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TITLE : Losing Streak I'm an Arsenal fan, so I've been deliberately fairly vague about Liverpool and Man U matches, scores, characters etc to avoid inaccuracies. Also, I'm a Londoner, so I have no clue how long it would actually take to travel from Manchester to Liverpool. Probably slightly longer than I've allowed, but hey. Dramatic licence. Told from Owen's POV
It's funny, isn't it, how something can be going on right in front of your eyes and yet you still don't notice it? *She* was never enough for him. I always knew that. So I was just kidding myself when I thought that maybe I could be. And I know it's hypocritical of me to mind this much. But I do. I *do*. It hurts. I feel sick just thinking about it. And I know it's affecting my game. Not a goal all season. Not a single one. Just when he'd finally convinced me that I *could* be the wonder-boy still, score from anywhere, create goal opportunities out of nothing, maybe even wear the captain's armband, sometimes... just when he'd finally convinced me I was good enough, he's gone and let me down. I should have seen it coming. She was never enough for him. It was just vanity that made me think maybe I could be. *** I shouldn't let him distract me. Not now. I think back to the world cup, see in my mind's eye the victories against Argentina and Denmark, and all my goals, but especially the ball thundering home into the back of the net, putting us one up against the mighty Brazilians. I could do it then. I was a legend. How long ago? Only three months. I find that so hard to believe. I try to hold on to the memories - I can, I have, and I will do again. It isn't so hard. It's what I do best. And it's nothing to do with him. But all I can think of is his arms around my shoulders, his lips against my cheeks, kissing me fiercely for all the world to see in the stadium in the pouring rain, and then later, protectively, possessively, as we lay curled up together in the narrow bed of a Japanese hotel. Then, I had something. I had him. The goals came easy. Now... I just don't know anymore. Suddenly my mind is crowded with images of defeat: Seaman picking the ball out of the back of the net, and then nothing but tears, and the smiling Brazilians, too fast, too brilliant, and nothing else I can do. One wonder goal is never enough. I see him, too. A comforting arm around Seaman's shoulders, a smile and a wave to the crowd, and disappointment shining clear in his eyes. And then, before that, sprawled on the floor, his face screwed up in agony, before the painkiller spray has kicked in. For a moment, I am bitter, and almost glad of his pain. But I still love him, and the flash of bitterness turns to guilt and regret. In a way, nothing has changed. It was always painful. I always knew that I was not enough. And I shouldn't let him affect me. Concentrate on the matter in hand. Concentrate on the game. Don't think about his hands on another man, don't think about the little looks and touches that go between them in the jubilant aftermath of a goal. Anyone else might take it for team spirit, but I know better. I've seen that spark in his eyes directed on me. I've felt his arms around my shoulders and his hand slipped into mine. Nobody else would believe he had it in him. I *know* that he does. I know the significance of the looks that pass between them. I never thought I was the jealous type, you know. I was sharing him with her right from the start. And... well, it would be a lie to say that I didn't mind. But... I accepted. So did she. Because we loved him, we accepted. So why can't I accept this? I always knew that the whole of his heart was not for me. Sharing him with a woman, a man, with one or two others or even an entire fucking football team... what does it matter? I love him. I know he loved me. *Loves*. Not loved, *loves*. He *loves* me. I *know* he loves me. That's what I was trying to say. I *do* know. I trust him. I *do*. So why can't I accept? Why am I letting it affect my game so much? I just want to talk to him. I want him to tell me that he still loves me. I don't mind sharing him. I *don't*. I tell myself that over and over again. I'm sharing him already. But I couldn't bear to lose him. You know, I didn't understand why he wanted to tell her about me. To tell her himself. But now... god, I just want to hear it from him. I've seen the looks, the touching, the smiles, and now I just want him to tell me. At least then maybe I'll stop feeling like a bloody paranoid fool. Not a goal all season. And the papers are starting to talk. And it's getting to the point where I'm dreading every match. Even when we win... there's no euphoria for a striker who can't score, just a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Even when we win, I feel defeated, and I'm starting to think that maybe... maybe I just don't want to do this anymore. I've *never* felt this way about the game before. But I don't want to play. Not if I'm only going to fail. And I don't understand *why*. Or at least... the only reason why is unacceptable. I *can't* let him make me feel like this. I *can't*. It's *killing* me. But if a single look from him can make me feel like a god on the ball... then I shouldn't be surprised when the fear that I've lost him makes me feel like I'll never play again. I just want him to tell me. Perhaps... maybe... if he'd tell me it was over, if he'd tell me that he *had* moved on... perhaps, eventually, I'd be able to accept. If I heard it from him. Maybe if I could just accept then things might go back to the way they were before. Maybe I could learn to be a golden boy again. Or perhaps it'll never get better. Maybe I'll never get another wonder goal ever again. I was *his* golden boy. Without him, what could it possibly mean anymore? I tell myself that he misses me. He's lonely. I'm not there for him. It's only fair that he should have someone there for him when I can't be. That's why I don't grudge him her love. I shouldn't care that he's found himself a new man. Perhaps if the guy just played for his club team, I wouldn't mind so much. But he's on the England squad too. I imagine our next tournament, lying awake and restless in a hotel bed, while they're awake, too, in the darkness, together. The thought almost chokes me. And then the scene shifts in my mind's eye, and the hotel bed is narrow, the room stiflingly hot, and I lay awake, worrying, worrying, in the hot darkness of a Japanese hotel room. Maybe he was with his new man then already. I shake myself. No. No! He'd never do that too me. He loves me. I've only just learned to believe that. I can't let it go now. And perhaps if it was just some new flame, I wouldn't mind so much. Someone who'd only just joined the team, only just caught his eye, someone he'd barely met before. Perhaps then it wouldn't cut so deep. But he's known the guy for years! And now I've noticed... noticed the reassuring touches and half-smiling glances that pass between them... suddenly, I realise that I couldn't swear to myself that it hasn't been going on for years. Again I picture them together, in the Japanese hotel bed, myself just the other side of that paper-thin wall. I grit my teeth, feeling physically sick. No. No! I don't believe it. He wouldn't... couldn't have done that to me. If nothing else, he'd have *told* me. I *know* he would. He... he loved me. *Loves* me. He loves me. Not so long ago, I knew that was true. God I wish he'd call. I close my eyes and lean my head in my hands, hoping, praying that I've not been being blind and stupid all this time. If he'd just call, just set my mind straight... it'd be better. I'd deal. I'd cope. At least I'd know. God, maybe it's better if it *has* been going on for years. It'd mean I've been living a lie... but then I've been living a lie anyway, lying half my life away every I time touched him in public and kept the passion out of my touch. Maybe it would be better if that the lie was complete and I was never really his. Never really had even the part of his heart I thought was reserved for me alone. Because maybe that would be better than being abandoned. Better than being loved and forgotten. I told him things in Japan. Things I've kept on my chest for years, things I'd never have dreamed of telling anyone else. And then at the beginning of the new season... I began to notice. God, I hope it's just some sick coincidence. I even hope he's been lying to me all this time. Because I can't *bear* the thought that I could have driven him away. He always said he liked my smile. Innocent. Trusting. Well, he knows now I'm not so innocent. Haven't been innocent for a long time. Not since that bastard took it away from me. You're dirty. Go wash yourself, Michael, you're all dirty. Just let me watch, Michael. I won't hurt you. You're my special boy. Touch and don't tell, Michael. You want to play the match on Friday, you'll do as I say. Good boy, Michael. A packet of sweets and a place in the Junior League Team. Ninety two goals in a season. And he celebrated every one. Not so innocent now. Not so trusting, anymore, either. I've been spoiled. And he knows it. I told him. I couldn't bear it if that's what this is all about. God, I feel sick. I'm shaking. Like I was in the last match I played. Shaking. Uncontrollably. Feeling sick. And there was a relentless, worrying ache from the old injury. Can't play like that. Can't play if you're out of control. Can't play if your body lets you down. I have to do better. Have to. It's not good enough. But I get so scared. Can't stop shaking. I know I'm going to let everyone down. If I don't start performing soon, I'll lose my place. What's the point of a striker that can't score? And the pressure builds up and I get more and more scared until I realise that I just can't stop shaking. And it's all going out of control. And you can't play like that. Ronaldo. We all watched Ronaldo do it in the 1998 world cup. Went to pieces. Couldn't cope. Let the side down. Out of control. That could be me. But this year he was lifting the world cup. Happy ending. He pulled it back together. He did. And I can too. I will. I'll score again another day. Even if he doesn't want me anymore. Even if he never did. If only I could stop shaking. I just want to talk to him. I need him. I can't stop shaking, and I need him. To hold me in his arms and let me sleep curled up against his chest, like he did that night in Japan. That would make everything all right again. I won't sleep tonight. I can tell. In a sudden moment of madness I pick up the phone and dial his number. It rings, and I'm too shocked to hang up. He answers. I can't say anything, the words catch in my throat. I can hear the baby screaming in the background, and her soft voice hushing it, singing to it. I almost hang up. 'Who is that?' he says, in that familiar, quiet voice. I choke back tears. 'David?' I whisper. 'Michael? Michael, love, is that you?' I slam the phone down. God, that was a stupid thing to do. After a moment, it rings, but I don't answer. I count the rings. Fourteen before he hangs up. A silence. Then it rings again. With shaking hands, I knock the phone off the hook, and the silence is deafening. Talking to him would just make things worse. My skin's crawling. God, it's a long time since I last felt like this. Insecure. Dirty. Used. Last time I felt like this, it was in Japan, and he held me in his arms and made everything all right again. He called me his special boy too. For a while, I thought he meant it. I need a shower. Need to feel clean. I stagger up the stairs on weak knees, stumble into my bathroom. Strip off and stand staring at the mirror. I look terrible. I look stressed and ill. There are dark circles under my eyes. And I think I've lost weight. I haven't been eating properly recently. Can't face it. Now, I can count my ribs. There's a prickle of sweat on my chest, and goosebumps down my arms. I shiver and hug myself. *Touch and don't tell, Michael.* I shudder violently, feeling sick again, and clench my fists, trying to touch my own skin as little as possible. Breathe deep. Stay calm. Don't think about it. I turn on the taps in the shower, step in, and let the water sluice over me. For the briefest moment I feel... good. Clean. Almost myself again. Then suddenly a wave of vulnerability sweeps over me. *Just let me watch, Michael. I won't hurt you.* I bite my lip hard, taste blood. Choke, turn my face up against the water, gasp and splutter. Try to keep my breathing slow and calm. Water runs down my face like tears. I scrub myself clean, hard, leaving red marks all across my chest. It doesn't help. My skin's still crawling. The water starts to run cold, and I step out. For some reason, I'm completely out of breath. For a long moment all I can do is stand there, naked, dripping wet, gasping. Then I manage to get a grip. I swing a towel around myself, and pad across the hallway to my bedroom. I dry myself quickly, pull on a pair of boxers and lie on my double bed, staring at the ceiling. I couldn't bear the feeling of a shirt touching my skin at the moment. And I'm so hot. A moment ago I was shivering cold. I wonder vaguely if I'm ill. But I know really that the only thing I'm suffering from is burnout. Too much pressure to perform. Too much stress over playing badly. And then getting so worked up over him, and it's all got mixed up with old history, and I can't stop thinking about it. Out of control. How could I let myself get into such a state? I always knew that I'd have to share him. I always knew that I'd have to tell him one day. Oh god, I'm shaking again. My stomach lurches. I stagger to the bathroom, crouch over the toilet and retch violently. I've hardly eaten all day, so there's little relief in throwing up. But my stomach cramps relentlessly, and I can't even keep down a sip of water. Out of control. It's all gone out of control. I'm not coping. I'm in pieces, physically and mentally. I try to hold on, but it's all slipping. I can't cope. Burnout. Not a single goal all season. And I'm so tired. Can't play when your body lets you down. And I can't stop shaking. I was never enough for him. Not even when I was a football god. Why would he want me now? I can't keep it together. If I lose my game, I lose him. And if I lose him, I lose my game. And what's left for me then? Nothing. Someone's hammering on the door, but I haven't got the energy to move, and anyway, I don't want to be seen like this. They'll go away eventually. There's no one who cares about me enough to stay around. A short silence. Then the lock clicks. I can hear footsteps on the stairs. 'Michael, love? Is everything all right?' That quiet, familiar voice. I close my eyes. He can't be here. I don't understand. 'Michael!' he says more urgently. I can't answer. I can't even open my eyes. He kneels down next to me, grips my bare shoulders. I shudder. 'Michael, please! What is it?' His hands strong and gentle on my shoulders, holding me steady. I collapse back against him and he wraps his arms around me, strokes my hair, calls my name urgently. 'Michael! Michael, look at me! Please, what's wrong?' My eyes flick slowly open. 'It *is* you...' I whisper. I'm exhausted, suddenly, and confused. He must have made the drive from Manchester in under two hours. 'It's me. I'm here,' he confirms. I draw a shaky breath, and rest my head on his chest. Whatever he's done and whoever he's sleeping with, I just want him to hold me. And he does. He wraps his arms around me and holds me gently against his chest. The feel of his arms against my bare skin is the most reassuring thing in the world. 'All right, Michael,' he murmurs. 'All right, love.' He gets his arm around my shoulders and helps me to stand. Clumsily, he half supports, half carries me the few steps back to my bedroom, lays me down on the bed, and pulls the blankets over me. I try to say something, but he hushes me. 'Go to sleep, love. Tell me in the morning,' he says gently. I don't want to wait until the morning. I'm scared he'll be gone. But I'm so tired. My eyes are falling shut against my will. He sits on the edge of the bed, rests a hand on my shoulder, strokes my hair, and I feel safe and loved. Maybe it's only a lie, but it's a good lie. I let my eyes close and drift off to sleep. I wake up in his arms for the second time ever. He's already awake, or maybe he never went to sleep. He's watching me carefully, and as my eyes flick slowly open, he smiles a gentle, worried smile. 'Sorry,' I croak. 'Must've scared you.' 'Are you all right now?' 'Think so. Sorry.' 'Don't be,' he says softly, and we lie in almost comfortable silence for a long moment. 'I could tell something was wrong when you called,' he says after a while. 'When I found you like that...' He trails off. I wince. He was afraid I'd been trying to OD. He must have watched me all night. Enough people have cracked under the stress, and he'd have known I've been having a bad time recently. I suppose I should just count myself lucky that he didn't call an ambulance or anything drastic like that. But I guess he must have not wanted to get the media involved. Apart from anything else, he'd have had a difficult time explaining what he was doing at my place in Liverpool in the middle of the night. 'No. I'm all right,' I say. 'Really. I've just been... the pressure's been getting to me recently.' 'You should have called. You should have talked to me.' 'What could you have said?' He bites his lip, and then shrugs. 'I don't know,' he says, and then almost smiles. 'But I never was very good with words.' He touches my shoulder. 'I'd have said something. Better than trying to cope on your own.' Then his face falls. 'I should have called,' he says softly. 'I'm sorry love. I had things on my mind.' 'Phil...' The name bursts out of me before I can stop myself. He stares at me, and then looks away. 'How did you know?' he says quietly after a long moment. 'I've been watching you!' I almost yell. 'I've been watching you play! It's... it's so *obvious*! I've seen the looks... I've seen the you touch him. You weren't even trying to hide it! You thought that no one would notice, but you forget that I know what those looks mean!' I'm almost in tears now. 'And god,' I say in a disgusted whisper. 'I wish you'd just come out and told me.' He looks shocked. 'I didn't think you could possibly mind,' he says. 'I'm sorry. I'd have told you straight away if I'd known you cared.' 'Why did you come down?' I snarl. 'Why come all this way? Wouldn't you have been bettering off staying in Manchester? With her. And him. Why... why pretend you care so much? *Why did you still call me love*? When... when he's the one you want now...' I finish in a cracked whisper. He stares at me again. 'Oh...' he says eventually. 'Oh, god, Michael!' He touches my shoulder, but I shake his hand away. 'No! You don't understand!' he insists. 'I'm not stupid!' I yell. 'Michael listen! You think... Me and Phil, you think... you think I want him,' he says, and he's almost smiling. 'I don't,' he insists quietly. I'm shocked into silence. 'He's a good mate, Michael. We've played together since he was sixteen. We won the Treble together. And the thing is, he's... he's discovered... he's found out that he's...' He grimaces, irritated by his sudden incoherency. 'He's just realised that he's gay, love,' he says quietly. 'He's just realised that he's in love with another man.' I stare at him. '...oh...' 'And he was going through a really rough time. He... hinted to his brother first, and... and he reacted badly. So he didn't dare tell me, even though we've been so close all these years. Thought I'd be disgusted.' He allows himself a half smile. 'And well, I... found out. Caught him at it, actually. And... and I needed to persuade him that he could trust me. I needed him to know that... that nothing had changed between us. I needed him to know that I knew and I wasn't going to reject him.' And suddenly it all makes sense. The secret shared looks. The half-smiles. The sudden physical closeness. I stare at him, suddenly understanding what it is I've been seeing all these months. Funny, isn't it, how something can be going on right in front of your eyes and yet you still don't notice it? Not him and Phil. I re-watch the scenes in my minds eye, seeing the secret glances, the slight touching of fingers... and now I know. Not him and Phil. Not him and Phil at all. Phil and Rio. And I feel like an idiot. I'd worked myself up into such a state over absolutely nothing. And worse than that, I let it affect my game. Not a goal all season, and it was all for nothing. 'I'm sorry,' he says gently. 'I didn't think. I should have told you.' 'No, *I'm* sorry,' I say miserably. 'I should have trusted you. If nothing else, then I should have *called* you. I'm sorry, love.' 'Don't,' he says. There's more he wants to tell me, but he can't get the words out. It doesn't matter. The one word means everything he needs it to. He leans down and kisses my face. I relax against him, and he runs his hands down my arms and across my chest. It's nice to be touched. It's nice to be wanted. I feel... cleansed. I melt into his arms, and my hands reach up and tangle into his hair. We kiss for a long time. 'God I've missed you,' I whisper when we finally break apart. 'It's been too long, love.' 'Far too long,' he agrees, and smiles. 'Well, the first of the England qualifiers are coming up soon. We'll get some time together then.' Just for an instant, I'm overwhelmed by insecurity again. 'If I've pulled my game together by then,' I murmur. 'You will,' he says with a confident smile. And somehow, I've got a feeling he's right. The thought of playing again doesn't fill me with dread anymore. It's not that I feel like the golden boy I once was. Not yet, anyway. My confidence has been dented too badly for that. But, well... I feel in control. He's helped me remember that I *can* be the wonder-boy still, score from anywhere, create goal opportunities out of nothing, maybe even wear the captain's armband, sometimes. And I know he'll always be there if I need him. I know he's not going to let me down. *** *** Michael Owen went on to score a hat trick in his next match for Liverpool. |
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