to answer who he could, others would have to wait.
Through it all, deep down, he never heard from the only person he truly wanted to hear from.
Maybe Michael hadn’t watched it. Jobe hoped so. He wouldn’t want Michael to worry. He wouldn’t have wanted Michael to see him like that. He chose to believe Michael didn’t see, that he’d just chosen not to watch tonight. That Michael had gone to bed early instead.
Logically, that explanation made the most sense.
He sighed as he put the phone down.
He was just about to lie back when he heard someone knock on the front door.
Jobe frowned at the sound. It was almost three in the morning.
Nobody was supposed to be coming over.
He’d barely been home from the hospital for a few hours. His shoulder throbbed beneath the dressing, his neck felt stiff and bruised, and he’d been trying to convince himself that he was tired enough to sleep.
Another knock.
Jobe pulled on a sweatshirt and made his way to the door. Maybe it was Carney, who out of worry for Jobe, probably would insist on crashing on his couch.
When he opened the door, he stopped dead.
Michael stood on the other side, looking absolutely exhausted.
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Then Jobe said quietly,
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Michael didn’t answer.
His eyes immediately dropped to the dressing visible beneath Jobe’s sweatshirt.
Then back to his face.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
“Olise, what are you doing here?” Jobe whispered again.
Michael swallowed.
“I saw what happened. I had to see you.”
Jobe’s expression softened.
“You drove all the way here?”
Michael nodded.
Jobe opened his mouth, probably to tell him he was fucking insane, or that he should have stayed in Munich, or that the injury wasn’t as bad as it looked.
But before he could say anything, Michael slowly stepped forward, giving Jobe every opportunity to move away.
He didn’t.
Michael lifted one hand and gently touched the side of Jobe’s face, his thumb lightly brushed beneath Jobe’s eye.
Then he leaned in.
The kiss was soft. Soft and almost painfully careful. It was nothing like the kisses they’d shared in hotel rooms after matches, when everything between them had been secret, had been hurried and fuelled by adrenaline and arousal. No, this was different.
This time, Michael barely pressed his lips against Jobe’s. This time, it was more of a quiet, trembling touch before he pulled back. Jobe’s eyes were still closed as Michael remained frozen in place, their foreheads pressed together.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Jobe opened his eyes. “For what?”
Michael looked at him.
“For taking so long.”
Jobe’s breath caught at that. He reached and grabbed the front of Michael’s jacket as he pulled him inside the apartment. Once Michael entered, his eyes immediately went back to the bandage around Jobe’s neck and shoulder.
“Let me see.”
“I’m fine.”
“Jobe.”
“It’s fine.”
“Jesus Jobe, would you just let me see?”
Something about Michael’s voice made Jobe stop arguing. Instead, he pulled his sweatshirt aside as he saw Michael’s face fall. The bandage already stained slightly red. Michael’s fingers twitched as he reached out but stopped himself before touching it.
“It hurt?”
“Yeah.”
“How bad?”
“I dunno, like a six maybe?”
Michael nodded. “They give you anything?”
“Painkillers.”
“Have you taken them?”
Jobe gave him a look then rolled his eyes. “Yes dad.”
“When?”
“Like an hour ago.”
“Good.” Michael looked around the dimly lit apartment. “Have you eaten?”
Jobe stared at him.
“You drove five fucking hours to interrogate me?”
“Six.”
“Jesus.”
They ended up in Jobe’s bed, though they were both exhausted, neither of them could sleep. Michael was so gentle as he held the other man close, not wanting to touch the area of the impact. He checked the bandages consistently, despite the exhaustion in his eyes. He made sure Jobe had water and his medication beside him, made sure that the other man was in as least amount of pain as possible when Jobe whispered “You know, for someone who insists that this thing is casual, you’re acting incredibly boyfriend-ish.”
Michael tensed. The room became suffocatingly quiet. Jobe regretted saying the words as soon as they left his lips. Michael shut his eyes.
“Jobe. Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Say that. You can’t say shit like that.”
“Why?”
“Because then it becomes real.”
Jobe sat up a little, looking directly at Michael. “Maybe it already is real.”
Michael’s jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing. His thumb stayed against Jobe’s ribs, so gentle, so careful, as if Jobe was something that could be broken by pressing too hard.
“I saw the whole fucking thing Jobe. I watched it happen.” Michael finally said, his voice barely there. “You went down. You didn’t move and you didn’t get up. I saw the blood before the cameras cut away. I just stood there, watching that tv screen.”
Jobe’s heart ached. “Michael.”
“I don’t even remember getting in the car. I don’t remember stopping to get petrol, but I must have done.” A breath left him, half a laugh but with no humour in it. “I don’t do things like that, Jobe. I don’t do that for anyone.”
Jobe looked at him, really looked. He saw the shadows under Michael’s eyes, the way his chest rose and fell, the hand that hadn’t stopped trembling since he knocked on Jobe’s door. Every excuse both men had ever built, every rule they had made about this being just sex, about it meaning nothing, about having no feelings attached had quietly completely fallen apart.
Jobe reached out and laced their fingers together.
"Then it's not casual," he said softly.
Michael shut his eyes as Jobe felt the shudder run through him, like something he’d been carrying for months had finally been set down. “No," he whispered. "It hasn't been for a long time."
Jobe drew their joined hands up and pressed a kiss to Michael's knuckles, unhurried, the way you touch something you're finally allowed to keep. When Michael's eyes opened again, they were shining.
"Come here," Jobe murmured.
Michael shifted closer, carefully, so carefully, until his forehead rested against Jobe’s good shoulder. Jobe’s fingers slid into his hair and stayed there, slow and steady, and Michael's whole body softened under the touch. For once, neither of them was performing anything. No rivalry, no rules, no pretending. As Jobe’s fingers gently twirled Michael’s loose locs, there was only the tick of the radiator, the soft glow from the streetlight across the bedsheet and the warmth of two people finally telling each other the truth without needing to say all of it out loud.
"Stay," Jobe breathed quietly.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"I mean tomorrow, too."
“I’m not leaving you Jobe. Go to sleep, I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
Michael stayed awake a while longer. He watched the slow rise and fall of Jobe’s chest, the bandage, the bruised skin just inches from where everything could have ended. And in that moment, it finally came to him all at once, clear and terrifying and simple, the way you finally understand a word you've been staring at for too long.
I love you.
He didn't say it. Not tonight. But it sat in his chest like something that had always lived there, and when he pulled Jobe a little closer, gentle as anything, it no longer felt like a secret.
It felt like coming home.