they do so anyway. It’s nothing personal, he understands that. They give him “something for the pain”

but that makes him drowsy, which means he has less time to enjoy with Daniël. They do explain to

him what they are doing and why, but it never really registers. He’s familiar enough with his body to

know that it takes whatever time it takes. He’s been relatively lucky with injuries for most of his

career but once or twice, some problems with his left knee kept him off the pitch for months on end. It

never did him any good to feel sorry for himself, to get impatient. This time is no different than all the

previous ones. The medical staff do their job. One day, most likely sooner than he prefers, he will

remember why he finds himself in this room, in this bed, and he will understand why so many doctors

and nurses walk in and out of this room and talk about him, to him, do things to his body.

He’s truly thankful, though, when he’s deemed ready to take sips of fluid. Water first and very

little of it, but once he has proven he doesn’t choke with the first drops, he gets promoted to juice. The

taste of apple on his tongue. The liquid coolness sliding down his throat. Daniël’s delighted smile

while he watches Steve sip on a flexible straw. It’s not the single best taste in the world, obviously,

but it comes damn close.

No, he isn’t very often alone and awake. But when he is, he thinks of words to say and he says

them. Bit by bit, the old familiarity of using language returns. His throat feels almost normal. His jaw

doesn’t. He knows he no longer has a complete set of teeth, but chooses to ignore it. Some words

probably sound funny when he pronounces them, but what can he do?

His mind thinks Daniël and his mouth says Daniël almost instantly. The ever-moving boy who

learned to sit still for him. Who talks Dutch through his mobile to his parents and little sister and

reads the weather forecast from English newspapers, like he and Steve are planning on taking a trip

this very afternoon. Who cheers like he had just watched his lover scoring a goal because Steve moves

his fingers a little. Who isn’t a saint by far (the red card he got for that trick he pulled during the away

match against Wigan last season had been totally deserved), but who has a heart full of love and

compassion like few others.

It’s time to surprise his lover.

“Daniël?” he simply says it. No huge drama, no waiting for the perfect moment.

And Daniël turns in his direction. “You want to tell me something, love?” He sits down next to

Steve’s bed, touching his hand.

Steve nods, out of words.

“You said the one thing I needed to hear so much. That’s what you wanted to tell me, isn’t it?

My name. You came back to say my name.”

“Daniël.” Steve says it again. “Daniël, my Daniël.”

“Your Daniël. You said that right.” He kisses Steve’s lips.

The warm, intimate silence that follows is all too short.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Are you ready for your sponge bath, Mr Gavan? We’re sure you’ll

also appreciate nice clean sheets and some fresh dressing. It gives us a perfect opportunity to check on

that infection. It did look good, yesterday, so I’m optimistic.”

It’s not a real question. It’s not a real attempt to start a conversation. They, two nurses as usual

for this procedure, are going to increase the amount of morphine via the drip in his arm until he’s gone

enough to be almost indifferent to the pain.

*

“Good to see you awake.” Degaré gently touches his shoulder for a few seconds and smiles at

Steve.

Steve smiles back. At least, he hopes that’s what he’s doing. “Daniël ...” he says. He just has to

say it.

“I know, he told me.” The gaffer understands. “He just went outside for few minutes. I told

him to get some fresh air. Stretch his legs for a bit.”

“Good.”

And it is good. Fresh air makes Daniël’s eyes shine, his voice cheerful. Makes him smell so

wonderful all Steve can do is close his eyes and enjoy the sensation.

“The boys ask if it’s okay to visit you again. They were here when you ...”

“I know.”

If the manager is surprised, he doesn’t show it.

They don’t talk about it, whatever it is they don’t talk about. Still, the silence between them is

not unpleasant. Everything has changed and will not change back to what it was before.

Before...

No, they don’t talk about it. Degaré tells about his four daughters and one grandson. About

madame Degaré. A few anecdotes. A sentimental memory. Enough to give Steve a reminder of the

normal world outside the room he’s in, not enough to make him feel the desperation that’s lurking

from every corner.

“You’re getting tired, non? Is it okay for me to talk to Daniël about who’s going to visit you

during the next days?”

Steve is strangely touched, not only by Degaré assuming the damaged man in the bed still has a

will of his own, but also how he involves Daniël in this decision in such a matter of fact way. It’s only

later that Steve realises what the manager’s words actually implied.

*

By twos, they visit him. Never longer than a few minutes. Daniël is strict about that, even

without a watch. He simply looks at Steve’s face and a short, “Guys ...” is enough. Steve enjoys those

minutes. Even if he reacts with hardly more than nods and smiles, their grumbles about the ref and the

linesman seeing it wrong because Gael was so totally not offside when he scored that goal, fill the

room with something akin to normality.

Francesco brings roses of an almost modest red, and from the expression on his face Steve

knows the boy thinks it’s silly to do such a thing. “The girl in the flower shop said they have an extra

nice smell. Dan told me, well you know, so I thought ...”

Steve simply closes his eyes and for a few seconds, he sits outside in a garden and feels the sun

on his face.

Ray’s tall body and short, short hair make him look boyishly clumsy while he tries to find a

safe way of giving Steve a hug.

“Thank you,” Steve says, and Ray blushes.

Niko shows the latest pictures of his sons and daughter. Flaxen heads and blue eyes: all three

of them. Nope, no question about who’s the daddy.

“Juice. Stacy bought it from this organic thingie shop. Don’t ask me,” Anthony says.

Gabrysz hands Daniël a booklet. “Poems. To read.”

They all bring him something beyond shy smiles and awkward attempts at normality. They

bring him friendship that knows how to remember the questions, but also to realise this isn’t the time

to ask them. They may have their opinions about certain things, but they keep them safely hidden in a

place where they can’t hurt their team-mate. Of course, there are words that are not being said, even if

they are omnipresent. Instead they make jokes about the cute nurses and express their, and it’s honest

too, admiration when Daniël tells them Steve has eaten half a cup of chicken broth. And they all want

to see how he moves the fingers of his left hand.

“Must have taken a lot of practice, from what I hear they did to ...”

Etienne’s words are cut in half by a nervous-sounding Alexandre saying that “Steve must be

very tired by now.”

“Good afternoon, Mr Gavan, Mr Borghart.” A nod to the visitors. “Gentlemen ...”

The reading of the stats. Temperature, blood pressure, what more? The changing of the bags

with fluids and medicines. The changing of the urine bag. The questions about pain and other

discomfort. Sacred routine between nurse and patient.

Steve’s knows now he can hide for the rest of his life and still the monsters will find him.