Chapter Two. Beckham's POV.

I can't sleep.

He's just the other side of this wall. If I lie completely still and silent, I can almost hear him breathing. I roll over and rest my hand against the wall, right about where his head must be. For a moment, it's comforting. But the plaster feels rough beneath my fingers, and he's probably already asleep, and anyway, the other side of the wall is too far away.

I want him.

After his goal against Denmark, I kissed him, right there on the pitch, in front of the cameras and everything. Held his face in both hands and leant my forehead against his, and kissed him, hard, on the cheek. A reaction like that is always followed by a storm of innuendo from the boys in the changing-room after the match is over, and sometimes I find that hard to deal with. He usually smiles and shrugs it off, and I guess as far as appearances are concerned, I do too, but it makes me edgy to hear the team talk about us like that, even in a joking way. So there's an unspoken rule between us that this is something we should never do, not even as friends, teammates, in celebration. But despite the fact that it's mostly for my benefit, I break that rule more often than he does. I can't help it. He flings his arms around my shoulders and all I want to do is hold him forever. And I want the world to know. See this beautiful golden boy who's just struck home a perfect goal? He's mine. Mine. And I love him.

I can't say it in words. Most of the time I can't even show it by my actions. But when he scores, I can show him how I feel while all the world looks on.

I was on a complete rush when we got back to the hotel. Not even the thought of a quarter-final draw against Brazil could bring me down from the high of our three nil victory. And it wasn't just me, of course, the whole team was completely hyper. All except him. He was just as thrilled as the rest of us, of course. He'd got this beautiful, blissful smile across his face. But he was exhausted. Long before the shouting and laughter had calmed down, he threw me a glance, stood up, accepted celebratory hugs and claps round the shoulders from the rest of the team, and headed for his room. I left it a while before going after him. What with my little display on the pitch earlier, I didn't want to give the team a chance for any more talk.

I wish I was brave enough to stop caring about what other people think and just do my own thing. But I'm not. I can't face the thought of the boys ever finding out.

'I thought you weren't coming,' he said, when I finally got away to join him, wrapping his arms around me and shutting the door firmly behind us.

'I thought you were too tired,' I retorted, raising an eyebrow. He grinned.

'To tired? Me?'

'You didn't even last the ninety!'

'Yeah, but you're not exactly going to make me do any running, are you? Besides, we have something to celebrate!' He looked up at me with a twinkle in his eyes, and I leant down and kissed him, properly this time. His hands came up and grasped in my hair - it's good to have hair that's long enough for him to run his fingers through again, I missed that when I had it shaved short.

After a long while we broke apart, and he wandered over and sat down on the edge of the bed.

'Your leg still bothering you?' I asked, ever the observant captain, picking up immediately on his slight limp. He stared at me almost defiantly for a moment - he's almost as sick of having his fitness questioned as I am - but then he grinned at me.

'Why don't you come and have a look?' he asked innocently. I smiled, sat down on the bed next to him, and rested my hand on his injured thigh.

And there was no more football talk for a while.

'I'm proud of you,' I said to him later, when he was falling asleep, curled up in my arms, his head resting against my chest. It wasn't all I wanted to say, not by a long way. But I've never been good with words. He looked up at me with half closed eyes and a sleepy, contented smile.

'Proud of you too,' he murmured. I kissed his forehead.

'Why? I haven't done anything special.'

'I thought that was pretty special,' he grinned. I blushed. I hadn't been expecting him to answer. I didn't think he was awake enough.

'I was proud of the way you played.' he continued. 'You're a great captain, you know. I was proud of the way you kept Danny in check.' I smiled again.

'Not so long ago it would have been me trying to kick the opposition, huh?' He nuzzled his face against my chest.

'And I'm proud that you've learned to laugh about that,' he answered sleepily. 'I'm proud that you can finally trust yourself, and that you've learned not to care about people's opinions.'

I wish that was true. I wished it then, with him curled up asleep against my chest, and I wish it now, lying here in the darkness with him just the other side of this wall, because if it was true, then I'd be able to say to the team, and the press, and the world: I don't care what you think, I live my life in the way that I choose. This is my wife, and I love her. This is my boyfriend, and I love him too. I play football, and I wear the captain's armband, and I *win*, so don't you *dare* judge me...

Wouldn't stop it from hurting her, though. Wouldn't even stop it from hurting him.

This is useless. I can't sleep. And lying here thinking is just doing my head in.

I get up, pace across the room, get a glass of water. Sit down on the edge of the bed, stretch, stand up again. Pace the room a bit more, stick my head out the window and breathe in a few gasps of humid air.

There's a tap at the door. I open it to find him leaning against my doorframe, barefoot, shirtless, smiling up at me.

'Having trouble sleeping?' he asks. I nod. 'Me too,' he says. 'Can I come in?'

'Course, love,' I say, and I'm immediately rewarded by one of his sweetest smiles. Love. I called him love. I think that's just about the first time I've ever managed to use that word in his presence. And he's realised how significant it is too. He slips his arm around my waist and we close the door behind us.

We sit on the bed together.

'Nervous?' he asks. I think about it for a moment.

'Not really,' I say slowly. 'There's no shame in going out to Brazil in the quarter-finals. And with a little bit of luck... well, you never know.'

'So what's with the insomnia?'

'I was just thinking. About stuff.'

He touches my arm. 'Do you miss her?' he asks.

'No. Not really,' I answer honestly. 'Not when I'm with you.' He looks up at me with a strange look in his eyes. Half delighted, half wistful.

And... and do you miss me when you're with her? That's the question that's on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't quite dare ask it. The truth is, I *do* miss him when I'm at home, playing for Manchester. In a way, I miss the whole team, cos a club side, even a great club side, can never have the spirit of the England team... *my* England team. But far beyond that, sometimes, I miss him with an intensity which almost scares me. Even when he's just the other side of this hotel wall, he's too far away. When he's in Liverpool and I'm in Manchester, sometimes I miss him so much that I'm willing to drop everything... my team, my family, everything... to go to him. I miss the feel of him, the smell of him, the sound of his voice. I love that he understands what it means to carry the weight of your national team on your shoulders. I love that he knows what it means to put in a perfect cross, to score a wonder goal, to miss a vital penalty.

But at the same time, I love to be loved by someone who doesn't think of me first and foremost as a captain.

Sometimes, I feel like the most selfish, greedy man alive. A beautiful wife, a gorgeous son, a great club, and the captain's armband for the England team aren't enough for me. I need my wonder boy as well.

I always knew there was something special about him, although it took me a long time to admit even to myself that I could be attracted to him. Every time we played together, it was like thunder and lightening, like electricity crackling through my skin, throughout the game. He made me feel as though I could do anything. I thought it was just because he was a great player, I never thought it could be anything more. Not even when I felt his eyes on my in the changing rooms, not even when the touch of his arms around my shoulders after I'd scored left my skin tingling and my heart racing. Off the pitch, I hardly spoke to him. I was young, and rich, and famous, and surrounded by a constant stream of adoring fans and celebrity admirers. I barely needed to turn to my team-mates for friendship, let alone love. And after the last world cup, I felt awkward around most of them, anyway.

Not around him. After the Argentina game, he did his best to keep me together, to keep the bad feelings of the team away from me, to not let me see the celebrations of the Argentinean team, just feet away. I think I might have fallen asleep with my head on his shoulder on the coach. I don't really remember. From the moment I saw the red-card, most of that evening is just a blur. But after that day, I think I realised that whatever he felt for me also went beyond how well I performed on the pitch.

But after that, I didn't see him for months. I saw her, though. And I fell in love with her. She set my heart racing. The way she made me feel reminded me of putting on the England shirt for the first time. And I can't think of a better feeling than that. Unlike most of the women who surrounded me, she loved me - still does - for who I am, not what I can do with a football, or what I have in the bank. I married her after she gave birth to my son. Even now, I think it was the right thing to do.

And next time I saw him, he congratulated me, a small smile on his face, and a wistful look that I hadn't yet learned to recognise in his eyes. He put his arms around me, and said I deserved some good luck. And that was when I realised what it felt like when he touched me.

It felt like love. It always had. I just hadn't dared to recognise it.

I stared at him, wide-eyed and panicky. He frowned slightly, confused, and said my name softly, touched my shoulder. I shook him off, buried my face in my hands. He reached out and gently took my hands in his, made me uncover my face until I was looking directly at him.

'Hey. Hey, it's all right. What's the matter?' he started to say soothingly, but as our eyes met, the words died in his throat and he broke off, reached out to touch the side of my face. I froze as he ran his hand down my cheek. For a moment, I was afraid he was going to kiss me, and I knew if he did I'd not be able to stop myself from panicking, and running, and then spending the rest of my life regretting it.

He didn't kiss me. He wrapped me in his arms and let me lean my head against his shoulder. After a while, he started to run his fingers through my hair.

'I didn't know,' I murmured inarticulately. 'I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. I've done it all wrong. I didn't realise. I didn't know.'

'Shh, it's all right. It's all right,' he whispered. 'It doesn't matter. None of it matters if you just let me hold you.'

And I *did* let him hold me. And I still do. And in a way, he's right. None of it matters. Not really.

'What are you thinking about?' he asks.

'I'm remembering the time I realised... first realised that I wanted you,' I answer.

Suddenly, something flashes behind his eyes, and he looks away.

'What? What is it?' I ask, concerned.

'I... I've actually been meaning to talk to you about something similar for quite a while now,' he says. Then he shakes his head. 'But now's probably not the best time.

'Why not?'

'It's a long story. And you should get some sleep tonight.'

'So should you,' I murmur affectionately. He smiles faintly. 'I won't be sleeping any time soon, love. My mind's going round in circles. You might as well tell me what's bothering you.'

'It's complicated,' he warns. 'And you won't like it.'

'Trust me,' I say to him urgently, laying a hand on my shoulder.

He glances up, meets my eyes briefly. 'I do,' he says. Then he looks away again.

'I had this coach,' he says eventually. 'When I was just a kid. He was... I thought he was great. Fantastic. He really inspired me. And the youth side I played for... we just won game after game after game. I even got an award, junior striker of the year or something.'

'Ninety-two goals in a season,' I say with a nod, not quite seeing where this is leading. He looks at me, surprised, and I smile at him. 'Of course I know, love. It's still the record, you know. You must have been, what, ten?'

'Yeah. Maybe a bit younger.' He leans his head against my shoulder and shuts his eyes.

'I loved my coach to pieces. When we won, he'd just go mad. And if I scored, he'd pick me up and swing me round in his arms, or sometimes he'd just stroke my hair, kiss me on the forehead. Sometimes, after a really special match, he'd take just one or two of us out and really spoil us. Buy us sweets and that. Put his arms around us, and call us his *special* boys...'

There's just a hint of disgust and fear in his voice. The skin on the back of my neck has started to crawl.

'Shit,' I whisper, putting my arm protectively around his shoulders. 'He didn't... he didn't do anything to you, did he? He didn't *hurt* you?'

He leans into my arm and shakes his head.

'No! No... nothing that terrible. Not to me, anyway. He just liked to watch me, was all. When I was getting changed. The worst that ever happened was... well, sometimes when he picked me up, his hands would wander. It got more frequent as I got older. Looking back on it, it really scares me, cos I'm sure he was... what's the word they use? *Grooming* me. Getting me used to the idea. But at the time, I don't think I even really realised there was anything wrong with it.' He shudders, and buries his face in my neck. I stroke his hair, slightly hesitantly at first, scared that he might flinch away. But he doesn't, so I lean down and kiss the top of his head. After a moment, he looks up, smiles weakly, and goes on with his story.

'The thing is, he... he did... something... to another kid. It might even have been another kid on the team, I don't really remember. But they must have told someone, because suddenly, my parents knew, and there were police involved, and social workers, and child psychiatrists. And everyone was asking me... when you were alone with him, did he do anything to make you feel uncomfortable? Did he ever watch you? Did he ever *touch* you? And I was told he was *bad* and *evil* and that he wouldn't be able to hurt me anymore... and I didn't *understand*. They told me what he'd been doing was wrong... Dirty. And then they told me I shouldn't feel ashamed, but of course I did... And at first, I was just confused, but then I... realised, worked out, whatever... that all this time, he'd been doing something terrible to me and I hadn't even realised, and I felt so *stupid*. He'd been trying to hurt me... and the thing he'd done to this other kid was so terrible it didn't even seem to have a *name*. And I was so *angry* with him. He'd betrayed all the love and the trust that I'd given him. It was a long time before I trusted anyone that completely again. '

I don't know what to say. All I can do is hold him.

'I'm so sorry, love,' I murmur. He shuts his eyes. His voice has lost its usual calm, control, and he seems to be having difficulty putting himself into words, which is so unlike him that it's making me afraid.

'The thing is,' he says slowly, 'When I... when I first realised that I was having thoughts about other boys... well, I had this confused idea that it was completely and unforgivably wrong. That it would only hurt people.' Suddenly his eyes flick up to my face. 'And when I started... when I first noticed you... when I knew that I *wanted* you... I... *I didn't say anything*...'

He hangs his head. I touch the side of his face, and smile gently.

'Look at me, love,' I say. He lifts his eyes slowly to mine. I take a deep breath, and try to collect my thoughts into words. 'I'm *so glad* that you managed to let me know, and I don't care how long it took you,' I say. 'Because *I* would *never* have been able to approach *you*. I couldn't even consider the idea that I might be attracted to another man, and I don't have an excuse for that. I *understand* why you didn't say anything, and it honestly doesn't matter.'

'You don't understand,' he says miserably. 'See, the first time I realised I wanted you was... was pretty much the first time I saw you play. And that was long before you were married, love. If I'd just let you know then, I'd have saved all of us a lot of heartache.'

I gather him up into my arms.

'Please don't blame yourself,' I beg. 'Please. None of this is your fault. I'm so sorry.'

He buries his face in my chest, and I lean my cheek against the top of his chest.

'I didn't mean to offload on you,' he sighs. 'Not now. Not tonight.'

'It's fine,' I say. 'Honestly, love, it's fine.' He smiles faintly, leans back against my shoulder, and yawns.

'You gonna be able to sleep?' I say. He thinks about it for a moment, and shakes his head.

'Can I stay here with you?' he asks drowsily. I smile.

'Of course.'

He falls asleep curled up against my chest for the second time this tournament. But last time, like every other time, when he'd drifted off, I pulled the blankets over him, kissed him on the forehead, and went back to my own room. Tonight, though, he's asked to stay with me. I fall asleep in the knowledge that I'll wake up with him beside me for the first time ever.

He's already awake when I open my eyes in the morning. He smiles warmly at me as I sigh, yawn and look up at him blearily. He must have been lying there and watching me sleep.

'Morning,' he says. I roll over and prop myself up on one elbow.

'Alright?' I murmur.

'Yeah. Thanks,' he says quietly. I smile.

'My pleasure.' He shuts his eyes and leans his head against my chest. We lie in comfortable silence in the warm darkness for a long time.

'I should get going,' he says after a while.

'Or we could just lie here for the rest of the day.' He laughs, shakes his head, and forces himself to sit up. I grab his shoulders playfully, trying to make him lie down again. He grins and fights free, and we end up on the floor in each other's arms in a tangle of blankets.

'You're beautiful when you're asleep,' he says suddenly. I blush and look away, and take a deep breath.

'Y-you're always beautiful,' I say quietly. I force the words not to stick in my throat. It's not that I don't mean them, just that they're so hard to say. But the reward is worth it, he smiles softly and his eyes glow at the rare compliment.

'You going soppy on me?' he teases. I look up at him and grin.

'Yeah. You don't mind, do you?'

'No. In fact I think I like it.' He wraps his arms around me, pulls me into a kiss that leaves me breathless and grinning like an idiot.

'Now I really should get going,' he says when we finally break apart. 'The boys'll be wondering where you are.'

'Yeah. I know.' I force myself to stand and then pull him to his feet.

We hesitate at the doorway for longer than is strictly necessary, just looking at each other.

'I'm only going next door,' he laughs eventually.

'I know.' He touches the side of my face. My lips brush his, and his hands tangle in my hair.

And suddenly, the door opposite us bursts open.

We fly apart. Seaman stares at us, an almost horrified expression on his face. There's no way he can mistake what he's seeing. Neither of us is wearing more than boxers, and anyway, we were clinging to each other, cheek to cheek, lips almost touching, when the door flew open. He glances up at me, terrified. Seaman looks from his face to mine, expecting, perhaps, for one of us to say: 'This isn't what it looks like!'

But we can't.

After a moment, he shakes his head miserably, and makes a dash for his room without saying another word. Seaman stares after him and then turns back to me, and I'm left unable to meet his eyes, unable to turn away.

'Get some clothes on,' Seaman says, and I'm scared that it might be disgust that's colouring his voice. 'Then we need to talk.'

I nod dumbly, shut my door quickly behind me, and lean against it, my heart beating fast. I sink to the floor and bury my face in my hands. The other side of the wall, I can hear him pacing, anxious and upset, and there's nothing I can do to comfort him. I stand up slowly, throw on some clothes, lean against the doorframe, searching desperately for the words to explain myself, to explain us, but my mind's completely blank. Apart from the words I said to him earlier - 'You're always beautiful' - going round and round my head until I can't think of any other words to say, any other words that mean anything. I take a deep breath and try to calm down... but it's no use.

Seaman's waiting for me in the corridor.

'What the hell do you think you're playing at?' he asks immediately. I hang my head, not knowing how to answer.

'You can't do this, you know. I don't care what you feel for him, it's just wrong.'

I manage to find my voice.

'Don't tell the lads. *Please*,' I murmur urgently.

'Why not?' he says angrily. 'You *ashamed*? Or do you just not want your *wife* to find out?' I shake my head miserably.

'She knows,' I whisper.

And his expression softens slightly.

'Really?' I nod.

'I told her almost as soon as it started. She... I can't exactly say she doesn't mind, but she does know.'

He nods slowly. He's gone from being angry to looking almost impressed.

'Do you love him?' he asks gently. I freeze, and look away.

'Yeah,' I whisper. Must be the first time I've admitted that out loud, and he's not even listening. Seaman half smiles, and my heart leaps. Maybe he's not disgusted after all. Maybe it was just on her behalf that he thought it was wrong.

'Is that why she didn't fly out to be here?' he asks. I look up at him.

'Yeah. Mostly.' He looks at me, confused. 'Didn't you know she's pregnant?' I ask. His eyes widen.

'Yours?' he asks, shock colouring his voice again.

'Yeah.'

He shakes his head, almost bewildered.

'You're an idiot!' he says. I bury my face in my hands again.

'I know. What am I going to do?' I murmur. Suddenly, his expression hardens again.

'Stop thinking about it,' he suggests, almost angrily. 'You've got a match to concentrate on!' I nod. He's right.

We head down to join the rest of the team, neither of us saying another word. After a long while, he comes down to join the team too, looking miserable and withdrawn, and he sits as far away from both of us as possible. I try to smile over at him, but he won't even look at me. His subdued behaviour brings up another round of speculation about his fitness to play, which is only calmed by Ericsson calmly insisting he'll be in the starting eleven unless he manages to break both legs between now and this afternoon. The team grins and laughs, and even Ericsson quirks an eyebrow, but he doesn't even smile.

Later, I see Seaman catch his arm, pull him away from the lads to have a few quiet words in his ear. He looks anxious to begin with, but by the time Seaman leaves him, he's smiling slightly for the first time since this morning. I wander over to him.

'All right?' I ask. He looks up at me.

'Yeah.' He grins suddenly. 'He said I was probably good for you. Slightly grudgingly, but he said it all the same.'

'He's probably right,' I say. And then I take his advice and stop thinking about it.

There's no shame in going out to Brazil in the quarter-finals. I've always said that. But to have it so close to our grasp, and then to loose it like that, that was hard. When he scored... it was like a dream. I suppose in a way, I knew it was to good to last. And I was proved right when, just a few minutes later, I fell badly and the old injury screamed with pain. I leaned on my knees and buried my head in my hands, while Rio and Seaman yelled for the ref to stop play. Up the other end of the pitch, he looked away, terrified, as for the second time in a season, I was taken off the pitch on a stretcher. And then he glanced up at me, and although I couldn't meet his eyes, I could see he'd set his shoulders ready to take that captain's armband. And I was proud of him, I'd have proud to have him take the thing off my hands, as he had done so well in all those friendlies, and even against Sweden. As it happened, he didn't need to. The painkiller spray worked quickly, and it wasn't long before I was on my feet ready to play on. But the damage had been done. We'd lost our pace, and we'd lost our game control.

What does it take to give away a goal? Not a lot. A little slip from me, a failed tackle by Paul Scholes, a tiny lapse in concentration by Ashley Cole. And a little bit of sheer genius from Rivaldo.

And what does it take to go out of the World Cup? A dodgy tackle thirty yards out. A keeper brave enough to come forward off his line. A free kick from Ronaldinho from which even I can't decide if the goal was sheer dumb luck or a shot so perfect that I should be wildly jealous for the rest of my life. And a team exhausted by the afternoon heat, despairing at the fact that they could have been one nil up, intimidated despite themselves by these giants of the football world, who just couldn't capitalise on their strengths and their opponents weaknesses, not even when Brazil went down to ten men.

That's all it takes. And the whistle blows. And I strip off my shirt, and I strip off the captain's armband. And the dream is over.

Afterwards, Seaman is inconsolable, blaming his one mistake. At first, I leave the lads to comfort him, still not sure of how he'll react to me. But he needs more reassurance than the team can give. Probably more than I can give too, but I go over to him all the same. He looks up at me, shakes his head, and then closes his eyes against the threat of tears. I throw my arm around his shoulders.

'It wasn't your fault,' I say urgently. He's heard it before. He shakes his head miserably again. 'You didn't realise it was a shot,' I continue. 'Neither did I.' He looks up at me.

'I *should* have realised it was a shot. It was my damn responsibility to realise it was a shot.' I grip his arm. 'It doesn't matter. You kept us in this tournament. We wouldn't have got this far without you.' He shakes his head again.

'It was still my mistake.'

'We all made mistakes. Any of us could have turned it round. None of us did. It was our fault as much as yours.'

'Do you really believe that?' he asks suddenly. I smile.

'You know I do. If the team isn't good enough to make up for any player's one mistake, that's hardly the fault of the player is it?' He looks away.

'Didn't stop them blaming you after the Argentina game, did it?'

'That's different. That wasn't a mistake. That was just plain stupidity,' I admit. I shake my head. 'If anyone dares make a scapegoat out of you, it'll be a complete disgrace.'

We fall silent, listen to the dejected murmuring of the team. There's some discussion as to whether Ronaldinho's shot was a fluke or a master-stroke, and a general agreement about the state of the referee's eye-sight. Then Emile turns to his fellow striker, and says with a smile: 'Yours was a great goal.'

Just for a moment, his eyes sparkle, and he looks up at me with a half smile. He's been down ever since Ericsson pulled him off, concerned for his injury, ten minutes before the final whistle blew, but now I can see in his face that he's reliving the glory of putting us in the lead against Brazil. He's so lucky that he is able to keep his great moments even in the face of defeat. I smile at him, and the smile is genuine.

'Yeah. Like the damn Argentina one,' Robbie Fowler mutters bitterly, throwing me an angry glance. He doesn't mean it really, I know that, he's just disappointed with the result and pissed off about being left on the bench all tournament. Still, I look away, the reminder stinging worse than usual because I can see in Seaman's face the fear of never living down his one mistake.

'Enough of that,' Seaman growls. Robbie has the decency to look ashamed. Seaman grips my shoulder. 'You're a good lad,' he says quietly. He looks up, including Michael in his glance. 'Win it for me next time?' he asks, managing a smile even thought his voice is still choked. 'Both of you. Together.'

Robbie and Emile exchange glances, sure they must be misinterpreting. Michael smiles at me.

'I think we might be able to manage that. Don't you, David?' he says quietly. I wrap my arms around him, wanting the comfort of his touch, no longer caring about dressing room innuendo.

'With a bit of luck, love,' I answered.

>> On to Epilogue