Chapter Text
REBECCA: It’s a toasty warm first day of July here in London! You’re joining us live from the All England Lawn Tennis & Croquet Club where it is the first day of first round matches at Wimbledon, and things are gearing up to begin. I’m Rebecca Moss with BBC Sports Online, your on-site reporter bringing you the latest on all news Team GB. Joining me today is Gavin Fielders, my fellow Olympic qualifiers correspondent. Happy to have you, Gavin.
GAVIN: Well, I’m happy to be here, Becca. It’s a big day—full of ‘firsts’, as you so interestingly put it. Not the way I would have, personally...
REBECCA: I just read what they tell me to read, Gavin. I know “firsts” might be an unfamiliar concept to you, having never placed yourself in your own Olympic career, but viewers, the road to Paris 2024 is—
GAVIN: [INTERRUPTING, PETULANTLY] The Opening Ceremonies for the 33rd Summer Olympic games may not take place until the 26th, but the air is abuzz here at Wimbledon with confirmed Olympic qualifiers all around the world taking the courts, seeking their own first. First prize. And for some, a first today is just the first step at a first place showing for Team GB in Paris 2024. Not silver, not bronze—that’s the highest placing you’ve ever achieved, right Rebecca?
REBECCA: It’s better than your 19th, but who’s counting? In fact, the only thing I’m counting, Gavin, is counting down the days to Paris 2024. Now tell me, do you think there’s anything to learn here less than a month away from the games?
GAVIN: Well, Becca, while the tennis rankings have already been decided last month for preliminary matches, this tournament is an excellent chance at reevaluating playing styles, refining strategies, and seeing who here at Wimbledon will be the seed to beat this year.
REBECCA: Oh, absolutely, and what a star-studded stadium it is! You can say that three times fast! [LAUGHS]
GAVIN: No, thank you! What a waste of time! We’ve got some royals here at Wimbledon, as always. I see Prince William, only—there’s a glare off his head, I’m not sure—no, yes, that’s William all right. No Kate, shocker, but Princess Charlotte, she’s here. Such a sweetie. Did you know she’s a huge Challengers fan? Ten year olds, they love their Zendaya!
REBECCA: That’s right, Gavin. And there’s Iain Armitage, beloved Young Sheldon actor accompanied by rumored girlfriend, Phoebe Bridgers. Is it rumored, actually? Well. It’s rumored now.
GAVIN: Yikes! And over there, looking like he has no idea where he is, there’s the celebrated American Olympian and twenty-three gold medal winner Michael Phelps, towering over the crowd and looking just absolutely confused that he's currently in London. He… doesn’t blink much, does he?
REBECCA: No, no he does not. And—oh, look, look! There’s A.Z. Fell, IGF’s number 15 ranked golfer and Team GB’s first and only Olympic gold medalist in golf!
GAVIN: What? Where?
REBECCA: Do you see the shockingly blonde gentleman headed this way? The man in the linen suit carrying two mimosas in one hand and a plate of crepes in the other?
GAVIN: Oh, right, yes! [SHOUTING] Fell! Over here, Team GB at BBC Sports Online!
[A.Z. FELL SEES THE REPORTERS AND IMMEDIATELY TURNS IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION]
REBECCA: Fell! That’s the exit!
GAVIN: We made eye contact! That’s basically a promise of an exclusive in this industry!
[FELL RELUCTANTLY TURNS. HE DOWNS ONE OF THE MIMOSAS THROUGH A STRAW AS GAVIN AND REBECCA SHUFFLE THEIR CREW OVER TO WHERE HE IS STANDING]
GAVIN: Good morning, mate, it's good to see you! We’ve reached out—oh, countless times for a quick interview.
REBECCA: Around 30 times, I want to say.
FELL: Ah, yes, you have. Thirty-six times, in fact, and I believe my manager… specifically didn’t respond to your requests.
GAVIN: [LAUGHS] She did not! However, we have it on reliable authority that your manager specifically also manages tennis number four seed and Olympic qualifier, Nina King. We didn’t know you were such a tennis fan!
FELL: Not overwhelmingly so, but. Nina happens to be my goddaughter, and I have always been… oh, just the strongest supporter of her tennis career. While I’ve missed the majority of her tournaments and showcases and ceremonies and invitationals due to my own sport, I’m happy to come to Wimbledon with the sole desire to see her perform and exclusively discuss her tremendous skill in…
[AS FELL SPEAKS, THE CAMERA BRIEFLY RACKS FOCUS ON A SIGN BY REFRESHMENTS STATING ‘BOTTOMLESS MIMOSAS AND CREPES FOR OLYMPIANS’]
FELL: ... Was that all?
REBECCA: [TO THE CAMERA] We’re here with A.Z. Fell, IGF’s number 15 ranked golfer in the world who, as of the 16th, has now officially qualified for the 2024 Paris Olympics representing Team GB. Tell us—what ran through your mind when you got the confirmation that you’re going to the Olympics for the third year in a row?
FELL: [DEJECTEDLY] Mostly ‘dear lord, please don’t let those correspondents from the BBC accost me while I’m trying to eat my crepes’.
GAVIN: Serious question, Fell. No judgment here, but we have to ask. You’re over fifty years old and yet, somehow, you refuse to let go of that top fifteen spot. That’s quite the feat. How do you do it, and how are you planning on continuing to do it all the way to another gold for GB?
FELL: Well, Gavin, I’m blessed enough to be in a profession that requires more skill than brute strength. Golf itself is a rather… old sport, isn’t it? It skews older recreationally because it doesn’t rely on physicality nearly as much as the rest. Now—don’t get me wrong, to be truly excellent, golf requires an exhausting amount of stamina that I’m holding onto with both hands. And some of the best players in the world right now are less than half my age, and headed right to Paris with me. Suffice it to say, some of their newer techniques… well. It’ll certainly be the sport to watch…
GAVIN: [MOUTHING] Only on BBC Sports Online.
FELL: [WITHERINGLY] … Only on BBC Sports Online.
REBECCA: Yes, Fell, but aren’t you tired? I’m tired just looking at you!
[FELL IS SIPPING AT THE OTHER MIMOSA DISTRACTEDLY]
FELL: Oh, I’m never better. Age is but a number. [WINCES] Actually—perhaps you could 'cut' me using that, I could see that being taken out of context quite easily—
GAVIN: You’re far from the only Team GB veteran returning to his roots for the 2024 games, and not quite the oldest one competing, either. You’re beat by Carl Hester for the Dressage team, who’s nearly sixty—
REBECCA: —His horse is only fourteen—
GAVIN: The skateboarder Andy Macdonald, who is making his Team GB debut this year and, quite serendipitously, is older than you by a single day when he was born July 31st, 1973 in… what does this say? Massachusetts? Is that a real word?
REBECCA: [SQUINTS AT CUE CARD] He’s American? I’m not quite sure how that’s allowed—
GAVIN: Right, must be a typo. Then there’s… oh, what’s his name? That weird-smelling one from shooting, he’s gotta be, what, over a hundred—
REBECCA: —Sergeant Shadwell, yes—
GAVIN: —And just the other day and just as combatively, we got the chance to interview Anthony Crowley as he was leaving the restroom at a Starbucks we were camped outside of. Not quite older than you, but it all runs together when you get up above forty, doesn’t it? A few weeks ago he qualified, too, and for Team GB’s only doubles beach volleyball team, to boot! Beach volleyball—that’s a fair bit of physicality for someone who’s nearly fifty himself. He’s a fellow Londoner, have you met him yet?
FELL: [ALREADY WALKING AWAY] No, can’t say I have! What reason could I possibly have to cross paths with the man? Anywho—
GAVIN: Why do you say that?
REBECCA: Ooh, do I detect a scandal?
FELL: What? No, of course not, it's nothing like that! It’s simply that in my line of work… well. If you want to win gold, you can’t find yourself in the sand. [LOOKS SURPRISED] Ooh, that was quite good, wasn’t it?
REBECCA: I thought it was a bit too on the nose.
GAVIN: “Meta”, as the kids these days say.
FELL: [OFF SCREEN] Stop contacting my manager, do take care, and—you’re welcome for the soundbite!
Aziraphale wasn’t expecting to be greeted to Paris with a volleyball to the face, but. That’s French manners for you.
“Oi, duck!”
The warning comes belatedly, so belatedly that in the process of turning his head towards the warning, it puts Aziraphale’s nose in prime position for a direct collision with an Olympic-grade spike. His head knocks back with a muffled curse, bag dropping from his shoulder and hand raising instinctually to press to his stinging face, prodding for breaks. Or if, by the feel of it, his nose had popped clean off like a Mr. Potato Head.
In fairness, a volleyball to the face was not the first thing he was greeted to Paris with—first was the packed arrival at Charles de Gaulle, the airport full of young, excitable Olympians from all over the globe; then was queuing up and checking in at the Olympic Village; then was setting his bags into his tiny, undecorated, blessedly single bedroom; and then was the volleyball to the face on his way to survey the athletic facilities. Aziraphale blinks at his fingers above him, backdropped by the clear blue sky. No blood, at least. It’s a miracle he was passing by the sand courts and not the firing range.
He catches out of his periphery a quickly approaching figure, a man around his age in a black Adidas tracksuit who’s—good lord, barefoot. He reluctantly accepts that he’s about to have a conversation, and steels himself accordingly.
“Sorry, sorry,” the man says, slowing his jog. He’s wearing sunglasses, and beneath them, his face is all scrunched up from the sun’s glare and his own sympathy. “Smarts, doesn’t it?”
“It’s quite all right,” Aziraphale says with a wince and a sniff, giving his nose a couple perfunctory scrunches. He drops his head back down. “It was my fault, I should have been more vigilant about stray volleyballs. Outside of the volleyball court. Flying towards the well-traversed walkways, just several meters from a literal street—”
The man says defensively, “I did say duck.”
Aziraphale replies, offhandedly, “I had hoped you’d meant pâté.”
“And you’re lucky Adam’s just warming up,” he continues, not acknowledging Aziraphale’s quip. “If you’re on the telly with a black eye tomorrow, you’ll have him to thank for that.”
Before Aziraphale can respond, the man leans forward and down, right up into his personal space. He fetches the volleyball and tucks it under his arm, but not before also picking up the duffle bag Aziraphale had dropped and handing it back to him, suspended between them as an offering of sorts. Aziraphale accepts it gratefully.
“Thank you,” he says genuinely. Then, with a frown, “How did you know I’m an athlete?”
Oddly enough, the man looks the slightest bit sheepish. “Recognized you. Team GB, yeah?” He runs a hand through his damp, sweaty hair. It makes the copper strands stick up and out like the stem of a pineapple. “Fell, isn’t it? Golf? You, ah—you got gold, back in Rio.”
“Oh,” Aziraphale says surprisedly. “That was me, yes. I’ve taken… great pains to ensure not many people recognize me.”
The man snorts. “Ships sailed on that one, I’m afraid.” He has one hand perched on his hip, and his voice is matter-of-fact, a bit snarky. “First hole in one at the Olympics. You were inescapable for a bit, there, in London, and—and if you wanted people not to recognize you, you did shit job at it. Clips played on Piccadilly Circus, interviews on Graham Norton, I mean—your face was on the buses and everything!”
“It was,” Aziraphale agrees darkly. “I had to fire my manager for that one.”
The man laughs, an abrupt bark of surprise. He has a pleasant laugh, Aziraphale thinks vaguely, even if it is reminiscent of the squawking of a duck complete with far too many bright, slightly-uneven teeth. And there’s only one demographic that even knows golf got reintroduced to the Olympics in 2016. An even smaller one that knows Aziraphale’s hole in one off the top of his head.
So he says, adjusting the bag on his shoulder, “Which one’s yours, then?”
Two dark, expressive brows hop up over the man’s sunglasses. “Mine?” He asks blankly.
“You know, your…” Aziraphale waves a vague hand over back towards the sand courts, the young men and women volleying back and forth quite amiably in a mish-mash of English and whatever other languages overlap. “The day before the opening ceremony must be emotional, a bit like a dorm move-in, I'd imagine? It feels like one, anyway. I’m sure you’re quite proud.”
Understanding dawns on the man’s face. “You think I’m one of the dads,” he breathes.
“…Well,” Aziraphale replies, suddenly nervous, “You mentioned an ‘Adam’, but I suppose—perhaps coach should have been my first guess—”
Without further explanation, the man sticks the volleyball between his thighs and unzips his jacket, revealing a white dri-fit v-neck beneath, with a red-and-blue geometric pattern decorating it in a minimalist redesign of the British flag. The same shirt Aziraphale, himself, has tucked away in his duffle bag. And that’s when he notices the logo at the left breast of the shirt itself—’Team GB, Paris 2024’. The picture it paints is simultaneously damning, confusing, and utterly mortifying.
Aziraphale says, quite dumbly, “You’re one of the athletes.”
He leaves his jacket unzipped. “So I’ve been told.”
“But you’re so…”
The man raises his brows, again, tilting his head forward and to the side. Like he’s more interested in what manner of insult is about to leave Aziraphale’s mouth, more than anything else. Aziraphale cuts off what he wants to say, and settles on something far more diplomatic.
“…experienced,” he finishes flatly.
He snorts. “Cheers. I’ve seen better saves than that. Face-first, mouth open, right in the sand.”
“I suppose I don’t need to ask you what sport you play.”
“You can, if you’d like.” He holds out a hand, wiping it first on his trousers. “Beach volleyball. And fellow Team GB, if you couldn’t tell. Name’s Anthony Crowley.” There’s a tattoo on his face. What sort of middle-aged Olympian has a tattoo on his face? “Just go by Crowley, though. Like Bond.”
Aziraphale takes his hand, brow quirking. “Like whom?”
Crowley’s mouth drops open in outrage.
He’s cut off with a whistle from behind them. A young man with curly sweat-mussed hair in a sleeveless tee is calling Crowley back over, squinting over to them confusedly. He’s quite tall, and has bright pink athletic tape criss-crossing over his right, tanned bicep. Crowley makes a whistling sound through his teeth and, like a football goalie, lugs the volleyball the boy's way with both arms over his head.
“Right, yeah,” he says, half-turning back around. “That’s my partner, I should…”
“Oh,” Aziraphale says slowly, and then again, in realization: “Oh.” He thought he’d been picking up on a certain ‘aura’ with the man, if the shaved chest at the v-neck and anklet had anything to do with it.
In a sudden panic, Crowley does the verbal equivalent of stumbling over his feet, falling face-first, mouth full of sand. “Oh, god, not my partner partner, I’m—that’s Young. Not—not actually young, that’s his name, I mean—okay, yes, he is young, he’s 22, but his name is Adam Young, too, so. 'S only going to line up for so long.” It’s hard to tell with the glasses, but Crowley seems to be purposefully avoiding eye contact. “No age gap relationship here, though. Namely—okay, poor phrasing, it’s because we’re not in a relationship in the first place for it to have an age gap. Would be fucked up, wouldn’t it? Power dynamics and all. I’d be a victim, he’d—he’d bloody eat me alive.”
“Erm,” Aziraphale says, trying (and failing) to keep up with it all. “…All right? I’m sorry, are you trying to tell me that you’re—”
“—unattached.” At that, Crowley does meet his eyes, and while the precise color of them aren’t clear, the directness of them as striking as a—well. Some metaphors are a bit too obvious. Crowley tacks on, just as awkward as the rest, “Without a partner sort of partner.”
Aziraphale blinks. “I see.”
“Single, some would say.”
“I believe I gathered that, yes.” Aziraphale feels his face scrunch up, and he hesitates. “Pardon me, is this your attempt at… that is, if you’re trying to proposition me, there’s better ways to do it than attempting to kill me—”
“No, no, christ, I’m not, I’m just—” Crowley seems pained that he’s still talking, but unable to get himself to stop. “I’m by myself, I mean, no sort of—no parent moving me into my room, no family tickets. No coach, either. No one in my corner.”
This conversation has rapidly taken a bewildering turn, if it was ever 'wildering' in the first place. Aziraphale nods back to the court pointedly. “You play doubles with someone in your corner.”
“Singly, yeah. And I’m being called back from him, quite rudely, but—” Crowley licks his lips quickly, both hands on his hips, now. He seems oddly nervous, moreso than whatever frenetic energy seems to cling to the man already. He says, “It’s brutal out there, when you don’t have family to come out and see you play, or cheer from home, or—I don’t know, even tweet about you. And—and I know how lonely it can be, is all I’m saying. Being a veteran at this sort of thing, too. And I just…” He nods, once, almost perfunctory. “I just wanted you to know that.”
Aziraphale’s face goes blank. Something hard tightens in the pit of his stomach. “You’re referring to what happened in Tokyo,” he says.
“Um,” Crowley says, suddenly finding the sky fascinating. “‘M not sure I know what happened in Tokyo? Exactly?”
“Oh, of course,” Aziraphale assures him loudly, a bit too acidic, “So you’re not referring to my very public meltdown on the green in 2021 that caused me to have to forfeit. That’s not something you had seen on one of those buses of yours, back in London?” Aziraphale leans forward to hiss spitefully, “Tell me—was it livestreamed on the Circus, too? Graham Norton? I know the BBC didn’t show it, but did an audience member get it on blasted YouTube?”
“That’s not—I was there in Japan with you, actually, I was coaching, but—I have no idea what, uh, you’re referring to—”
“I thank you for your concern,” Aziraphale says impersonally, giving him a tight smile and shucking his bag up higher on his shoulder, “But I don’t need your pity, and I certainly don’t need a therapist. Good luck at your event.”
“Well, you—the therapist would probably be a good idea, actually, independent of all this, but I really wasn’t trying to—”
Aziraphale doesn’t hear the rest of it. He’s already turned around and left.
At dinner, Aziraphale has a staring match with the Village restaurant’s buffet counter.
It’s healthy. Of course it’s healthy, and Aziraphale certainly has nothing against healthy food, but. Rows and rows of lettuce and carrots and cabbage and spinach and—and whole-wheat croutons are not nearly substantial enough to satisfy over ten thousand athletes in need of proper sustenance. It’s—it’s irresponsible, is what it is. Downright negligent. He’d have a conversation with one of the vendors if the French accent didn’t make him want to start an international diplomatic conflict.
He feels someone brush up beside him, taking a moment to survey the sorry selection, too. “The kale-pear slaw looks quite good,” Maggie eventually says in a gentle voice. She always has a gentle voice, unless she has a mimosa in her. “You like pears.”
Aziraphale does like pears. But his mind wanders from him, as it oft does anytime he’s not standing on the green. “I’m too old,” he begins slowly, apropos of nothing.
“Erm,” Maggie says. “For kale-pear slaw? I think you’re just the right demographic for it, actually.”
Aziraphale twists his mouth together, pushing out his lips. He’s moved to staring down the dried cranberries, stuck together in clumps, his hands curled together at the small of his back. “I’m simply too old to be just… waiting around for the 1st, surrounded by all the youth. Bright-eyed, fit, mistaking me for a judge and trying to bribe me—”
“Your event isn’t for another week,” Maggie assures him. “By then, half of the athletes will have been sent home, at least . You know the ones with teams start early, prune the bulk of them out. Water polo, rugby, hockey—weird one for summer, but, erm—I think football even starts today—”
“And what about volleyball?” He asks, cutting her off.
“Volleyball?” She asks confusedly.
“Of the beach variety,” he adds. “When do they start getting… eliminated?”
“Oh! I believe the first day, too, but let me…” She flips through her clipboard. That’s why Aziraphale likes Maggie so much as his manager; she sticks to clipboards in a world of tablets. That’s also why she frequently misses brand deal meetings and fails to get him public appearances—another point in her favor. She says, “Yes, prelims for beach volleyball start on the 27th, go through August 3rd until the finals begin.”
“Men’s too?”
“Yes, men’s—” She lifts her brows, lips curling into a silent ‘oh’. “Are you asking about a… particular athlete?”
Aziraphale tilts his head back witheringly. He had expected this. “No, I’m most decidedly not, and even if I was there’s no need to make a fuss—”
“You are—!”
Another presence materializes at his other side, reaching out to fetch herself a plate. “Pip pip, Team GB,” Nina greets in her usual lackluster, drenched-in-irony way. “What strategies are we strategizing today?”
“Ah, hello, Nina. I believe Maggie was just telling me about a program called Yellowjackets, that sounds like something for the two of you to talk about away from me—”
Maggie leans forward to inform Nina, quite remarkably, “He’s asking about another athlete.” A pointed pause. “A male athlete.”
Aziraphale grimaces. “You don’t have to emphasize the male—”
“Oh, congratulations,” Nina says flatly, loading up her plate with all sorts of leaf greens and dried fruit. The thing about Nina is that she finds so little joy in most of the world, she can eat flavorless grass without having it affect her negatively. Given that everything already affects her negatively. She tosses over her shoulder, quite casually, “You shagging him yet?”
“I beg your absolute pardon—”
“What? It’s what you do, isn’t it?” Nina waves her salad tongs vaguely around, still not turning around. “You go to the Olympics, you find someone to shag, they never talk to you again, you mope around for—yeah, for four years, give or take. It happened in 2016—”
“Your mother needs to learn proper conversational topics to have with her daughter—”
“It happened in 2021—”
“We were all COVID tested, and—and you can blame those damned beds, and the private saunas—”
“And it’ll happen this year, too. Mark my words.” Nina half-turns at that, her braids tied up in her usual high tail. Her thick fabric hair tie has little Union Jacks on it that match the red of her tank-and-shorts tennis set. She gives Maggie one of her rare smiles. “I forgot to say hello. Hello.”
Maggie has smiles in spades. The one she gives Nina in return is brilliant. “Hi.”
Aziraphale argues weakly, one last attempt at defending himself, “I simply don’t think that two times makes any sort of pattern you can presuppose with any level of certainty.”
“Yeah, no, you’re right. Three times makes a pattern,” Nina agrees.
“Yes, precisely what I mean. Now…” He really tries to hold it in, he really, really does, but Aziraphale’s life’s curse is saying things he ought not to say because his urge to nag is as close to an animalistic instinct as a human being can get. “At your age, you wouldn’t understand what it’s like for people like me—”
“Oh, I don’t know what it’s like?”
“I’m merely saying it’s different for women—”
“I’ve been out since middle school and you don’t think I know what it means to have a limited dating pool—”
“Throw a stone into a women’s locker room and try not to hit a lesbian—”
“And you think men’s gymnastics isn’t a live Grindr convention—?”
“And I’m gay!” Aziraphale says firmly, far too loud, causing a few passing athletes with food trays to give him strange looks. And while Aziraphale’s not closeted, hasn’t been for years, there’s a time and a place for these sorts of discussions and it isn’t dinner at the Olympic Village when he’s trying to keep a low profile. He hushes his voice, “And at my age with my level of public scrutiny, it’s nearly impossible to find a man who—who understands, so. I would thank you to keep my proclivities down.”
“No, go on, I think you should say you’re gay louder,” Nina says encouragingly, not interacting at all with the rest of what he said. “You know your stylist has been dying to put you in some earrings. He wants you to be—Mags, what did he say? He wants Fell to be—”
“—the Elton John of the summer Olympics, yeah,” Maggie finishes helpfully.
“You could be Elton John!” Nina tells him in faux-excitement.
The stylist has been trying to put him in feathers for years. Aziraphale shudders the thought of it away. “I’m not interested in a particular athlete,” he says with finality, entirely truthful. “I am the opposite of interested in a particular athlete. I am here to get another gold medal and leave, hopefully without dying of starvation before I do, and that’s that. Now,” Aziraphale tilts his head to Maggie. “You sought me out, my dear, and I would really much rather prefer to imagine it wasn't to speculate on my bedroom habits. Is there anything you’d like to share with me?”
“Hm? Oh, yes! We’ve had a few brands reach out, wanting to sponsor the both of you. Let's see... ah, yes—Nina, Adidas wants you completely kitted out. Every win, they’ll increase their sponsor amount by 50%. And Mr. Fell, I just got an email from Cobra, they want to send you one of their 2024 line of putters and will pay you per hole you use it on during your tournament. Your current putter is from their 2022 line, same model.”
“That sounds… reasonable,” Aziraphale says cautiously.
“Very normal brand request,” Nina agrees slowly. “Well? What did you say?”
Maggie gives a loud bark of a laugh. “I told them both no, of course!” She waves a hand, giggling to herself like the answer was obvious. “How unoriginal! The both of you deserve to stand out, not blend into the rest of the athletes! I mean—do you want to be wearing the same expensive things everyone else is wearing, using the same expensive gear everyone else is using, and getting paid tens of thousands of dollars to do it?”
“No, of course, we don’t want that,” Aziraphale agrees.
“Sounds like hell,” Nina says.
“But never fear! I did, however, reach out to the American brand ‘Vera Bradley’ to see if they’d send the two of you quilted backpacks to wear to and from the competition. The patterns are absolutely adorable, so, hopefully—fingers crossed—if they sign on, they’ll send a third one, too!” Maggie looks between the both of them expectantly, smile slightly waning at the responding silence. “You don’t seem very excited about that.”
Aziraphale and Nina share a significant look.
“No, no, I am,” Nina assures her.
“Sounds—sounds absolutely apt for brand deals regarding tennis and golf, yes,” Aziraphale assures her warmly. “Let us know when they get back to you.”
Having a technologically-inept manager without an eye for branding and a tendency to forget meetings might be a problem to most athletes. But for Aziraphale and Nina, the arrangement works out without a hitch. Nina, for instance, has a hopeless enamoration with the girl and has more than enough income from her wins to have to rely on brand deals. And Aziraphale—well. Maggie uses pencil for her clipboard calendar, and he wields an eraser just as skillfully as he does a putter.
Aziraphale’s stomach rumbles. He looks back to the vegetables forlornly, before a hand slaps onto his bicep and squeezes.
“You’re looking at the salad bar,” Nina informs him through a mouthful of whole-grain croissant. She pats his arm, once, then releases him. “Meat, cheese, and pastry stations are to the left. And they’re serving sushi at the Asian cuisine station today.”
Aziraphale could cry. “Oh, praise be,” he sighs emphatically, letting Maggie lead him away.
It’s nearly midnight when Aziraphale leaves the sports complex.
He immediately spots Anthony Crowley at the same sand court from this morning, only he’s alone this time, blurrily illuminated by the warm lamp above him and the bright, ambient lighting from the nearby tennis courts. He’s got a bin of volleyballs beside him, and he has his jacket tied around his narrow waist by the sleeves. He’s standing at one corner of the court, one leg forward in ready position, rocking back and forth as though preparing himself.
Then, after one deep, balming breath, Crowley moves.
Aziraphale watches as he tosses the ball across the court in a slow, high arc. It goes long—he has to sprint past the opposite sideline to save it with a sharp, flailing spike over the net, before tumbling into the sand with an audible oof! He immediately pushes up onto his elbows to watch the volleyball fly to the vacant opposite end of the court like the stab of a dagger.
It lands less than an inch from the baseline in a spray of sand. It’s in. Aziraphale raises his brows in a begrudgingly impressed sort of surprise.
It seems like a victorious moment enough. But Crowley just drops entirely to his back, head against the sand, and lets out another huff of breath. He looks to the night sky for a moment, stars imperceptible in the haze of Paris, and unlike earlier, his glasses are off—this far away, Aziraphale can’t quite see the color of his eyes. The sand on his side of the court has noticeable collisions disheveling them, like craters. Like he’s been at this for a while.
It has to hurt for anyone, but especially for someone their age, Aziraphale thinks. Having to fall again, and again, and again.
Crowley lifts the bottom hem of his shirt to scrub over his face, ridding the sweat from his eyes. The damp, lithe lines of his abdomen reflect the orange glow from above him in angular juts, the shadows beneath him cool and cloudy like a darkening bruise. Then Crowley drops his hands and, with a loud sound of exertion, rocks back up to his feet and grabs another volleyball from the bin. Once more, he readies himself at the end line.
Aziraphale looks for another moment. Then, once his aches and pains can’t be ignored any longer, he turns and heads back to the Village.