Chapter One, Told from Owen's POV

No one knows. No one even really suspects. He loves his wife; everyone knows that. Their relationship is public, official. They're a celebrity couple. Him and me, we're just part of the team, and no one would dare suggest it was anything more. We'd probably sue...

Are we living a lie? He does love his wife, he loves his son, that's the truth. It's complicated, and it's painful, and it's unfair, but it's the truth. He loves his wife.

And him and me... is it love? Sometimes it feels like it. When he finds me with a perfect cross, knowing exactly where I'll be as though he's reading my mind, and I just have to touch the ball it to make it fly effortlessly into the back of the net, and I run across the pitch, arms spread wide, and it feels like I'm flying, and he flings his arms around me, and the crowd goes wild... then it feels like love.

And afterwards it feels like love, for a while. If we've won, I'm so high with success that I could just kiss him there and then... but that's when the television cameras are on us, and the journalists ask question after question. We keep our distance.

'I've got my team-mates to thank,' he'll say, still out of breath from the last few moments of frantic play. 'And of course my beautiful wife...'

And then, just for a moment, it feels like hate.

But mostly what it feels like is sheer physical lust. Later, in the changing rooms, he strips off his kit and it's all I can do not to stare. I can't get over him: the smell of him, the power of his muscles, his dimples and the twinkle in his eyes when he smiles. The other's talk and laugh loudly, raucously, but he just smiles quietly, barely speaking a word. The press take the mick out of the way he speaks sometimes, claiming that he's inarticulate, badly educated, or just plain thick. But he's not. He's just shy. You'd never think it of him, really. On the pitch, he's so confident. And off the pitch, he has... style. The sarong, the diamond earring, even the way he does his hair, they're all signs of confidence in a way. He dares to be different.

But the way I see it is that all his style and all his daring, on and off the pitch, are just his way of compensating for the fact that he never truly believes he can really hack it. I think he hopes that if an outrageous hairstyle hits the headlines, or a heroic free kick, then people won't dig deeper, won't uncover his real weaknesses, professional or personal. If he tries to be different, then maybe no-one will realise that he could never conform. And if he lets the mask slip by stuttering over his speech sometimes, in the euphoria or despair of an after-match interview, it doesn't make him inarticulate, or stupid. It just shows he's human.

Professional weaknesses? In a way, those are just in his mind. You can't score every from every free kick. You can't make that perfect cross from every corner you take. Sometimes, you just fuck up. It happens to the best of us, Ronaldo, even Pele must have made his share of mistakes. But he cuts himself to pieces about it, every time. It's not that he hates losing, although, of course, he does. It's just that, cliched as it sounds, he hates not doing his best. He'd never claim to be perfect. But he hates it when he can't meet his own expectations. Sometimes, I'm scared he's set them too high, that he's set himself up for a fall, that there's no way he can achieve the goals he's set (no pun intended!). 'We'll defeat Germany,' he said, quietly, just once, before that unexpectedly wonderful incredible game when it seemed that none of us could put a foot wrong and we beat them five goals to one. 'We'll defeat them,' he said calmly, before hand, but none of us really believed him and I was terrified that he'd set himself up for a painful disappointment. But I was wrong. He knew what we could do. He knew what he could do.

And he did it.

In a way, that only makes his disappointment a great deal more bitter when he can't pull off what he's set out to do. But to call it professional weakness? Only he would do that. Everyone has to lose sometimes. But it knocks him hard, because despite everything, he has so little confidence in himself.

I remember the time that we were both nominated for a sports personality of the year award. There were six nominees and three prizes and it was... in some ways it was more nerve wracking that a match, because it was out of my control. They called my name in third place, and he grinned at me across the studio, already trying to keep the disappointment from his face, still sure, despite everything, that third place was the best he could have managed. But I knew he had no need for disappointment. I was sure that tonight would be a night for him, too, and I smiled warmly at him. When the yachtswoman was called in second place, he smiled at her too, but looked quickly away, refusing to meet even my eyes. The presenter must have noticed too, b ecause he suddenly glanced over at me, and I caught a glimmer of something in his eyes. And so I knew that he'd done it even before his name was called. Sports personality of the year. Better than that perfect corner. Better than scoring a hat trick. Better, even, maybe, than beating Germany five goals to one. That night, he'd won something more important than a match, in many ways, and certainly more important than a BBC award.

He'd won back the confidence of his public.

It was such a stupid thing to do, losing his temper in that one crucial match, all those years ago. And he knows it, of course. He still feels that he and he alone let the team down that day. Of course, on one level it's true. Down to ten men, what hope did we have against Argentina? But then again, on another level, the team should be greater than any one player. In the end it was on penalties that we let ourselves down. If he'd been there to take his penalty, would he have scored it? And even if he had, would it have made a difference? The team knew that. Of course, we were angry, and we were disappointed, and we couldn't keep that from him. He'd have known, if he'd been less disappointed in himself, that most of our anger and frustration were turned inward on ourselves, each of use wondering what more we could have done to prevented the inevitable. Of course, the coach yelled at him. Had to, it's his job. Deep down, most of us felt sorry for him. What he did was clearly wrong, but he'd been provoked, and he was young, and he'd lost his temper.

The fans were less forgiving. He had to work so hard from then onward to make up for his one big mistake. And it was so good for him to get some acknowledgement of that. His supporters had finally forgiven him.

I was so proud of him that night. I was proud to come third to him. It was what he deserved. I was so glad I could stand there with him, as his eyes shone and his face creased and dimpled with smiling, as he gave his acceptance speech. He thanked his team first, and I knew that he meant me. He meant all of the others as well, he'd never have singled me out, he's much to fair a captain for that. But I was the one standing beside him.

He thanked his wife second.

And even though I still felt glad for him, the laughter stuck in my throat and my applause became wooden. He didn't dare even throw me an affectionate glance, not with the cameras on us.

You see, his personal weaknesses, now those would be more easy for the press to pick up on.

I suppose, in a very real way, his biggest personal weakness is me. If the press ever found out, if they ever truly believed it - that is, if they didn't just assume it was some team-mate with a grudge taking them all for gullible fools; if they actually had enough evidence that they could print it without being sued for libel - if the press ever got their grubby little hands on our relationship (metaphorically speaking), they'd have a field day. And we'd probably lose our careers. Both of us. He'd lose his wife and his son too. The wife that he loves with all his heart, despite everything, the baby that he adores, that he'd move worlds to protect, he knows that there'd be almost no way they could stay with him if the story broke. If that ever happened, I know I wouldn't be enough for him. He'd have lost all that he holds dear to him in the world. It'd kill him.

She does know, though. In the end, he couldn't not tell her. Because he loves her. I wanted to ask him not to, I wanted to protect him from the look in her eyes which I knew would cut straight through his heart. I didn't want to do that to either of them. He said that it would be better for all of us than her finding out someday in the tabloid press that it had been going on behind her back for years. Better than either of us being blackmailed by some rabid fan of his or hers... 'a million by the end of the week, or I send her the photographs.' It doesn't bare thinking about. And living in the public eye like we do, it was bound to come to that eventually. Better to hurt her now. I think it was a relief to her to hear it from him. I think in her heart, she already knew.

I can't look her in the face anymore. I don't know how he still does. Maybe it's because it's not as simple for him as it is for me. He loves her. And she loves him. And she does her best by him. It would be so easy for her to blame me. But she doesn't, not really. Of course, she hates it, she hates how we feel, and what we do, but in a way, she always knew that she could never have all of his heart. There was always a part of him that was reserved for the game, for the team, and ultimately for me. Of course there's a difference between not having his whole heart, and sharing it with another. And there's a big difference between sharing his heart and sharing his body. But she'd always realised that he'd need more than her to be happy, and maybe it wasn't such a big step from there to... if not accepting, then at least understanding. And she knows that he loves her, and that he'd no more give up her for me than he'd give up football for her. Maybe that makes it easier.

Maybe I'm kidding myself. It hurts her. It hurts him. And it hurts me. And she knows and I know that none of us ever wanted it to be like this. I never asked to fall in love with him.

To fall in love with him... You know, I've never said that out loud before. Never even thought it out loud. But now that I have, I know it's the truth. Him and me, is it love? In a way that I don't even begin to understand, the answer to that question is yes. The really strange thing is, I never realised it until now. Sometimes it feels like lust, and sometimes it even feels like hate, but I know it's love too. And that only makes it worse. I never asked to love him. I never asked to need him so much that I'm prepared to hurt both of them, and myself too, just to have him as mine for a few months a year when we play for our country together. I never asked for any of this. None of us did. I'd do anything I could to stop him being hurt.

One of the most dreadful moments of my life was seeing him taken of on the stretcher, hands caught behind his head, face tight with pain and terrible, terrible, disappointment. He's not coming to the world cup, I thought, over and over again, numbly at first, and then with growing emotion. Mostly fear. Fear that just one bad tackle, one tiny broken bone, could rule him straight out of the tournament, could even spell the end of his career. Fear of having to play the world cup without the surety of his perfect corners to score from, of having to make the goals count on my own. Fear of the loneliness, of being so far from home without the comfort of his voice and touch. The day they passed his captain's armband over to me was just terrible. Of course I was proud. Who wouldn't be? Who in their right mind wouldn't love the opportunity to captain for their country? But at the same time, I didn't want the responsibility. I'm so far up at the front that it's hard to make an impact on my team-mate's game... but that sounds like making excuses. I was terrified. And I knew that the fear would make me under perform.

Not like him. He makes a great captain. He thrives on the fear, on the pressure. It keeps his temper in check, makes him into a conscientious role model. He plays attack and defence, and he knows the team like nobody else ever could. And they trust him. More than that, they trust him because he has earned their trust.

In that long ago game that got him disgraced, made him such a figure of hatred, shattered his confidence so completely... in that game I scored a wonder goal, and it was easily the best moment of my life. It's hard to keep that memory separate from the shame of defeat that followed afterward, but I do. I do. It's one of my most prized possessions, that memory of the time I could do anything, beat anyone, the time when I was god on the ball. That is how it is supposed to feel to wear a number ten shirt, how Pele must have felt every goal he scored, every match he played. You know, the name of the Brazilian who played number seven to Pele's number ten has almost passed out of history already. With us, it'll be the other way round, I'm sure. Because since that match, he has only gone up in the world, while I am starting to get scared that I'll never be able to deliver anything like that ever again. I score goals still, and sometimes I even score great goals. And sometimes, just sometimes I get close to the feeling I had when I booted that perfect goal into the back of the neck all those years ago. Mostly when it's him that's crossed it to me, and I know he's done it in love.

I was sure I couldn't do without him there. I was going to let the side down, just as he had done all those years ago. I desperately wanted to talk it through with him, but I was so worked up that I almost didn't dare. He never shows his weakness, never shows his fear, which makes the rare times when his pain is written all over his face, as it was when they stretchered him off after that terrible tackle, all the more heart-wrenching. And also, it makes it that bit more difficult for me to approach him with mine.

But I did it in the end. By the time I spoke to him, I was almost in tears. I don't want to play if you can't, I wanted to say to him. I don't want to wear your armband. I can't. How can I step into your shoes? How can I ever fill the gap that's left by you?

But I didn't need to say it. He just held me. He knew. 'You can,' was all he said. Quietly, in exactly the same tone of voice that he'd said 'we'll defeat Germany', a tone which said he knew. I hadn't believed him that time, and he'd been right. This time, I trusted him, as he trusted me.

And so we made a deal. I'd learn to captain England. And he'd get himself fit to come to Japan with me. And with his arms around me, breathing in the smell of him, my face buried in his chest, his soft voice in my ears promising faithfully that he'd be there on the bench even if it was me wearing the armband, it didn't seem so overwhelming.

I found the confidence to try and be confident, just as he had learned to do. He was right, I could. I could score without him to cross it to me. We could win without him to captain us. Wearing the captains armband for my country has to be one of the best experiences of my life. And as for his half of the deal... he could heal bones by sheer will-power alone, or so it seemed. He flew out to Japan with us, just as he'd promised. But more than that, he was in the starting 11 for our first match.

And it feels like love. When we win, and we're both so drunk on the sheer pleasure of it that we could just kiss there and then, even though we have to be content just to put a friendly arm around each others shoulders, then it feels like love. But more than that, when he finds me with that perfect cross, even if it scoots over the bar and doesn't make it into the net, it still feels like love. And when an angry young man lashed out and was sent off for a stupid mistake that I knew he'd spend the rest of his life regretting... my heart went out to him. And it felt like love for the very first time.

>> On to Chapter Two