Conner surveyed the living room one more time, and wondered when on earth Trent was planning on showing up. Of course, it wasn’t like they’d really said a time—times were uncool— but it would be nice to know.

He’d already tidied and hoovered, here and his bedroom, just in case—though he really didn’t want to think thoughts in that direction, especially since Trent could be arriving at any moment. He'd also cleaned the kitchen, hall, bathroom, and any other area Trent was likely to see. He just hoped his mom wouldn’t faint dead of shock.

He didn’t remember ever being this fussed about a girl coming over, but then, it had never really mattered what girls thought. But Trent lived in that massive mansion, that probably had servants and everything. Conner’s house was a definite step down. Or an entire staircase down, more like.

But never mind. Trent wasn’t coming here to look at the house. He was coming here to see Conner, but thinking about that just made it worse.

With girls, Conner would know how this would end—on the couch, with very little soccer being watched. Which was one reason he never invited girls over to watch soccer matches, apart from the odd cool one he met from the women’s team.

With Trent . . . Conner paused, wondering if it was too late to call Kira for last minute advice.

The doorbell rang.

She probably wouldn’t have been any help anyway.

He counted to ten (he hadn’t been waiting for Trent to arrive, of course not) before heading for the door.

Trent smiled as he opened it. “Hey. I’m not late, am I?”

“No, no. No. Kick-off is in a few minutes.” He paused, wondering what to say next. “They’ve announced the line-ups. Thierry Henry is playing."

Trent didn’t look like he realized the importance of that information. “Oh.”

“Do you want a drink or something?”

“I’m alright, thanks,” said Trent, then paused, looking expectant.

Conner realized he was still standing in the doorway, preventing Trent from coming in. He moved aside, trying to look as if he’d meant to do that. “The TV is this way.”

Trent followed him through. Conner gestured around. “This is the lounge . . .” He said, then stopped. He sounded like his mom, giving house tours. “Uh, you probably guessed that.”

“No, no, it could have been another room.”

“Like what?”

“A really useless kitchen?”

Not funny, but Conner laughed anyway. Trent looked relieved, he noticed. Maybe he felt nervous too?

Feeling reassured by the thought, Conner flopped down onto the sofa, just in time to see the first pass. He picked up the remote to un-mute it, then glanced at Trent, still standing. “You want to watch?”

Trent hesitated, then sat down beside him. “Okay,” he said. “You can explain what’s going on.”

--

Half-time. Conner sat back, muting the TV (because listening any more to the commentators would likely make his brain leak out his ears), and turned to Trent. “What did you think—”

And stopped, as Trent leaned forwards, touching Conner’s cheek with two fingers. Conner closed his eyes on instinct, then felt the gentle awkward press of lips against his.

Which was as far as it went before Trent pulled back, but still enough to make him desperate for more. Trent didn’t protest as Conner kissed him back, using the practice with girls for this kiss that actually mattered. Actually made him feel something other than simple physical reactions.

Trent responded, tilting his head in a way that meant ‘more’ and ‘harder’. Conner obliged, feeling the familiar tongue and teeth and lips mixing with the new sensation of stubble against his own and fingers that weren't moisturized and manicured.

The press of breasts against his chest was missing too. Instead, there were hands, on his shoulders, his back, making him shiver even as they shied away from anything too intimate, too intense. Which was fine with Conner, because if just kissing could make him feel like this . . .

Trent pulled back again, for breath. Conner wiped his mouth, skin around his lips feeling unusually tender. Trent needed to shave more.

Or maybe not. It wasn’t a bad feeling, just . . . different.

“Are you sure about this?”

Sure? Why wouldn’t he be? “It’s just kissing,” said Conner, only then realizing how that might sound. “I mean . . . it’s good kissing, very good kissing. But it’s not like . . .” Sex.

And Trent had started it, so he didn’t see why there was a problem now.

Trent shrugged. “I know. But, I mean, it just seems like one minute you hate me, the next . . .”

“I forgave you weeks ago,” Conner reminded him, fighting down annoyance. Trent was trying to be nice, and considerate. “It doesn’t matter now. Any of it. It’s in the past.”

Trent looked doubtful. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Just forget it. I have,” he said. And even if that wasn’t exactly true . . . well, he’d forget it in time, if he kept trying hard enough.

Trent still didn’t look convinced, so Conner kissed him again. If Trent really wanted to, he could go analyze things with Kira. Right now, there were much more important things they could be doing.

Trent seemed to agree, fingers and mouth becoming more bold, so that even when Conner discovered he’d missed most of the second-half and a wonder goal by Thierry Henry, he didn’t care at all.

Not much, anyway.

--

Kira looked bright and excited as she bounced up to him on Monday, already grinning in anticipation. “So,” she asked. “How’d it go?”

He was surprised she hadn’t arrived to ask on Sunday. “Fine. I managed to see a replay of the goal on the internet. Ethan showed me this sight . . .”

Her smile dropped. “Conner! You just sat there and watched soccer?” She paused, going over what he’d said. “You missed the goal?” Her smile reappeared. “Wow!”

“Shut up.” Why did girls have to act like this? It wouldn’t be so bad, if it was his male friends, and a cute girl he’d been making out with. But Kira asking just made him cringe. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Oh, no. You didn’t do something stupid, did you?”

“Kira!”

“Okay, okay!” She held up her hands in surrender. “I was only teasing. Mostly. And I promise I won’t ask any more.”

Yeah, until she found Trent. “Shouldn’t you, like, get a boyfriend of your own?”

“In case you hadn’t realized, the last guy I liked ended up going out with you. I’m trying to avoid the dating scene for a while.”

She turned away as she said it, and Conner marked it down as an issue not to be raised—unless he wanted to end a conversation, fast.

“See you this afternoon?”

She nodded. “See you.”

--

“Who is that guy?” Alexi asked, nodding towards Trent. “He doesn’t normally watch us, does he?”

The audience at away games (sometimes home games too) was small enough that they generally knew everybody in the audience—girlfriends, relatives, the odd friends, and a few who actually liked soccer.

And they sat in groups. Trent, on his own, stuck out.

Conner shrugged. “A friend.”

“Oh. He goes to our school?”

“Yeah.”

“He is not on the school team?”

“No. He doesn’t really play soccer,” replied Conner, wondering what was taking the ref so long. Some problem with the opposing team, apparently. The rest of the club team stood milling about, thankfully not listening in to him and Alexi. He could just imagine some of the comments.

“Oh.”

“I’m trying to convert him,” Conner said. “To liking soccer.” Maybe Alexi would accept that.

“That’s good. There are not enough people who like it here.” But then he added, “He is here to see you?”

“Just the game.”

“Oh.”

And whatever Alexi may have thought, it didn’t matter later, when Conner set him up to score and Alexi did so with a perfect touch. They hugged and yelled, the rest of the team surrounding them, because this meant going to the top of the league, and Conner couldn’t care about anything else.

--