Chapter Text
The stadium was still full, but the noise reached Lucas as though it had to pass through thick walls.
After Matheus Cunha scored the fourth goal, following Lucas’s loss of possession, he couldn’t think about anything else. In fact, after that fourth mistake, he stopped hearing any instructions. His teammates’ voices, the crowd’s chants, the referee’s whistle—everything. Every pass came a second too late. Every decision felt wrong before it even happened.
His only goal was to reach the tunnel, grab his things, and leave.
But before he could do anything, Vicario stepped in front of him.
The goalkeeper was breathing heavily. His grass-stained gloves were already off. His jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared. There was anger on his face, but it wasn’t explosive—it was worse.
It was controlled.
Lucas tried to walk around him. Vicario caught his face first. His fingers gripped Lucas’s jaw firmly enough to stop him from looking away. He tilted his chin upward, forcing him to hold his gaze as he kept talking.
“Keep your head up. Stop walking around like you’re dead.”
Silence.
“Do you want people to feel sorry for you?”
The answer never came.
Vicario leaned in closer.
“Act like a man.”
Then he let go—but not before giving him two quick pats on the cheek, as if he were some damn golden retriever.
Lucas’s hands fell heavily to his sides. He simply walked past him. Not because he didn’t want to answer.
But because his body had already learned there was no answer.
Behind them, dozens of cameras were still sweeping across the pitch.
As he walked, he compulsively pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek where Vicario’s fingers had been. It didn’t hurt. But his skin felt warm, as if everyone were still staring at that exact spot.
Some players passed him in silence.
Others discreetly looked away.
Bentancur appeared a few yards later. They exchanged a quick, automatic handshake. Before Lucas even realized it, the Uruguayan had already pulled him into a hug. Lucas lowered his head on instinct, finding shelter against his teammate’s chest.
It was a familiar gesture.
Brotherly.
Comforting.
Almost domestic.
And for the first time, it bothered him.
It wasn’t Bentancur.
It was how easily everyone seemed to reach the same conclusion:
Lucas needs to be taken care of.
Some scolded him.
Others comforted him.
But no one seemed to see him as an equal.
A few minutes later, the dressing room was strangely quiet. Only the showers running and the metallic clang of locker doors broke the silence. Lucas remained seated. His boots were still on. His hands were clasped together. His elbows rested on his knees.
He stared straight ahead, as though he might find an answer there.
“First they yell at me like I’m a child.”
“Then they cradle me like I’m five years old.”
“Has anyone here ever spoken to me like an adult?”
The thought startled him.
Because it was true.
Even so…
The most infuriating part was something else.
What weighed on him most was that he had disappointed Vicario. That hurt far more.
Ridiculous.
Vicario had conceded four goals.
At least one of them had clearly been the goalkeeper’s fault.
And yet it was Lucas who walked off the pitch with his face held between someone else’s hands like a teenager being scolded by his father.
When, exactly, had that become normal?
Why did he always find a justification?
“He’s Italian.”
“That’s just how he leads.”
“He just wants to win.”
“He’s older.”
Every excuse sounded perfectly reasonable…
Until it was placed beside the one question he’d never asked.
Why does he only do this to me?
(…)
Like a dictator, Vicario kept correcting Lucas throughout training.
He interrupted his answers.
Pointed out where he should be.
Told him to go back.
Told him to speed up.
Told him to think.
That last one irritated Bergvall more than he ever let show.
Sometimes, all it took was one misplaced pass for Lucas to hear his name echo across half the pitch.
He had never noticed how often it happened.
Now he couldn’t stop noticing.
It was Archie who finally broke the silence one day.
Training had already ended.
Lucas slammed his locker shut a little too hard.
The bang echoed through the dressing room.
Archie, sitting two benches away, looked up.
“You always let him.”
Lucas frowned.
“What?”
“You let him talk to you like that.”
Silence.
A strange silence.
Because, for the first time, Lucas realized he wasn’t the only one who saw it.
Archie shrugged.
As if he were stating the obvious.
“He’s an asshole, but he doesn’t talk to anyone else like that.”
Another pause.
“Ever notice that whenever he loses his temper… he always picks you?”
Archie even laughed a little.
But the words landed with uncomfortable precision.
Archie was practically the same age as Lucas.
If someone grabbed his face like that after a match, Archie would probably shove the hand away immediately.
He wouldn’t hesitate for a second before reacting, even if Lucas doubted it would lead to anything more than a brief argument.
But Lucas never did.
Lucas just stood there.
Every time.
That night, for the first time, no excuse came to mind.
Maybe Vicario didn’t do it because he was Italian.
Or because he was the leader.
Or because he was older.
Maybe…
He simply knew Lucas would never stand up to him.
And that thought unsettled him more than every scolding that had come before.
It wasn’t the strength of Vicario’s hands that still burned against his skin.
It was the realization that Lucas himself had taught everyone around him to treat him that way.
And that was a truth far harder to bear.
It was the first spark of something that, before long, would become an inferno.
(…)
The days went on.
And with them came the training sessions.
The matches.
The trips.
The quick meals at the training ground.
Everything stayed exactly the same.
Except Lucas.
Now he paid attention.
“Bergvall.”
He looked up.
Vicario was pointing a few yards to his left.
“Tuck in.”
Lucas shifted into position.
Training continued.
Five minutes later, Cristian Romero was standing exactly where Lucas had been before.
Vicario didn’t say a word.
Lucas frowned almost imperceptibly.
Maybe it had just been a coincidence.
Another training session.
A full-team scrimmage.
Lucas intercepted the ball, turned, and found Dejan Kulusevski free between the lines.
A good pass.
No one said anything.
On the very next play, he hesitated for one second too long.
“Bergvall!”
Vicario’s voice carried across half the pitch.
“Think!”
Lucas let out a quiet sigh.
Another week passed.
Then another.
The days began to blur together.
Lucas could no longer remember which training session each scolding had happened in.
He only knew they kept happening.
Small.
Constant.
“Faster.”
“Not there.”
“Open your body.”
“Bergvall.”
“Bergvall.”
“Listen!”
“Think!”
Always in that tone.
Never loud enough to become a scene.
Never quiet enough to sound like a suggestion.
He started noticing other things.
Vicario walked past James Maddison, and the two argued over a play. Maddison talked back. Seconds later, they were laughing.
Romero told Vicario to shut up. Vicario fired something back in Italian. They both smiled.
Rodrigo Bentancur disagreed with him. Vicario just shrugged.
With Lucas…
There was never an argument.
There was never room for one.
There was an instruction.
And Lucas obeyed.
That was what began to frighten him.
Not Vicario’s behavior.
His own.
He obeyed before he even had time to think.
One particularly cold morning, training was paused for a water break. The players gathered around the coolers.
Lucas was finishing filling his bottle when he felt a hand rest on the back of his neck.
He didn’t even need to look.
His body straightened on its own.
Only then did he realize.
He stopped halfway through the movement.
Slowly, he turned around.
Vicario’s hand was still there.
He frowned, perhaps at the startled expression spreading across Lucas’s face.
“What’s wrong?” Vicario asked.
Lucas took a step back.
The hand slipped from his neck.
“Nothing.”
Vicario held his gaze for a moment.
“I need you to tell Arch—”
Lucas wasn’t listening anymore.
He was already walking away.
My body moved before I did.
He hadn’t even thought.
He had simply reacted.
Like a reflex.
Like a dog trained to obey its owner’s command.
Like a soldier.
The comparison came so quickly it made him feel sick.
The following week, it happened again.
Not the hand.
The voice.
“Lucas.”
He turned around instantly.
Ridiculously fast.
Vicario wasn’t even talking to him.
He was calling Lucas, the towel boy.
A few of the players laughed.
Lucas laughed too.
But his heart took much longer to slow down.
Jesus… was he really just a doormat?
(…)
The final training session before the last match arrived.
The atmosphere was different.
The season was finally coming to an end.
Bittersweet for many.
In some ways, it had been terrible. In others, it had gone well. Sometimes the good was stained by the bad.
But in the end, everything was alright.
The coaching staff seemed lighter.
Some players were already talking about vacations.
Others were talking about the beach.
Family.
The scrimmage began.
Everything was normal.
Until it wasn’t.
Lucas received the ball with his back to goal.
Shielded it.
Turned.
Lost it.
“BERGVALL!”
Vicario’s voice came before the player who had won the ball could even finish the move.
Lucas recovered his position.
He didn’t look at him.
Training resumed.
A few minutes later.
Another pass.
“Faster.”
Then—
“Are you asleep?”
Then—
“How many times do I have to repeat myself?”
Lucas took a deep breath.
He didn’t look.
He kept going.
Another play.
He received the ball.
Chose the safe pass.
Vicario threw his arms out.
“Not that one!”
Something gave way.
It wasn’t anger.
It was exhaustion.
Lucas let out a short laugh.
Almost without realizing it.
Vicario stopped.
“What are you laughing at?”
Silence.
Everyone else was still running.
But a few heads were beginning to turn.
Lucas rubbed a hand over his face.
Took a breath.
For the first time in weeks, he looked directly at Vicario.
“Is this your team?”
Vicario frowned.
“What?”
“You act like it is.”
The training ground seemed to slow down.
“Like everyone here has to play exactly the way you want.”
That wasn’t even what he meant.
It was more like:
Like I have to play exactly the way you want.
Vicario took a step forward.
“What are you talking about?”
Lucas simply turned his back.
He’d been better off avoiding him lately.
The coach’s whistle pierced the air.
“ENOUGH!”
Silence fell over the pitch.
Lucas lowered his head for a moment.
Just long enough to catch his breath.
Then he took off his training bib.
Folded it once.
Handed it to one of the assistants.
And walked away.
Behind him, he heard the coach calling his name.
Then he heard Vicario’s voice.
He couldn’t make out the words.
He didn’t want to.
For the first time since arriving at Tottenham Hotspur F.C….
He kept walking.
Without looking back.
The final match arrived before Lucas even realized it.
The entire season seemed to fit inside those ninety minutes.
When the referee blew the final whistle, there was relief.
His teammates walked toward the stands.
They applauded the supporters.
Children stretched shirts over the barriers.
Camera flashes went off from every direction.
Reporters waited along the touchline.
Lucas did everything he always did.
He smiled for photographs.
Signed a few shirts.
Stopped for a few minutes in front of a camera.
Answered questions he barely heard.
“It was a season of learning.”
“Now it’s time to rest and come back stronger.”
The words came out automatically.
As if someone had memorized them for him.
In the distance, he saw Vicario surrounded by journalists.
He gestured the way he always did.
Speaking quickly.
Loudly.
He looked exactly the same.
Lucas looked away before Vicario could notice him.
Back in the dressing room, the atmosphere was completely different from usual.
There was no rush to get changed.
Some lockers remained open.
Music played softly somewhere in the background.
Romero was arguing with someone over a holiday destination.
Maddison was laughing at a story.
Bentancur was saying goodbye to each staff member one by one.
The physiotherapists shook hands.
The fitness coaches wished everyone a good summer.
It felt strange.
After spending months seeing the same people every single day…
They would all simply disappear for a few weeks.
Lucas packed his boots into his backpack.
Then zipped it shut.
On his way out, there was only one name he couldn’t get out of his head.
And it irritated him deeply.
He’d played well today.
Did Vicario think Lucas had played well too?
Bergvall didn’t think he’d made that many serious mistakes. He…
Hell.
He shouldn’t even be thinking about that.
Guglielmo Vicario wasn’t his boss.
Or his coach.
In the parking lot, as he was walking toward his car…
“Bergvall.”
He froze for a second.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, Lucas lengthened his stride.
He walked faster.
“Bergvall.”
The voice was closer now.
Even so, he ignored it.
He kept walking until he reached the driver’s door.
He fumbled through his pocket looking for…
Right.
His keys.
As he reached out, searching—
Right there—
He heard footsteps behind him.
“Wait.”
Vicario was calling louder now, his footsteps drawing closer.
“Hey. Can’t you hear me?”
“I don’t have anything to say to you,” Lucas said coldly, still refusing to look at him as he sensed Vicario closing the distance behind him.
“Damn it.”
Vicario’s deep, rough voice sent a shiver down his spine.
Christ.
What the hell is this?
Lucas wasn’t fifteen years old.
Why couldn’t he just act normal around this guy?
He was only nine years older than him. It wasn’t some absurd age gap.
Maybe it was everything else.
The exhaustion.
The rest he desperately needed.
The family he missed.
The entire disappointing season weighing on his mind.
Everything tangled together.
“I have to go, I have to—”
Lucas was cut off.
Vicario grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and pulled, forcing him to turn around.
Lucas’s body locked halfway through the movement.
“What the fuck is going on with you?” Vicario asked, frustration clear in his voice.
The two of them stood in silence for a few seconds.
The parking lot was nearly empty.
A few staff members crossed the distance pushing equipment carts before disappearing from view.
The wind stirred the trees around the training ground.
There were no supporters.
No coaches.
No teammates.
For the first time in a long while, there was no one standing between them.
Vicario let go of his arm.
“Are you pissed off?”
Lucas kept his eyes lowered.
“I’m fine.”
“No. You’re not.”
Silence.
Lucas let out a short, humorless laugh.
Vicario took a small step closer.
His presence felt heavier now.
“What are you laughing at?”
Lucas didn’t answer.
Because answering would mean admitting too much.
But then he inhaled slowly through his nose.
And, despite deciding only seconds ago to keep quiet, he spoke.
“I’m not fine because…”
“…because I’m not obeying you anymore?”
At last, Lucas turned his head just enough to look at him from the corner of his eye.
Shit.
Obeying.
The word sounded wrong the moment it left his mouth.
I need to shut up.
Vicario exhaled through his nose with open disdain.
“You’ve never obeyed me.”
He held Lucas’s gaze.
His jaw was tight.
His brow slightly furrowed.
“You know that’s not true,” Lucas replied.
For the first time, his voice carried nothing but sadness.
He wasn’t forcing a toughness he knew he didn’t possess.
Silence.
The air shifted.
Not because either of them exploded.
But because of the weight settling between them.
Because this wasn’t denial.
It was memory.
Lucas swallowed hard, his gaze drifting somewhere between Vicario and the horizon.
“I tried.”
“At first… I just did what you told me.”
“Simple. Straightforward.”
“Positioning. Cover. Move the ball quicker. Close the middle…”
He rubbed the back of his neck, restless.
“I kept trying to get every little thing right.”
“Every detail.”
“Everything you shouted during training.”
A faint, humorless laugh escaped him.
“I remember lying awake afterward, thinking…”
“If I do exactly that, it’ll work. It’ll stop going wrong.”
He swallowed.
“And when it didn’t…”
A pause.
“I just tried again the next day.”
His eyes lifted slightly, though he still didn’t fully meet Vicario’s.
“I was trying to keep up with you.”
Silence.
“To keep up with you in everything.”
Now his voice was barely above a whisper.
“And even when I got things wrong…”
“I never stopped trying to do it the way you wanted.”
A tired half-smile flickered across his face.
“So why tell me I never obeyed you?”
“Because that isn’t true.”
Not completely.
Vicario didn’t answer immediately.
He didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t argue back, the way he usually did.
He simply watched.
His eyes rested on Lucas differently now—not just hard, but intensely attentive. As though he were reorganizing everything he’d just heard.
His posture barely changed, yet his composure seemed even greater.
His chin lifted ever so slightly.
His body remained steady, balanced over itself, as if nothing in that moment could easily unsettle him.
He didn’t look surprised.
He didn’t look shaken.
Only…
Analytical.
As if Lucas had just confirmed something he’d long suspected.
For a brief second, his gaze dropped—to the way Lucas avoided looking him in the eye, to his restless hand, to the way he still seemed trapped inside his own body.
Then it returned to his face.
Steady again.
Far too calm.
Vicario tilted his head almost imperceptibly.
When he finally spoke, his voice neither rose nor fell.
If anything, it became steadier still.
“So you think that was enough.”
It wasn’t really a question.
It was an observation.
He held Lucas’s gaze for another moment, as though weighing the true meaning of what he’d just admitted.
Then he continued, more quietly.
“You tried to follow.”
A pause.
“But you didn’t stick with it.”
Another silence.
He didn’t step forward.
He didn’t step back.
He remained exactly where he was.
And somehow, that made everything harder.
“Because every damn time I tell you to do something, you don’t do it properly,” Vicario continued.
“Positioning. Timing your passes. Simple. Basic.”
He took a short step forward.
“And when you can’t do it…”
“…you break the game.”
Silence.
Vicario never looked away.
“And when that happens…”
“…someone has to correct you.”
Correct.
Jesus.
Lucas felt a chill run through him.
Another silence.
Heavier this time.
“I’m here to make you function.”
“And when you don’t…”
“…I correct you.”
“But if you can’t do what I tell you…”
A brief pause.
“Well.”
“I’d say you’re not obeying, Bergvall.”
“Do you understand?”
Lucas said nothing.
For far too long.
There was no prepared answer.
No defense.
Only the distant sound of the wind moving through the parking lot.
He felt it before he could think.
The same place he’d been weeks earlier.
The urge to let Vicario say whatever he wanted…
…and then simply leave.
It was this overwhelming way Vicario occupied the space.
This quiet dominance.
Lucas didn’t know how to fight against it.
And, for some reason, none of the excuses he used to make for him appeared now.
Not He’s just like that.
Not He’s angry.
Not It’s not personal.
Nothing.
Only emptiness.
Lucas let out a slow breath through his nose.
Almost in resignation.
Vicario believed he had the right.
And Lucas couldn’t bring himself to say he didn’t.
He didn’t get to correct him.
“…Okay,” he said quietly.
Simple.
Without conviction.
Without argument.
As if it were obvious.
As if it had always been that way.
As if he had never really been good at anything.
The silence that followed wasn’t relief.
It was only a pause.
Vicario didn’t answer immediately.
Then he moved.
One step forward.
Then another.
Lucas realized it too late.
He didn’t step back.
He simply stood there.
Then he felt Vicario’s hand return to his face.
It wasn’t a quick gesture.
Nor an aggressive one.
It was deliberate.
Firm enough to stop any attempt to pull away, any instinct to avert his gaze.
His fingers settled along Lucas’s jaw with complete control, forcing him to lift his head slowly, just as he had after that match weeks before.
A silent command.
Lucas didn’t resist.
For a moment, his eyes remained fixed somewhere ahead, unfocused, as though his body had arrived before his mind.
Then his blue eyes found Vicario’s brown ones.
Vicario held the gaze.
Unhurried.
Simply looking at him.
Lucas swallowed hard.
“I think I should leave,” he said.
Because his head was spinning, and he was one step away from doing something stupid.
Something impulsive.
Something irreversible.
Like finally admitting out loud what he’d spent months trying not to think.
That maybe he just wasn’t good enough.
Not for this.
Not for the team.
Not for the Premier League.
Not for anything beyond chasing a football and failing at the smallest detail.
The thought crept in like a familiar poison.
Maybe all those ridiculous headlines…
The entertainment interviews saying he’d make a better model or actor…
The late-night pundits emphasizing how poor he’d been…
Maybe, in some twisted way, they’d been right.
Maybe he should stop insisting.
Maybe he should become something else.
Anything else.
Something off the pitch.
Away from the cameras.
He didn’t know how to do anything except play football.
And, worse…
He wasn’t even sure he knew how to do that anymore.
Which was exactly why talking to Vicario about it felt absurd.
Ridiculous, even.
As if he were the worst possible person to hear those words.
Because Vicario never softened anything.
He never had.
And he’d probably agree.
“I have to go.”
He repeated it.
His voice came out quieter than he’d intended.
Weaker, too.
Vicario didn’t answer right away.
He simply watched him.
And when he finally spoke, there was no surprise in his voice.
Only certainty.
“You’re running away.”
Lucas let out a slow breath through his nose.
“I’m being realistic. I have to go—”
Vicario took another step forward.
As if the ground—
The air—
Lucas himself—
Belonged to him.
“No.”
A pause.
“You’re running away.”
At last, Lucas looked at him with real force.
“And what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong if I’m terrible at football? If I have to leave Tottenham Hotspur F.C., then I’ll leave, and it’s none of your business. If I go, you’ll never have to deal with this again. You won’t have to teach me, correct me, or whatever the hell you think you’re doing.”
The words came out too quickly, almost stumbling over each other.
Vicario held his gaze.
Without blinking.
Without looking away.
“The difference is…”
“…you did it before anyone else ever could.”
Silence.
Lucas swallowed.
“Did what?”
His hand was still in his pocket, gripping his keys without realizing it.
Vicario’s voice dropped even lower.
“You make yourself smaller.”
“You make one mistake, and your face…”
“My God…”
“As if you hadn’t held off players twice your size in other matches.”
“As if you hadn’t covered for teammates.”
“Won the ball back.”
“Played passes no one else even saw.”
A pause.
“You choose to forget all of that.”
Lucas looked away again.
Because looking straight ahead suddenly felt too heavy.
And because it wasn’t fair.
He was angry with Vicario.
I choose to forget?
Right.
“You never sa—”
he tried to say.
Vicario cut him off.
“What?”
“You wanted me to flatter you?” Guglielmo said.
“Keep waiting, Bergvall.”
Then he smiled.
It was the same grin he wore whenever he beat James Maddison at table tennis—
Like he’d just conquered the world.
Lucas looked at him.
Damn it.
He could hear his own pulse.
Deafening.
Echoing inside his skull.
His mouth had gone dry.
His throat tightened until breathing itself became difficult.
He took a blind step backward.
Jesus.
All of this…
Just because his teammate had, more or less, admitted that he didn’t do everything wrong?
What am I?
A princess?
Vicario took another step toward him.
Lucas’s back hit the car.
He flinched.
“Are you done with this nonsense?”
Persistent.
His voice was low.
Controlled.
There was something about it that nearly made Lucas’s legs give out.
It was so focused.
So close.
Too intimate.
With Vicario standing this near, Lucas became aware that his voice had dropped even lower.
Rough.
Directed almost exclusively into his ear.
God.
He had to answer.
He had to say something.
But his mind went completely blank.
He simply stood there, pressed against the car, breathing unevenly, trying to remember how to put together a sentence that sounded anything like I’m not made of jelly.
Because all he could think was—
Jesus.
Jesus.
I am…
Lucas’s back was still against the cold metal of the car.
He didn’t move.
Not because he didn’t want to.
Because he couldn’t decide how.
Vicario stayed close.
Far too close.
The silence between them wasn’t empty.
It was heavy.
“Knock it off,” Vicario said again, quieter this time.
It wasn’t a request.
Lucas tried.
The air went into his lungs wrong.
It came out even worse.
“I…”
The word escaped too quickly.
Vicario tilted his head slightly, looking him up and down as though something about him wasn’t quite right.
“What?”
Silence.
Lucas swallowed.
“This is ridiculous.”
“What is?”
“This.”
Lucas made a small, weak gesture with one hand.
“This… you coming after me in the parking lot like I’m…”
He stopped.
Because he didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
Because every ending sounded wrong.
Vicario didn’t move back.
Not even an inch.
“Like you’re what?”
Lucas took a step to the side because, God, his personal space was disappearing.
He needed air.
But Vicario mirrored the movement.
He was standing in front of him again.
“Speak.”
His voice was flat.
Lucas let out a short, humorless laugh.
“You don’t talk to anyone else like this.”
“Maybe because no one else needs to hear it.”
That landed hard.
Not because it was loud.
Not because it was cruel.
Because it was too precise.
Lucas looked away for a second.
Mistake.
Because when he looked back, Vicario was still there.
Motionless.
Steady.
As if he had no intention of leaving until this was settled—
His way.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Vicario said.
Then continued.
“As if I’d done something to you.”
Lucas pressed his fingers against the side of the car.
“You did.”
Vicario didn’t react immediately.
“What did I do?”
Lucas opened his mouth.
Closed it again.
Because he wasn’t sure he wanted to say it.
Because saying it would mean admitting it.
And admitting it would mean it was real.
He took a deep breath.
“You treat me like I’m…”
He stopped again.
Searching for the word.
None came.
Vicario took half a step closer.
“Like you’re what, Bergvall?”
“Come on. Say it.”
Lucas looked up too quickly.
“Stop saying my name like that.”
Vicario blinked slowly.
“Like what?”
Lucas hesitated.
The silence returned.
Tighter this time.
Vicario’s voice dropped even lower.
“You don’t like it when I correct you.”
It wasn’t a question.
Lucas swallowed.
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
Lucas breathed slowly through his nose.
Unevenly.
“You don’t let me make mistakes.”
Vicario held his gaze.
Steady.
Unwavering.
As if he’d been waiting for that sentence for a long time.
“No one does.”
“But with you it’s different.”
Silence.
The wind swept through the parking lot, colder now, lifting the hem of Lucas’s jacket.
Vicario looked at him intently.
Not angrily.
But his jaw tightened.
Then he spoke.
“No.”
Lucas frowned.
“No what?”
“It’s not different with me.”
A heavy pause.
Lucas opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Because he didn’t want to argue about this.
Because arguing would make it too real.
Vicario continued, more quietly.
“You think I stay on top of you because you’re you.”
He shifted half a step to the side, breaking the straight line between them, as though thinking while he spoke.
“But I do this with anyone when I think it’s necessary.”
Silence.
Lucas swallowed.
His mind tried to hold on to two different versions of Vicario at once.
The one he’d always believed in…
And the newer one.
The more persistent one.
Archie.
That comment.
That look.
“Then why does it feel different?” Lucas asked, softer than he’d intended.
Vicario looked at him immediately.
Directly.
Without hesitation.
“Because you…”
“Damn it, it doesn’t.”
“It’s just…”
“People take it differently. That’s all.”
Silence.
The wind passed between them again.
This time it seemed to linger.
Lucas didn’t answer.
Because some part of him didn’t want to know whether that was true.
“Can we stop pretending this is a therapy session?” Vicario said, as though he weren’t the one who had pushed this conversation forward from the beginning.
Lucas rubbed a hand over his face, as though that might somehow organize the mess inside his head.
He let out a short breath.
“Why don’t you stop?”
“Stop what?”
Lucas looked up again.
This time he didn’t look away so quickly.
“Getting on my case.”
Silence.
Vicario blinked slowly.
“Getting on your case?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” Vicario answered flatly.
“I don’t.”
That irritated Lucas.
It showed in the tension of his jaw.
“You know exactly what you do.”
Vicario tilted his head slightly.
“Then explain it.”
“How exactly do I ‘get on your case’?”
“You correct me like I’m the only problem on the pitch.”
“That’s not getting on your case.”
“I’m trying to help you—”
“I don’t feel helped.”
It wasn’t entirely true.
Sometimes he did.
But most days all he felt was the crushing pressure of disappointing him.
Lucas tightened his grip on the keys in his pocket without realizing he was still holding them like an escape route.
“You don’t realize,” Vicario continued, more quietly, “that I don’t single you out.”
“I’d do this with anyone I thought needed it.”
Lucas frowned.
“What?”
“I correct you because you need it.”
“And because you let me.”
That sentence lingered longer than all the others.
Lucas swallowed.
“I don’t let you.”
Vicario took one small step closer, slipping further into Lucas’s field of vision, close enough to dominate the space between them.
“You do.”
Lucas looked away.
Just for a second.
When he looked back, his voice was barely audible.
“You think I’m weak.”
Vicario answered immediately.
“I think you behave like someone who doesn’t know what to do when he’s confronted.”
That silenced him more completely than anything else.
Lucas took a slow breath.
His jaw locked.
He ran his tongue over his dry lips.
“Maybe you just enjoy doing this to me,” he said quietly.
Provocatively.
Something changed in Vicario’s expression.
Not immediately.
First came silence.
Then his stare sharpened.
Hardened.
“What?”
Lucas frowned.
“What?”
“What did you just say?”
Lucas hesitated.
But he didn’t back down.
“I said maybe you just enjoy—”
“No.”
Vicario cut him off.
Louder this time.
Not quite shouting.
“Don’t put it like that.”
The air between them shifted again.
Lucas felt it before he understood it.
Vicario stepped even closer.
“You don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Lucas clenched his jaw.
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
His voice rose another notch.
Still controlled.
But too firm to be mistaken for ordinary conversation.
“You think this is personal?”
Silence.
Lucas didn’t answer.
Vicario continued, speaking faster now, as though something inside him had finally cracked.
“You think I keep after you, correct you, drag you back because I enjoy seeing you like this?”
He gave a short laugh.
There was no humor in it.
“You think I choose someone for this?”
Lucas swallowed hard.
Vicario didn’t look away.
“You let me,” he said.
Then continued.
“You always let me.”
Lucas opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Embarrassment washed over him.
So everyone really can see it.
They all know how weak I am when it comes to him.
Vicario knows it too.
That’s why he keeps pushing.
Vicario ran a hand over his own face, impatience beginning to show now, as though he were forcing himself to stay under control.
“You can call it whatever you want,” he said, his voice lowering again.
“But don’t make up a story that isn’t there.”
Silence.
Lucas stayed where he was.
His back against the car.
His breathing slower now.
Not because he was calm.
Because he was trying to process everything.
And it felt like he’d genuinely made Vicario angry this time.
Just that strange feeling that something between them had been exposed too completely to ever go back to normal.
Vicario remained still for several seconds.
His eyes stayed fixed on Lucas.
Hard.
Closed off.
Lucas felt the weight of that stare through his entire body.
His shoulders curled inward without him noticing.
Because, for one painfully real second, his mind insisted:
This is going to end badly.
But Vicario didn’t do anything.
He simply took one step back.
Then another.
As though he were leaving.
The sound of his footsteps echoed through the empty parking lot.
Lucas didn’t move.
Until Vicario stopped.
He breathed in slowly through his nose.
Then turned back.
Closer again.
He didn’t invade Lucas’s space.
But he occupied it once more.
His gaze was unwavering.
“And if you still think any of this is personal…”
Vicario’s voice was low.
“Damn it.”
“Try looking at your own face every time I give you an order.”
“You love it.”
Lucas swallowed hard.
Vicario continued, his voice controlled but heavy.
“If I really wanted to just let you keep making mistakes, I wouldn’t—”
He stopped.
“I think this…”
“This is what you want.”
“The way you’ve been acting these past few days.”
“You want me to push you harder.”
“You want me to come after you and—”
Another silence.
He took one short step forward.
“Every time you lose a simple position…”
“…and I tell you to stop acting like a pussy…”
“…you make that face you’re making right now.”
Lucas blinked hard several times.
“Every time you drift out of the match…”
“…someone has to pull you back.”
“I yell at you…”
“…and you look at me with those eyes…”
Lucas parted his lips.
Those eyes?
Nothing came out.
Vicario never looked away.
“And then…”
“…you do it again.”
“You make the same mistake another day.”
“Well…”
A pause.
“Maybe you’re the one who likes it after all.”
The words landed like a solid punch to the stomach.
Suddenly, it felt as though the entire universe had fallen completely silent around Lucas.
His mouth had gone dry.
He stood perfectly still.
Speechless.
When he finally remembered how to speak, the only words he could find were—
“I…”
He stopped.
Took a breath.
“I’m sorry…”
“I have to go…”
Quiet.
Quick.
Automatic.
Vicario said nothing for several seconds.
His expression didn’t change.
But the air between them did.
Heavier.
As though something was still waiting to happen.
More restrained now, Vicario took another step toward him.
Lucas’s back was already pressed against the car.
There was nowhere left to go.
He was trapped.
“Tell me the truth.”
His voice was rough.
Insistent.
It scraped against the silence, harsh enough that something inside Lucas almost gave way.
His legs threatened to shake more than he could accept.
If there even was an acceptable amount.
Vicario was so close.
And Lucas’s mind was completely blank.
Jesus.
Not for the first time that night, only one thought remained:
What is happening to me?
Lucas doesn’t answer.
The silence stretches on for far too long.
Vicario has lost his mind.
He’s completely lost it for saying something like that.
And he keeps looking at Lucas as though the answer is right there, plain to see, only waiting to be spoken aloud.
“Come on…” Lucas says, trying to inject some humor into it.
Because Vicario has to be joking.
He has to be.
Vicario furrows his brow.
Completely serious.
“Oh my God. It’s true, isn’t it?”
He steps closer.
His lips press together.
His eyes blink slowly—only for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough.
Then he smiles.
Not because he’s joking.
Apparently not.
It’s something else.
Something Lucas can’t decipher.
“So every time I was putting pressure on you…you were…My God, Bergvall. You poor baby.”
“Nonsense.” Lucas tries to defend himself.
“All those pathetic puppy-dog faces… And every time you went down like a rag doll during a conditioning drill, then got back up looking at me…”
“Always looking at me first.”
Vicario lists each example, his voice low.
Another step closer.
This time, Lucas feels numb.
“So you’ve been waiting for me to correct you like some damn—”
“Is that what you wanted?”
Vicario demands.
And then, suddenly, he closes the remaining distance between them.
He grabs two fistfuls of the front of Lucas’s jacket and yanks him forward.
And then Vicario sticks his lips to Lucas’s, hard. Kiss him harshly. His strong hands on the back of his head, pulling his blond hair with his fingers. Lucas is completely scared, and with the twist that he doesn’t even have time to notice, he feels that he is nervous in his stomach, throat and if my brain is blank, because Jesus, the lascivious tongue of Guglielmo Vicario, his teammate, his executioner, is sliding on Lucas’ closed lips, perverse. He kisses recklessly, hot lips, and Lucas opens his mouth to let him in, without thinking, God, kissing back as if his brain had failed.
Any attempt Lucas was going to make to stop disappeared completely because he melts against the vicar, every inch of his body bending to meet every inch of vicar until they are pressed together from chest to toe, the vicar pushing Lucas back against the car, Lucas surrendering.
Only when his own hands come up, bunching into two fistfuls of Vicario’s clothes, does Lucas realize what he’s doing.
Not while it’s happening.
After.
Far too late.
A freezing gust of wind cuts through the parking lot, striking his face.
He’s kissing a teammate.
He’s kissing a man.
The thought detonates inside his head.
My God.
Lucas jerks away as though he’s just woken from a dream. His hands shove Vicario back with every bit of strength he can muster.
The force catches the Italian completely off guard.
Vicario stumbles back two, three steps, losing his balance before finally managing to steady himself.
They both freeze.
Breathing hard.
Lucas can hear nothing except the pounding of his own blood in his ears.
His cheeks burn.
His lips feel tender.
Swollen.
He knows it without even touching them.
I look like an idiot.
My God.
What have I done?
Vicario slowly raises his eyes until they meet Lucas’s.
Neither of them speaks.
The silence seems to compress the air between them.
Lucas tries to breathe.
He can’t.
Then another image crashes into his mind.
His girlfriend.
Her smile.
Her messages.
The plans they’d made.
All at once.
His stomach twists.
What is wrong with me?
I don’t even…
I’m not like this.
The sentence forms completely.
And for the first time in his life, Lucas isn’t sure he believes it.
His fingers tremble.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, as though he could erase what just happened.
It changes absolutely nothing.
“I…”
His voice cracks.
He swallows hard.
“I have to go.”
Barely above a whisper.
He’s already taking half a step backward when he hears it.
“Bergvall.”
Vicario’s voice has returned to its usual firm tone.
“Get in my car.”
An order.
Jesus Christ.
Why?
Why is he doing this?
Does he know what just happened?
What just happened?
Lucas can’t even give it a name.
He only knows that something happened.
Something that shouldn’t have happened.
“Bergvall.”
Vicario doesn’t raise his voice.
He simply repeats himself.
“Get in my car.”
Lucas’s legs want to leave.
They want to run.
Get into his own car.
Drive without a destination.
Never come back.
But they refuse to obey.
Jesus.
Vicario is already walking toward his own car.
Without looking back.
“I’ll be waiting.”
Lucas remains alone in the parking lot.
The wind sweeps past him once more.
He stays rooted where he is.
Unable to decide which direction leads out.
In that moment, an absurd certainty—almost an offensive one—settles inside him.
This man is going to consume me.
The thought frightens him as much as the kiss itself.
He shakes his head.
No.
I’m just going to tell him it was a mistake.
That he’s lost his mind.
That this will never happen again.
That’s all.
Just that.
And yet…
He finds himself walking.
Each step seems to happen before he chooses to take it.
By the time he realizes it, he’s already standing beside the driver’s window.
He leans down slightly.
Looks at Vicario.
He opens his mouth to tell him he’s completely lost his mind.
His heart is hammering hard against his ribcage, and he has to remind himself to breathe properly—slow, steady, controlled.
But before he can say a single word, he hears it.
“Good boy, Bergvall.”
Lucas freezes.
It feels, for a second, like even his heartbeat stops.
There’s nothing except the strange ringing in his ears.
A strange flicker of something in his chest.
God.
He’s lost.
Just two words are enough to trigger something unfamiliar inside him.
Heat and uncertainty, all at once.
His mind goes hazy.
Warmth spreads through his chest in a way that makes no sense.
Fuck.
He feels like he needs to obey.