The Footballer's Secret

Callum Harris wakes up the morning after the match against Man City with a screaming headache, a crick in his neck from sleeping wrong, and a case of cottonmouth that leaves him feeling like he could drink a liter of water in one go. His usually bright green eyes are bleary. The hangover is intense. He groans quietly before he swipes a hand across his face, feeling the crust of sleep near the corners of his eyes. Sitting up takes monumental effort. His memories of the previous night all get hazy after their win against Man City. 2-1, with him getting an assist off their right-winger and a last-minute goal of his own. 

Not too shabby. Callum yawns until his jaw pops from the stretch of it. He glances to his right. He’s relieved when he sees that side of the spacious hotel bed is empty. He doesn’t hear the shower running, either, so his “friend” he brought home from the club seems to have cleared out fast this morning. He sits up and stretches. His muscles ache pleasantly, though the persistent throb in his skull is anything but pleasant. He gets out of bed and pads over to the mini-bar. It’s still well stocked. I guess what's-his-face was gracious enough not to raid it on his way out. Callum smiles a bit before he grabs a small bottle of water, twists the cap off, and drains it in one go. He tosses it into the bin before he grabs a second bottle and heads to the bathroom. 

Callum’s shower is perfunctory. He scrubs away the leftover sweat and funk from the nightclub the team went to last night, alongside lingering traces of glitter from his hookup. He’s almost certain he’ll be picking glitter out of his hair and off of his clothes for another day or so. He shampoos and conditions his hair, rinses, then lathers himself with the eucalyptus body wash the hotel provides. He usually brings his own. He didn’t really have the time to unpack it yesterday, though, not after the day he’d had. The hotel’s toiletries are good enough, anyhow. He steps out of the shower and wraps one towel around his waist, using the smaller one to gently pat his messy, dirty-blonde waves until they’re halfway dry.

“Oi! Bruv, are you alive in there?” 

Callum’s smile widens. He double-checks that his towel is secure around his waist before he steps into the bedroom, then opens the room door. Isaac Martin is standing there in a crisp, black-and-red flannel, a pair of black joggers that fit snugly around his muscled thighs and waist, and his favorite pair of black house slippers. Callum’s got to bite his lip to hold back a snort at the sight of them.

“You’re still clinging to that superstition, aren’t you?” Callum teases, opening the door wider so Isaac can come inside. He moves back to the hotel bed before he hefts his suitcase onto it. 

“Ain’t superstition if it works, Cal. We never run into trouble after a win if I wear my slippers on the ride home,” Isaac insists, jutting out his chin. A week’s worth of black stubble dots his brown skin. Callum just rolls his eyes before he picks out his riding home outfit. Footballers are a superstitious bunch, and they are also creatures of habit, and they also like to be comfortable when they’re able to. They contain multitudes. That’s why he picks out clothes to dress in like a normal person for the ride home. A faded, worn band tee, white joggers, and a pair of well-loved white trainers. He’s got an Alexandria hoodie laid out just in case it’s cold out. Given that it’s Man City in January, he reckons it’ll be a bit cold out. 

“We never run into trouble when you wear them because you’re too fucking embarrassed to step off the coach when we stop for snacks or petrol.” Callum stifles another yawn when he finishes speaking, a familiar sort of exhaustion clinging to his frame no matter what he does to shake it off. Isaac’s dark brown eyes widen before he grins, a dimple popping by his left cheek. It’s one of those things that makes him so maddeningly handsome. Callum feels his heart rate tick up at the sight of it. Prick. 

“You had a late night, didn’t you?” Isaac nudges him in the side while he finds a pair of black pants to wear beneath his joggers. He drops his towel and steps into them, then the joggers, his face flushing a bit at the implication of his best mate’s words. This is a performance he’s done a few dozen times at this point in their friendship. He doesn’t think it’ll ever get easier. “C’mon, what was her name? Was it that leggy redhead who kept eyeing you from the bar I told you about? Or that cute brunette who waltzed up to you with her face still done in Man City colors?” Callum thinks back to the night before.

Striking brown eyes. Short, cropped curls that were bleached blonde. Dark skin. Rough hands that had twisted helplessly in the hotel sheets while Callum slowly, methodically, and carefully took him apart. Alex had been his name. He’d played for Man City as a centreback, he’d lost to their team, and Callum had even successfully stolen the ball from him at one point before he’d scored his goal. They’d kissed as if it cost them air to be apart. 

“Alex,” Callum finally says, tugging his shirt into place before he slips his hoodie on. “Not sure if you ever saw her, but she was fit. About my height, but strong. Really good thighs. The fucking core strength she had…” he trails off, picturing the way sweat had glistened on Alex’s chest while he’d ridden him, his gasps echoing in the hotel room until Callum worried there would be a noise complaint made. Isaac claps him on the back roughly, nearly making him stumble, before he catches himself. 

“Glad you had fun. You never pull when we go to clubs together, bruv. We were getting ready to stage an intervention,” Isaac jokes. Callum rolls his eyes before he finishes dressing for the day. He does one final sweep of the room, ensures he’s got everything, and the pair head down to grab a quick bite to eat before they hop on the coach that’ll take them back to Alexandria. The sooner Callum can get to the relative sanctuary of his house, the better…