Goodnight, Twice

We lost the play-off semifinal on penalties.

For two days, the entire town seemed to sigh whenever anyone mentioned football. Ben blamed himself for a clearance in the first leg. Reed told us, correctly, that a season could not be reduced to one kick. None of us found that especially comforting until we'd had some sleep.

Rafa came home with me after the final team meeting. We ate takeaway on the sofa with our legs tangled and watched a documentary about people renovating a lighthouse.

“They should have checked the roof,” I said.

“They did check the roof.”

“Then they should have believed the person who checked it.”

Rafa looked at me for a moment, then began laughing. I joined him because there was relief in caring fiercely about someone else's unfortunate guttering.

We'd wanted promotion. We would want it again. For that evening, we had dinner, a ridiculous programme, and each other.

June took us to Portugal.

His mother hugged me before I'd finished saying hello. His father shook my hand, then pulled me closer with a shyness that reminded me painfully of his son.

Inês inspected me across the kitchen table.

“You're shorter than I expected.”

“He's constantly standing too close to cameras,” I said, pointing at Rafa. “Distorts the comparison.”

She smiled. “You'll do.”

The first evening, we ate outside beneath strings of small lights. Rafa translated when I lost the conversation, then forgot himself and answered his mother in English, making everyone laugh.

His father asked about my recovery. Listened when I answered. Later, while Rafa helped clear plates, he showed me where a younger version of his son had kicked a ball against the garden wall until the paint wore away.

“He practised everything,” he said. “Again and again.”

“I've noticed.”

He looked towards the kitchen, where Rafa was arguing with his sister over how to stack bowls.

“He tells us he's happy.”

I followed his gaze.

“He makes me happy, too.”

The older man nodded, and we stood there a moment longer before going inside.

Back in England, Rafa came to Molly's for a barbecue and spent most of the afternoon being dragged around the garden by her enormous dog. Molly took photographs while offering advice of no practical value.

“He likes you,” she told him.

“He weighs as much as a midfielder.”

“That's how he expresses affection.”

Watching my boyfriend surrender a clean shirt to a muddy animal, I felt a quiet, almost startling contentment.

Later, Molly found me by the drinks table.

“You're looking at him again.”

“I'm supervising.”

“Of course.”

Her shoulder touched mine.

“You seem settled.”

I watched Rafa throw the ball and brace himself for the dog's return.

“I am.”

We didn't move in together that summer. We talked about it, including the awkward parts: routines, space, what would happen if one of us transferred, the fact that Rafa liked a quiet hour in the morning and I considered silence before coffee an emergency.

He renewed his lease for six months instead of a year. I gave him a proper key, not one borrowed and never returned. We agreed to revisit the conversation in the autumn.

It was a plan we both wanted, which made it feel more intimate than a dramatic announcement.

We bought a calendar for my kitchen. His appointments went beside mine. A family visit. A day he wanted to spend alone. Dinner with Ben. Training dates when the new schedule arrived.

The stuffed gull sat on the shelf above it, maintaining standards.

One morning, I came downstairs to find Rafa writing on the shopping list.

“What do we need?” I asked.

“Milk. Coffee. Apparently, every kind of biscuit except the kind I buy.”

“You buy biscuits designed for people being punished.”

He added another line.

“What was that?”

“Boyfriend with better manners.”

I caught him around the waist from behind and read over his shoulder.

He'd written: The ones Owen likes.

I kissed the back of his neck.

“You're smiling,” he said.

“You can't see my face.”

“I can feel it.”

I stayed there until the kettle clicked off.

When preseason began, the training ground smelled of cut grass and fresh paint. New faces appeared, old ones returned with unfortunate holiday haircuts, and Reed welcomed us by announcing a fitness session that made several men question their career choices.

I came out of the showers and stopped beside my locker.

Half the bench was occupied.

Rafa sat in the same place he'd sat a year earlier, phone in his hand, my club's shirt across his shoulders.

Only now there was coffee beside him. A paper bag. The pastry I liked from the bakery that opened early.

“You're in my seat,” I said.

He looked up.

“Good morning to you, too.”

I took the coffee and leaned down to kiss him.

From the opposite row, Ben made a suffering noise.

“It's half seven. Some of us haven't stretched.”

“Look away,” I told him.

“I tried that. You're still here.”

Rafa laughed against my mouth, and I kissed him once more because I could.

That afternoon, Lucy arranged a short interview ahead of the new season. The sponsor board had changed. The microphones hadn't.

The photographer asked us to stand closer.

For once, neither of us needed prompting.

Rafa leaned towards me.

“Hands to yourself this time.”

I smiled at the camera.

“I'm a professional.”

His little finger brushed mine behind our backs.

I hooked it, then slid my hand into his.

He held on.

That night, after dinner and an argument about whose turn it was to load the dishwasher, we went to bed in my house. His book lay on the table beside mine. A pair of his socks had somehow appeared beneath my chair. Through the open window came the distant sound of gulls and a car heading towards the harbour.

Rafa put down his book when I came out of the bathroom.

“Come here.”

“Demanding.”

“I've been patient all day.”

I climbed in beside him. He kissed me until I forgot the clever answer I'd been preparing, then settled on his back with my head against his shoulder.

We talked about training. About his mother's plans to visit. About whether the dog would remember him if Molly came over at the weekend.

Eventually, the conversation thinned into comfortable pauses.

“Goodnight,” he said, switching off the lamp.

“Goodnight.”

His arm relaxed around me. I waited until his breathing began to slow, then nudged his side.

“You still owe me one.”

He made a sleepy sound.

“I'm right here.”

“I know. Standards matter.”

He turned towards me in the dark. His hand found my cheek with the ease of long practice.

“Goodnight, boyfriend.”

I smiled against his mouth when he kissed me.

“Goodnight, Rafa.”

Then I put my hand in his, and we went to sleep.

THE END