The overwhelming feeling of déjà vu overtook Mark. The familiarity of sitting by the sidelines waiting for the match to start was so intense. It was ridiculous. The buzz of the fans. The freshness of the grass. The anticipation and the hype. It was all coming back to him.

The hair on the back of his neck rose as more memories began to intrude on his mind. The softness of Thomas' lips. The sound of his moans. The feeling of being inside...

Mark shook his head, hoping to send those memories back to where they had come from. Back to that small, quiet corner in the deepest, darkest place in his mind. He had a job to do, not think about that. 

His eyes wandered to where Lily was talking to a few guys who were clad in suits and the Coach. She would every-so-often take note of something in her notebook, not once taking her eyes away from the people before her. Thankfully for him, his job didn't require hanging out with her.

He really wasn't one to judge somebody based on stuff that had been told about them. But Lily Weathers was the exception. Her soft and cute exterior was pretty inviting and nice, but what lied underneath was a toxic, hateful woman. The money she had given to organizations trying to convert queer kids was enough to buy ten of Thomas's penthouses. On top of that, she was very vocal about her religion, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but her way of expressing her opinions and beliefs was horrific. Having to work with her was one of his worst nightmares, but at the very least he didn't have to be interviewed by her.

The roaring of the fans pulled Mark out of his thoughts and his attention was drawn to where the players began appearing. He wasn't exactly sure what to photograph, so he chose to go for everything he could. The warm-up, the line-up, and then the start of the action.

A few other photographers were using stands for their cameras, but Mark had decided against it. He preferred being in control of the angle and style of the photo he was taking. He was careful though not to get in the way of any other shot.

Around the end of the thirteenth minute, the guy with the dyed gray hair whose jersey wrote "Davie" passed the ball to Thomas. With absolute control and grace, Thomas made his way to the opposing team's goal. The goalkeeper readied himself, watching closely every move Thomas made. Thomas neared the penalty box and kicked the ball without hesitation. The goalkeeper leaped, but he wasn't fast enough. The ball flew past his fingers and hit the net behind him.

Mark managed to take two pictures of Thomas, one when he smiled brightly as the ball hit the net and another with Davie hugging Thomas and pulling him into the air. Slowly, Mark lowered his camera and parted his lips. He was barely breathing.

"It's incredible, isn't it?" Another photographer asked him, leaning closer. He looked somewhere in his fifties with a bald head and tired eyes.

Mark could not reply. He could only look around in awe and shock. More than half of the stadium was roaring out the same thing in unison. Heissmann. The feeling was overwhelming. The man next to Mark flicked his tongue and laughed to himself.

"The kid's like a god to them. And he's not even half my age! "He said, shaking his head.

Mark's teary eyes moved back down to the field, where Thomas was still celebrating with his teammates. Davie was now ruffling his hair with an endearing smile on his lips. Thomas pushed him off with a wide grin and for a moment his eyes met Mark's.

The contact was brief. The match kept going. Thomas didn't look that way another time. He kept on playing. When the final whistle was echoed, his name was the loudest to be heard. Four goals and one assist. The commenter nicknamed him Thomas the Golden Boy. Golden was always his color.

***

Mark was putting his camera in his car when he heard the loud wolf-whistle. His head was still buzzing from all the fans' screams, but he looked up and saw that guy, Davie, along with a few other players approaching him. Thomas was right beside them.

"We're going to celebrate at a bar. Wanna join us? "Davie asked him. Mark must have seemed confused because Davie shed him a charming smile. "Everyone is invited as long as you don't bring along your camera or interview any of us."

Mark's eyes moved from Davie to Thomas and he ended up out of breath. Thomas was looking at him with those big pleading eyes. He was begging him to go. Asking him to stay.

"I'll come," Mark said and got into his car.

The bar was in fact an old Irish pub. It had a very vintage and cozy vibe to it and Mark remembered passing this place often on his way to Dean's store. There was a tremble in Mark's stomach as he realized how many times he had passed this place in these last few years. How many times he hadn't bumped into Thomas, even though they were so close to each other.

Davie and some other teammates sat down by a booth and Mark watched as Davie pulled Thomas to sit next to him. He hesitated for a second, not sure where to sit, but eventually, he sat right opposite to Davie on an old, wooden chair.

"A beer for everyone?" Davie asked and signaled the waiter.

"I'm driving. I'll only have some water," Mark said to the waiter. The young man did a double-take on Mark and leaned in to say something in Mark's ear. Mark smiled brightly at him and nodded. He noticed that Thomas was looking at him but chose to ignore him.

As they waited for the waiter to return with their orders Thomas raised his hand on someone and before Mark could turn around, a guy with reddish, curly hair and big brown eyes sat on the booth next to Mark.

"We haven't met before," he said to Mark and extended his hand. "Ronnie Walker".

"Mark McGregor..." he replied, returning the gesture. Davie spoke up.

"Ronnie is one of our midfielders. He had an injury last year and had to have surgery. Did the doctors tell you when you could play again?" Davie said, turning his eyes from Mark to Ronnie.

"Yeah, maybe in the game after the next one?" Ronnie replied.

"Good, because I can't keep being the only one who assists him any longer," said Davie and softly punched Thomas' bicep.

"Hey, you're not the only one who assists!" Another guy, with a shaved head and a beard –whose last name must have been Ross, Mark's wasn't sure- said.

"Right, sometimes Thomas sets himself up," Davie replied with a thoughtful nod. Ross shook his head, having had enough of Davie's bullshit.

"Mark McGregor..." Ronnie muttered. "Why does that name remind me of something?"

Thomas snapped his eyes on Mark, panic clear in his features. His palm that was under the table was shaking and before Ronnie could figure it out the waiter showed up. He set down six glasses of beer and one glass of water for Mark. From under his armpit, he took out a hardcover book and handed it to Mark alongside a pen. Mark smiled at him, opened the book titled "A queer kid that survived" and signed the first page.

"Right! You're that loudmouth queer who was in the news for writing a book!" Ronnie exclaimed.

"Excuse me?" Mark said while clicking the pen. With the corner of his eyes, Mark noted how the waiter slowly took the book from the table and looked very uncomfortable.

"Yeah, this friend of mine hasn't stopped talking about you. She keeps saying what a shame it is that you're gay," Ronnie went on. With the corner of his eyes, Mark saw Thomas squirm and look worried.

"I'm not gay," Mark said. "But I do like guys".

There was an awkward silence that Davie decided to end by talking about something fun he was doing with his wife for the weekend. While noting all of Ronnie's sideways glances, Mark focused his attention on Davie and actually listening in to what he was saying.

***

About three hours later, Mark wasn't feeling that interested anymore. He had learned a few things about these people. First of all, Davie's first name was Frank. He knew that now. Ross's name was Steve and the guy with the tribal tattoo on his leg was named Joe Aldridge and he was their goalkeeper. There were some other guys that sat with them named Jack, Reggie, and Stuart, but they didn't really talk or seem that interesting. It hadn't taken long for Mark to realize that they didn't play for the team but they had just tagged along as he had.

Another thing he learned was that he barely had any things in common with these guys. Sure they weren't the one-dimensional players the media made them out to be, but it wasn't like Mark was about to start hanging out with them regularly. Steve loved playing the cello. He had been playing it ever since he was five years old. Joe was a bookworm. He had practically a library in his apartment and when he found out Mark McGregor was Sean and Marigold McGregor's son he was left jaw-slacking. And Frank...

Frank was a really random guy. One moment he was talking about his wife and how amazing and loving she was and the next moment he was talking about what type of pizza was his favorite. One moment he would be talking about how much soccer meant to him and the next he was saying having dyed hair was high maintenance and exhausting. Mark just couldn't figure him out.

As for Ronnie... Mark hated that guy. His low-key sexism and homophobia made Mark's skin crawl. He felt awful for not speaking out against it, but he bit it down and ignored that guilt. Ronnie didn't come out and say something that toxic, but every once in a while there was that one comment that made Mark cringe. Sadly, no one else seemed to be bothered by any of that.

Mark hadn't wanted to leave as soon as Thomas left. He felt as if that would have been a bit too obvious. So he waited until Thomas stood up and said goodbye to the guys and then some more. He decided to leave a few minutes after Frank left. He said goodbye to everyone, but instead of going outside, he went to the toilets to wash his hands.

Throughout those three hours, sitting next to a bunch of guys who had sloppily drunk beer it had been inevitable for his hand to not get sticky from spilled beer. In the quietness of the toilets, he realized how exhausted he actually was. Despite the shortness of it, that one and a half hours of the match he had been working. And while some people would counter that taking pictures wasn't that hard, having to find the perfect angle was exhausting as fuck.

He was about to leave when he stopped short. A throaty moan echoed in the small four walls and he almost turned around toward the stalls. But he didn't. His eyes stayed on the dark wooden door before him. A few seconds of absolute silence followed and he was tempted to leave, but he didn't. Instead, he felt his heart stop.

"Keep... going ".

Even after all these years, he could still recognize Thomas' needy moans. He hadn't left? He closed his eyes, not sure what to feel or do, but when he heard Frank's deep chuckle he decided he needed to get out of there.