Chapter 5

It’s nearly lunchtime when Callum wakes up, his mouth dry and stale once more. He blearrily accepts the bottle of water Isaac pushes at him. He drinks it before he mumbles a thanks, then leans back in his seat. Most of the other players are in the same sort of sleep Callum was in, heads pillowing against hoodies they’ve jammed between their faces and the windows, a few of the more friendly players using each other as makeshift pillows while they lean against each other in their sleep. He can hear Roman and Willis talking quietly, probably discussing strategy for their next training drills or something. 

“Don’t go back to sleep,” Isaac murmurs. Callum blames the flush that creeps up in his cheeks on the fact that Isaac’s voice stays at a perpetual low rumble that belongs better to an audiobook than an athlete. “Look.” He gestures behind them. Callum stifles a yawn before he stretches up in his seat, turning just enough to see what Isaac’s pointing at. He blinks at the sight of a sleeping Matthijs using a sleeping Peter as a makeshift teddy bear. He doesn’t hesitate. He fumbles for his phone, opens his camera, and snaps several photos of the pair. 

“They even put the middle armrest up so they could cuddle,” Callum whispers, sounding properly scandalized. Isaac nods. 

“This is the gayest shit I’ve ever seen,” Isaac says, his lips twitching into a grin. “They’re like a bloody couple, snuggling in a shared seat while they sleep. It’s sickening.” He snorts out a quiet laugh before he gets a couple of photos himself. Callum laughs with him, though his stomach turns a bit. 

Sickening.

Callum knows Isaac is joking, mostly. He thinks it’s sickening the way they think most PDA is sickening. Any sort of display of lovesick affection gets half the lads in the club rolling their eyes and fake gagging in disgust. Still. Some part of him wonders. 

What if Isaac thinks it’s especially disgusting when it’s two men showing each other affection? Matthijs and Peter are straight, for Christ's sake! It’s not even like it counts. Not the way it would count if Callum was the one cozying up to another fella. Because it wouldn’t be some joke, or some quiet bid for friendly affection, then. It would be real, it would be intimate, it would be him making a bid for genuine touch and connection. 

If Isaac knew Callum only sought that from men, would he think it sickening?

Callum swallows roughly, then pockets his phone. It feels wrong now to have those photos of Matthijs and Peter. They don’t even mean anything. He’d just taken them because it was objectively funny to see a 6’4 wall of defensive Dutchman clinging onto a 5’5 scrap of eccentric Swissman the same way a toddler would their favorite stuffed animal at bedtime. He turns back around in his seat, then shivers despite the Alexandria hoodie he’s got on. 

There’s the sudden urge to text Alex. Alex is in the same boat as Callum. Alex, with his dark curls, his dark eyes, and his dark skin. Alex, that plays centreback and smiles at him with a sort of openness that steals his breath and kisses him like that can replace the air he’s taking from his lungs. Alex…

Who looks so much like Isaac that it almost feels wrong to kiss him.

Like when Callum wants a name-brand soda, and there’s only the knock-off being offered. He swallows thickly before he leans against the window again. He doesn’t get long to wallow. 

“Oi. You remember to take that shit that keeps you from getting carsick, right?” Isaac asks. When Callum glances at him, he sees that familiar worry that means his captain brain is running the show. He nods. 

“Yeah. Think I’m just a bit hungover, still,” Callum lies. He rarely gets hangovers. He’s long mastered the art of balancing his drink with water, food, and sleep so that he avoids the bulk of them. He lies to Isaac all the time, so he figures one more won’t hurt. Isaac grunts before he grabs another bottle of water from his bag. Callum takes that and the paracetamol with practiced gratitude, swallows the pills dry, then washes them down with half the bottle of water. 

“Get some rest, mate. The gaffer is gonna murder us at training tomorrow after the match tape review. You know how he gets after a win,” Isaac says. Callum nods.

“He doesn’t want us to get too complacent, or some shit,” he says. He leans back against the window before he closes his eyes. He turns his music back on. The album drones in his ears while he fakes being asleep. 

Sometimes Callum thinks all he’ll ever do is fake his way through life.