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Stallions jostling down
The verdant pitch, uprooting
Blades of grass, rivals
-#131, In Blue Solitudes, S. Wilson-Osaki
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Little more than a strip of green sandwiched between former cloisters on the beach road, the calcio “playing field” had no goal posts, no benches, and no lines. Nothing to distinguish it from, say, Seb’s front lawn, other than its postcard-pretty surroundings and the motley group at its center.
As he and the ladies paraded down the center of the road, high-chinned and haughty as visiting royalty, flocks of tourists parted to laugh, to wave, to cheer, or just to gawk. True daughters of New Orleans, the ladies had bedecked themselves in their most colorful dresses and hats, with shell and dried chili necklaces in place of beads and feathers. In her tasseled flapper-style dress and severe head-banned bob, Ceri channeled Louise Brooks via the French Quarter. With exaggerated makeup and sequined everything, Kath was a parade float come to life. Maya, meanwhile, played mysterious in jewel tones with a harlequin mask on the end of a lorgnette (formerly a selfie stick). Seb’s wardrobe didn’t quite match their level of flash, but he’d donned what he nicknamed his centurion sarong with a see-through tank and wrapped a few chilies around his man bun. Though he faked it till he made it, part of him wondered if the players would ban them from the field for being too out there.
He needn’t have worried.
Saturday-morning soccer proved to be quite the enterprise for the makeshift team. Some ran laps while others spread chalk. A few stretched. The referee distributed kerchiefs to designate sides, and two lumbersexuals took care of the goal posts. Deck chairs had already been divided into color-coded groups that made for a bisected Italian flag, white/red or green/black.
“I hope they have a ‘fabulous’ section,” Kath declared as they veered off onto the grass, a few curious tourists straggling in their wake.
“Or a fainting couch.” Maya’s mask dropped as she ogled the man candy. “I do declare. Why hasn’t Andrea introduced us to any of these friends before now?”
“Because they don’t play for your team,” Ceri reminded her in her best Dorothy Parker drawl. “Mine, however...”
A healthy sprinkling of women peppered both sides, one of which, Seb noticed, was Lucia. Generalissimo Matto, eager to play mascot, zipped around the field, barking orders at the setup crew.
Seb nudged Ceri with his elbow. “You should go thank her. For yesterday.”
She stared him down over the top edge of her sunglasses. “I didn’t realize auditions for the part of Yente in Fiddler on the Roof were still open.”
“I’m paying it forward.” Seb winked in Maya’s direction. “Learned from the best.”
“Oh, come now,” Kath clucked. “With instincts like yours, you must be self-taught.” She caught her sister mid-eye-roll to urge, “You heard the man. Go talk to her!”
Ceri huffed. “No need to light a fire. Unlike this one, my groove hasn’t gone anywhere. Watch and learn.”
The beaded fringe of her dress tinkled as she shimmied over to Lucia.
“Where’s your beau, cher?” Maya inquired.
“Incoming.” Seb was relieved Andrea’s smile reached all the way up to his eyes. “And don’t call him that.”
“Sweetie,” Kath whispered, “you need to scratch off the ‘Now’ and make him Mr. Right. Just look at those—”
“Signore!” Andrea welcomed them with smooches and hugs that almost turned Seb the color of the turf. But then he used his cheering squad as a shield for some alone time with Seb’s best sarong-clad asset, and all was forgiven. “And you, Sebastiano? I see you got your beauty rest.”
Andrea, short a driver since he’d sidelined his Cousin Bruno, had snuck out around 5:00 a.m. for three airport runs before the game. Seb wasn’t sure if he was more impressed by his dedication or how delectable he looked after three hours’ sleep.
“I hope your play is as smooth as your tongue, Sorrentino.”
“You’ll have to let me know after the match.”
“That’s a promise.”
A chorus of “oohs” from his squad heralded the rest of the players, who begged introductions from Andrea and admired their flamboyant fashion. Magnanimous as ever, Andrea introduced Seb to 80 percent of the gay men in Amalfi without a flicker of hesitation. Seb wasn’t sure whether to be concerned or impressed by this show of confidence. He was too preoccupied with watching for signs of which, if any, were former lovers. Not that he had any right to be jealous.
Not that that had ever stopped him before.
After a playful argument over whose side they would cheer for, Seb and the ladies settled into their red-and-white seats, parasols deployed against the noontime sun. Ceri, having completed her first round of flirtation, passed around a flask of gin because in Amalfi, it was never too early.
The players took their sides, huddling up to discuss strategy. Only then did Seb realize he didn’t even know what Andrea played. He made a game of guessing as the ladies picked their favorites, trying to relate each position to bedroom preference. Seb ended up biting a knuckle to stifle his laughter, which did not go unnoticed by his hawkeyed companions.
“Are you going to join in the festivities, cher? Or is your private party invite-only?” Maya asked, side-eye in full effect.
Seb gave them the Andrea-less version of his theory. The resulting cackles got them scolded by the ref.
“So center forward, most dominant? Something like that?” Kath queried.
“I was thinking more willing to go the distance for as long as it takes to get you there,” Seb replied.
“But not inventive,” Maya added.
“No. That’s a halfback. Has to be everything to everyone, so has all the skills.”
“Sounds like my ex-husband,” Kath chuckled. “And I mean everyone.”
Ceri gave her shoulder a squeeze.
“Striker hammers it out, no muss, no fuss, no foreplay.” Seb smirked at their collective groan.
“Been there,” Ceri said.
“Wore the T-shirt,” Maya agreed.
“Defense...” Kath rubbed her hands together. “Hmm. I’m guessing good, giving, and game.”
Seb nodded. “It’s not a glamour position. But sweeper’s the one you really want on your side. Or, er, between your sheets.”
“Can I just say this is the most fun I’ve ever had watching competitive sports?” Ceri commented.
Ignoring her sister, Kath asked Seb, “And why is that, sugar?”
“Because they go the extra mile. They’re the last line of defense, the ones who get you out of the tightest spots. You have to make sure to think of their needs because all they think of is you.”
“Oh, my!” Maya fanned herself. “I like a bit more steel in my partners, but every so often, a lady has to treat herself.”
“Sweepers live to serve,” Seb confirmed.
They fell silent a moment, each daydreaming intimate scenarios with their preferred player position. The trill of the whistle shocked them out of their reverie.
“Game’s about to start,” Kath urged. “Goalie.”
“Puts up a wall and won’t let anything through. Aloof. Arrogant. Technically proficient—so the sex might be hot, but he’s out of bed the second you’re done.”
“Genius, cher.” Maya bussed him on the cheek.
“I think you mean ‘Gerardo,’” Kath teased.
“I smell a self-help book,” Ceri complimented. “Maybe you’ve got some love guru in you after all.”
“He’s like a genie,” Maya added. “Give him a good, long rub—”
“Hold the phone, ladies.” Kath eyed them each in turn, tongue tucked in the corner of her lip like the cat that got the cream. “Predictions. Which one is Bello Andrea?”
They all turned to Seb, who smiled with Buddha-like serenity. “All will be revealed.” He waved his hands toward the field with a magician’s flourish.
They played eight a side: one center, two wings, one halfback, two defense, a sweep, and a goalie. A heated debate preoccupied the defensive line of Andrea’s team until the first bleep of the whistle, then, as Seb secretly predicted, Andrea backed up toward the goal to placate the other two. A sweep, then.
Seb straightened in his seat, fighting an ear-to-ear grin. The ladies waved and cheered for Andrea, each stealing a moment to wink at Seb. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Vai, vai! Bianco e rosso!” Then a coin was flipped, the ball passed, and the game was on.
The advantage ping-ponged back and forth the first part of the half as the teams found their rhythm. The players knew each others’ strengths and weaknesses too well, and most still worked off a hangover. Andrea’s steady gaze locked on to the ball, but it didn’t come close to penetrating past either team’s line of defense.
Not invested in the outcome beyond Andrea having a good game, Seb had no complaints. Especially given the view. In team colors, Andrea somehow soared to a whole new level of handsomeness. If Seb ever saw him in a tux, he might pass out.
But a James Bond he wasn’t. Or a Henry Wilson, for that matter. The real Andrea Sorrentino had a hundred acquaintances but few real friends, compromised his dream to support his mother and sister, stuck his hand into a laboring horse to save her colt. Advertised for local businesses but confided hard truths to the discerning tourist. Chided his cousin for lack of work ethic but played hooky on occasion. Had a reputation for being a hard-ass at the taxi rank but conceded to his teammates on the soccer field. A generous, compassionate, vibrant man Seb had gotten to know far better than a vacation fling.
“I take it, Agent Osaki, that Operation Stella is nearing completion?” Maya whispered to him when Kath and Ceri moved to the sideline to perform a cheer from their high school days. Because of course Kath had been on a squad.
“The first mission was a definite win for our side,” Seb cagily replied, “but the outcome remains unpredictable.”
“Regrets?”
“No, no. Just...” He struggled to explain, hiding behind the metaphor. “I got more intel than I know what to do with, I guess.”
“You’re going in again?”
Seb smiled to himself. “Oh, yeah. As soon as possible.”
Maya inhaled deeply, considering.
“Don’t lose sight of your objective: fun. Getting back to yourself but also becoming the new you. Find a happy medium between your inner Michael and Brian. As for the outcome... that’s kind of inevitable, isn’t it? So watch yourself.” Her gaze drifted over to the field. “It’s not like you don’t have options.”
Seb ignored the flare of panic the thought of multiple vacation flings sent up. He really was a Michael at heart. “I prefer to go out on a win.”
“One-man guy? I get you.”
“Again with the Rufus Wainwright.”
“Ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” She patted him on the knee, then squeezed. “Take care with that one. He’s a sweep, after all.”
Seb couldn’t help a bawdy laugh. “You have no idea.”
At the halftime whistle, the teams huddled around their respective water coolers to discuss strategy. Kath surreptitiously passed around the flask, not wanting to distract the players with the promise of libations. Given the looks of intense concentration on their faces when they were supposed to be relaxing, Seb was pretty sure most would have refused on principle. The Gods of Calcio might smite anyone indulging in a little hair of the dog.
The snarl of a motorbike engine broke through the hum of the coastal road traffic. A spike of panic shot up Seb’s spine. He glanced up in time to see three bikes ripping down the hillside Via Matteo Camera. Helmetless and hell-bent, they skidded around cars and up side walls before disappearing into a small tunnel. Seb was on his feet before he knew it, tracking them while trying to rein in his galloping heart. Horn blasts, tire squeals, and cursing heralded their demolition derby through the Piazza Flavio Gioia.
Against traffic they bombed down the Via Lungomare dei Cavalieri, seconds from the soccer field. One jackknifed onto the beachside boardwalk to honk its way through groups of tourists. Another streaked by at breakneck speed, popping a wheelie.
“Move!” Everything in Seb screamed at him to flee; instead Maya dragged him onto the field seconds before one of the bikes crashed through the back row of chairs.
“Ricchioni!” Andrea’s cousin Bruno shouted before spitting on the grass.
The other two bikers zoomed over, armed with bushels of tomatoes they stole from a vendor. Jeering and calling them homophobic slurs that needed no translation, they pelted the red-and-white players with the ripe, squishy fruit. Seb stood paralyzed, every tomato blast like a stone on his chest. His throat cinched and his feet leaden, he fought for every gasp, powerless as Cousin Bruno and his gang of hooligans bullied his friends.
Brave little Matto, the only one able to dodge the tomatoes, charged at them, diving for their tires. When one of them tried to kick him back, Matto chomped down on his ankle. The driver’s howl distracted the others long enough for Andrea and his gang to spring into action, grabbing the water cooler and drenching Bruno with it. A parasol-wielding Kath stalked up to the third biker and swatted him until he sped off.
At Lucia’s whistle, calling Matto to heel, the scarred biker took a powder, leaving only drenched, furious Bruno versus a livid crowd. Both teams assembled to berate him, with Andrea the soprano of the discordant choir. Seb’s throat unclenched when he spied Andrea winding up his arm for a slap. Sucking in a few lungfuls of air, Seb shoved through the crowd, grabbing Andrea by the wrist just in time.
Andrea shot him a death look, then, when he saw who it was, deflated. Muttering a curse under his breath, he gave Bruno a final warning in Italian, then instructed his teammates to let him go. With a few choice hand gestures and a defiant rev of his engine, Bruno peeled off to terrorize more tourists.
“You all right?” Andrea asked him, half of his face splattered with tomato gore. “You’ve gone gray.”
“Says the Phantom of the Soccer Field.” Seb reached up to slick back a dripping forelock. “Did he get you in the head? Let me grab a towel.”
The ladies were already on the case, distributing face wipes and Tide to Go to the “wounded.” By the time Seb nabbed some, Andrea had been drawn aside by some of the other players. The clench to his jaw and the tension in his brow told Seb he was once again bearing the burden of his cousin’s crimes. Seb bristled in sympathy, wishing he’d spent more time with those Italian language tapes.
The familiar scent of a Gauloise heralded Ceri, who fell in beside him. She offered him a haul; touched, he took it. Only then did he notice Matto in her arms, blood—or more likely tomato—on his mouth. He craned his head over her shoulder to growl at the traffic, eager for round two.
“They’re not calling the police,” Ceri sighed, and Seb understood why she’d sought him out. The thought seared hotter than the smoke across his tongue. He expelled both in a long, controlled stream.
“I’m guessing it’s not the first time.”
“Give the man a prize.”
Seb nodded, fighting to dispel the echo of screeching tires from his mind.
“Sometimes the only thing to do is... move past it.”
Ceri snatched back her cigarette with a sharp tug, took a long drag. “Too damn often.”
As if on cue, the referee’s whistle trilled, and the players jogged back into position.
Two hours later all lingering fears or worries had been silenced, Italian-style, by good company and other earthly pleasures.
Seb popped another fried calamari into his mouth, savoring the salty, briny crunch. Washed it down with a sip of espresso. Not as satisfying as a swig of beer, but if he wanted to keep up with his slick-haired Italian jock—and getting Andrea alone dominated his thoughts as much as the white-and-red team had the match—he had to counteract all that gin. With that in mind, Seb scooped up a few oysters and headed out to the small piazza for some air.
The calcio club’s weekly afterparty had taken over a grotty hole-in-the-wall backstreet café no over-baked tourist would dare invade. Like the best local watering holes, the dim lights, threadbare tables and booths, and overabundance of neon signs promised little except for low-low prices and shady corners in which to make mischief. Seb wished he could lure Andrea into one, but his sexy sweep busied himself with—what else?—making sure everyone was happy.
One could be forgiven for assuming Andrea was part of the wait staff. He ferried trays of food from the kitchen while the actual waiter chatted up Kath and fetched drinks from the overwhelmed bartender. Like the perfect host, every spare moment found him checking on one of the groups, during which someone would inevitably lead him to the side for a private airing of grievances. He’d spent a good twenty minutes in the washroom looking over the hero of the day, Matto, despite Lucia’s protests. Andrea even kept an appointment schedule in his pocket so he could pencil in someone’s ailing pet.
Work hustle Seb understood. Those odd jobs paid the bills. But Andrea hadn’t sat down since they arrived almost two hours ago, and Seb considered staging an intervention.
He couldn’t, of course, and not just because of how it would look, even in an LGBTQ-friendly crowd. He had no claim on Andrea and never would. To demand more intimacy from him while plotting to steal him away for the night was beyond spoiled brat. Anything Seb did or said would live on for Andrea post-tryst. Seb felt the responsibility of that as heavily as he imagined Andrea did his duty to his friends and family.
Which was not to say Seb minded when someone nicked the last oyster from his plate.
“Your ladies know how to enjoy themselves,” Andrea remarked, leaning on the same pillar as Seb.
Seb watched him slurp down his oyster, the bob of his Adam’s apple doing things to his concentration. He tore away his stare to pick out the ladies in the crowd. Done with the waiter, Kath sat in a circle of younger players, holding court with den-mother fondness. Maya whooped it up at the bar with four studs. Seb hoped for her sake at least one of them was bi. At the far end, Ceri downed shots and made goo-goo eyes at Lucia, whom he fully expected to find at breakfast the next morning. Matto snoozed under Lucia’s stool, looking like he’d already had one too many.
He shrugged. “Amalfi.”
Andrea laughed, hip-checked him. “You’re learning.”
“From the best.”
“And you? Not so good with crowds?”
“I was looking for my date.”
“He left you alone? With all these hot guys around? Bastardo.”
Seb snorted. “I know! Temptation everywhere I turn. He’s lucky I’m not like that.”
“Oh? Like what?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I think maybe I would. Perhaps we can go somewhere... quieter.” Andrea pushed off the pillar, turned so they were face-to-face. Leaned in suggestively, making the most of Seb’s slumped posture. Dark glints of desire flecked his eyes as he locked them on Seb. “You could show me.”
A slow smile spread across Seb’s lips, but he held his tongue. Waited for the air to sizzle, for Andrea to blink, for the kiss to come. Reading Seb like the skilled player he was, Andrea resisted, hovering just close enough for their skin to tingle, their breaths to quicken, their bodies to arch toward each other, linked together by the invisible current that had powered up the moment they’d met. Eagerness and arousal zapped every nerve to attention, the pull of their attraction magnetizing Seb. They fought against it, thrilling at the buzz of tension in every muscle, every limb—all building toward a sensual lightning strike.
Andrea winced, shuddered. Inched closer, his resolve shaking. Seb deepened his smile, moved to meet him—
The trill of a cell phone broke the spell. Andrea sighed, dug into his pocket. The green light of the screen turned his Italian coloring a jaundiced shade as he took in the name. He cursed, then answered, giving Seb an apologetic squeeze on the arm before pacing farther into the piazza.
“Si, Zia.”
Seb understood the exchange that followed through Andrea’s expressions, first sympathy, then anger, then exasperation, then finally acceptance, all peppered with several guilty glances in Seb’s direction. In short his evening had just been ruined. The string of muttered curses he spat out after hanging up did nothing to correct Seb’s reading of the conversation. Neither did Andrea’s face when he turned back to him.
Seb held his hands up in a pacifying gesture. “It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not.”
“He’s your cousin. He’s family. I get it.”
“How did you know?”
“Have I neglected to mention my latent psychic ability?”
Andrea didn’t even smirk. “Does that mean you can strangle someone without putting your hands on them?”
“That’s telekinesis, so no.” He approached Andrea cautiously, wary of poking an angry bear. Instead this one turned cuddly the moment he offered him his arms. “Can I see you after?”
He saw Andrea consider and reject a dozen scenarios in less than a minute. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“How you feel about meeting my family.”
To his surprise, no pinch of nervous panic stabbed Seb between the eyes. “How would you feel about that?”
He felt Andrea start, straighten in his arms. “After this afternoon, you would be okay with it?”
“I don’t scare that easy. And Bruno’s not your entire family. Anyway, your mom sounds amazing. Especially her food. Will there be food?”
At that, Andrea did laugh. “Enough to fill a second stomach.”
“Sounds great to me. But... tell me the truth, Dre. Are you ready for this?”
“I...” A war of expressions battled across his face, too many for Seb to track. But the victorious one made Seb’s heart swell a little too big for his chest. “I don’t want to miss a night with you. Maybe it’s stupid of me to admit that, but... it’s true.”
If there was any stupid between them, it was the grin on Seb’s face. It was delving deeper into the whirlpool of this man’s life with no tether to reel Seb back in.
“Then what’s the plan?”
“We need to get going. We’re catching the ferry to Capri.”