Page 48 of Oyster

“How do you mark someone like that?”

Fabien laughed again. “Simple. You make the sign of the cross. And pray.”

Éti rose to her feet, wincing and rubbing her shin. Later, I’d enjoy inspecting for bruising, but right now, she was off again, this time striking gold with a perfect pass across the front of the goal to Dubois, who neatly flicked it over the goalie and into the back of the net. One all.

Fabien jumped to his feet. “Christ, did you see that, Nico? And the run leading up to it?” Shaking his head in disbelief, he sat down again. “He’s on fire this afternoon. That cross was unbelievable.”

“Left-footed, too,” I agreed.

Fabien shook his head in wonder. “Most of us have one foot that can kick and dribble anything and another that can barely wiggle its own toes. I reckon if he put his mind to it, Etienne could learn to play a cello solo with either. Know what I mean?”

“Um… yeah.”

The memory of Éti—halfway through a hand job, licking her palm, informing me she was ambidextrous—scorched my eyeballs. I pushed that image to the back of my mind, too, to join all the others. It was getting rather crowded.

“Salvador is putting on a show, that’s for sure,” I said carefully. Calling my lover Étienne stuck in my craw. Hearing Fabien repeatedly misgender her set my teeth on edge; even though he didn’t know any different, it was all I could do not to correct him.

Unaware, Fabien chuckled. “His salary is bigger than the GDP of some countries, but he’d do it for free.”

“You think?”

“For sure. Étienne gets what soccer means to some of these fans. People here today follow us all over the globe, people who scrimp and save to afford the ticket price. It’s more deeply felt than religion. Big clubs like PSG are a theatre, and we’re on stage—Étienne is on stage, dancing for them. He puts on a show; he gives them their money’s worth.”

Another reason Éti and Fabien were firm friends: they both liked to chat. “He’s more than a great player,” Fabien carried on, waving his arms around, encompassing the entire stadium. “He gives them his everything. He’s the last to leave training and the first to arrive. He leaves every last part of himself out on the field, whether we’re playing against Milan in the Champion’s League final or a comparative minnow, like Nantes, struggling at the bottom of the table.”

He paused, looking at me sidelong. “And in return, mon ami, away from the pitch, he asks to be left alone. Not an unreasonable request, non?”

“No.” My pulse suddenly picked up speed. “Everyone should be allowed some privacy away from the cameras.”

Our conversation halted for a few minutes while Fabien attended to one of his little boys, and I pondered whether his words held a deeper meaning.

So what if they did? Éti trusted him enough to confide about her male friend coming to watch; perhaps he took that at face value. As half time swung around, Fabien gladhanded while I stayed in my seat and texted Zoë for a family update. Dad was enjoying the game on the big screen at L’Escale, Mum was sleeping, andOMG having me on the telly was sooo embarrassing.

A few minutes into the second half, Fabien returned, with a beer for me and a water for himself. I thanked my new friend, and he shot me an envious glance as I took my first mouthful. “Can’t be seen to be having that on live telly,” he explained. “So I’m living vicariously through you.”

As the match settled down, Fabien turned to me once more. “Can I ask, Nico? Were you at the Nantes game, when Étienne blasted it into the top right, out of nothing?”

I grinned. An unforgettable evening. “Yeah, incredible. Contender for goal of the year for sure.”

He nodded as if I’d confirmed something. “I thought you might have been. Étienne enjoyed that more than he usually does, too.”

When Fabien smiled, my heart thudded, and I realised what I’d done. He seemed glued to the match restart as he spoke again. “I’m glad he’s found such a good friend at last, Nico. As you say, he can have his privacy, away from the cameras.”

I supped in silence while my heart turned somersaults. Fabien knew. I sensed it. Not the full story, but the extent of mine and Éti’s relationship. And he was telling me he’d be an ally, if and when we needed one.

In the dying minutes of the second half, a foolish tackle on Ruiz sent Éti lining up for a penalty. Fabien’s boys were cheeringmadly even before she conned the goalkeeper to dive the wrong way and slotted the ball in the back of the net. I should have taken their cue instead of sitting there shaking with my heart (and my fist) in my mouth. My groan of relief had Fabien’s eyes all over me, and they never wavered, not even when Éti escaped the clutches of her teammates and raced over to wave and blow kisses to the thrilled little boys. But the heart shape she made with her hands was for no one but me. I experienced an insane urge to vault the barrier, run into the middle of the pitch, and kiss her until every fucker in the stadium heard her name on my lips.

“It’s been great meeting you, Nico,” said Fabien, shaking my hand as the final whistle blew. His eyes twinkled. “And enjoy tonight’s celebrations. Though make sure Salvador getssomesleep. We have a heavy week of training and several big games coming up.”

Still with flaming cheeks, I greeted the driver waiting for me by the VIP turnstiles, the same driver who had picked me up at the train station. With a heap of media stuff to wade through, Éti issued me the code for her apartment and cleared me with the concierge so I could await her return in comfort. The driver scarcely gave me a second glance, the concierge neither, the first just doing his job and with no idea whose apartment he was driving me to, the second assuming I was yet another PSG employee or media bod being given the all clear.

Éti had already walked me around the apartment on her phone, but even that didn’t convey the sterility. Nor the size, because waouh, as Éti herself would say. It took up a hell of a lot of Parisian prime real estate. Sure, a few clothes were dotted around—sportswear mostly—and half a baguette and an empty coffee cup rested on a kitchen worktop, but the rest ofit? The sleek grey, hotel-room-style décor and overengineered gadgetry? All belonged to someone I’d sure as hell never met. If I had to describe it, I’d say it was the home of a busy young rich someone who’d handed the design over to a company specialising in corporate slick, not caring about the result as long as it had a decent bed, a stocked fridge and a good view. In fact, the view across higgledy Parisian rooftops with the white domes of the Sacre Coeur in the distance was the best thing about the place.

Therefore, I spent most of the next two hours staring out the window, certain I was about to get arrested for trespassing or something, and strangely homesick, even though I’d only left the island that lunchtime.

A softsnickat the door told me the owner had returned, and a thrill of anticipation zipped up my spine. Putain, I hoped someday no one woke me from this dream because I didn’t think my heart would stand it. Dressed in a stylish suit, Éti had a small sports bag slung over her shoulder. Her hair was tied back in a neat bun, her face devoid of makeup. She regarded me thoughtfully, to an outsider every inch Étienne Salvador, the soccer player adored by millions. But not to me. To me, she was awesome. My single regret was that the world didn’t get to see it.

“I forgot I’d look this way when I came home to you.” She glanced down at her suit, the proof in her wary expression and balled fists. “I was in such a rush to get here—I skipped the post-match physio, the massage and everything.”

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