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Trent steps up onto the treadmill. The gym’s still only half-full but everyone’s in their usual spot, Mo and Cody and Kostas doing hip flexors and Virgil and Andy wrestling in the corner. It’s a cool January morning, and the music’s the usual Arabic stuff Trent’s coming to like more and more.
Dominik appears at his left, a water bottle in his hand.
“What you doing?”
Ibou takes the bike on the far-side to Trent’s right. Curtis and Harvey lob a basketball at his head and they all duck.
“Warming up,” Trent says, biting back a smirk and pulling the bottle from his grip to take a sip. “Don’t gotta ask surely, what are you doing?”
“Warming up as well,” Dominik says, cocking his head to the machine next to him. “Can I take that one?”
Later, as they’re heading back inside, sweat-soaked and muscles on fire after five sets of rondos, Dominik catches him with an arm around his neck from behind.
“Want to come over?”
It’s probably a terrible idea, especially all the way where Dominik lives. Trent’s not exactly feeling for a drive that far-away when he wants to get fit for Norwich. Andy’s looking over at him from where he’s rolling his socks down, an amused face that Trent hates the look of.
“Mine,” Trent says, and claps Dominik on the arm. “Much easier.”
Dominik pouts for a moment, patting him back, before he skips over behind Andy and Harvey with a wink in Trent’s direction.
*
It’s not even like a thing.
Trent barely thinks about it beyond sex. It’s not even real sex. It’s only happened a few too many times, including the second time, in pre-season, when Dominik got down on his knees and gave Trent head in the middle of the locker-room, and Trent came so hard and so fast he’d stormed off afterwards.
There’s just an unspoken agreement between them now. It’s just convenient for Trent to hook up with another player, mainly because he can’t really show up on Grindr or in the gay village without forcing an NDA on someone just because he got his dick sucked. It’s nice, it’s easy. Dominik’s incredibly attractive and newly single. He’s even more attractive when he’s on his knees and his hair is wet enough for it to curl like it does, and Trent pushes his fingers through to grip, and. Well.
Trent doesn’t like to think about it too much. It’s convenient and easy and uncomplicated. Dominik never sleeps over. Trent doesn’t either.
The last thing he needs is for complicated to get in the way.
*
The one thing that Trent doesn’t have is consistency. It doesn’t exist in any part of his life, not football, not relationships, not friendships. Maybe it’s a sad thing, but he doesn’t dwell on it too much these days. He’s used to people leaving, people coming, the shaking up of a routine at the drop of a hat. At least he has Klopp he thinks, that one fundamental, that one main-stay from the first days of his first team position until his last. At least that’s what he thinks, thought, until the day it all crumbles around him.
It’s not been an easy decision, he remembers Klopp saying, emotion in his voice that hits Trent like a thunderbolt to the chest. It’s not a rushed decision. Trent sort of feels like it is with the way it hurts.
And all right, maybe Trent had considered this day would come. He knows it wasn’t too far off in the future, but it still makes him feel like the floor has slid out from under him. The younger ones, mostly, seem to have taken it in their stride, the ones who’ve existed as part of other teams, left and joined and been renewed.
The ones who’ve just come from elsewhere, or are not so used to the way that Anfield and Kirkby exist as more than just a badge on the chest. It’s at that point that Trent feels overwhelmed and let down by the notion of team camaraderie, when he’s out on the training field, after Klopp’s speech, with everyone laughing and chatting like it’s all okay.
In the middle of all the mental anguish and reassuring himself that it’ll all be okay, Virgil approaches him, asks him if he’s ready to get to grips with the press and the team and stepping fully into his role as vice. Trent’s not ready but he understands that it’s his opportunity to step up, that he can’t cry over unchanging decisions.
“They’ll need us,” Virgil says to him. “The team, the staff. The fans.” He’s trying to be reassuring but it comes out sharp and mandatory. Do you not feel it? Trent wants to ask. Maybe Trent’s not ready yet, but he’s less ready for everyone to find out he feels it more than he should.
So he doesn’t say anything. He just nods.
*
When Andy turns up at his house, that Monday evening after Norwich, Trent almost doesn’t open the door.
It’s one of his worst habits. Curtis has it too, but more in the way of, I’m bringing over a joint and promise of a win on Fifa sort of way. Andy is much more, I’m going to take your remote control off you and force you to talk to me sort of way.
“You ran off,” Andy says straight-away, pushing through into Trent’s hallway and reaching down to pet the pups who’ve come running. “Didn’t even listen to all of Virge’s captain rant.”
“Well,” Trent sighs, leaving him and walking straight into the living room. Not even looking over his shoulder to call back properly. “He’d already texted me half of it. Unnecessary, really.”
“Don’t be a prick.”
“Didn’t want to talk,” Trent answers and throws himself down on the couch.
It does claw up Trent’s throat though— he wants to say it. Ask Robbo how he really feels, if it hurts him the same way it hurts Trent. Robbo would get it. Out of everyone Robbo would understand it. But still, Trent can’t.
“Don’t wanna talk?” Andy laughs, slightly mean, cocking his head at him. He’s got Prince curled up into his chest, licking at his chin.
“Nothing to say,” Trent says. “Don’t stand there acting like we have to talk about it. Cause we don’t. Done, innit.”
There’s a beat before Andy responds, as he drops Prince onto the rug and comes to stand in front of the telly, blocking Trent’s view of Michelle Keegan in some new Netflix series.
“Congratulations Trent,” Robbo starts, widening his stance. “Bold words from a guy I saw tear up when the gaffer gave his news. Might be able to hide it from the younger ones, but not me. I swear to god I’lll—“
“What?” Trent interrupts exasperatedly, dropping the remote on the couch. “You’ll what Robbo? Change the way it happened?”
Trent feels stupid for saying it like that. Like it’s something that’s even possible, like Klopp would stay if any of them asked him to. It’s not even about that— it’s about the unknown waiting for him, the pressure, the questions. The fact that the next manager might see past all of Trent’s seasonal talent and limitless loyalty and loan him out with the first miscalculated pass.
Trent’s used to the critics. The bad press. The internet memes. He’s not used to this.
“Can’t change it Trentski,” Robbo says softly, shaking his head at him. “But I can’t help if you don’t let me.”
Trent slouches back into the couch, resigned. “Don’t need your help.”
Andy throws himself down on the couch next to him. “Don’t need to be strong all of the time, T.”
Trent scoffs before he can help himself. This doesn’t feel like heartbreak like he knows it, it’s deeper.
“I just need to stop thinking about it,” Trent sighs, picking up the remote again to flick through the channels so he doesn’t need to look at Andy’s worrisome gaze. Making him feel like a child. “Got the whole season still.”
Andy nods, reaches out a hand to touch his knee. “Yeah, you have.” He pauses for a second. “At least we can plan for it, we don’t even know what— what’s coming, do we?”
Trent’s already heard the rumours. Xabi, Mourinho, Enrique. Hates that those names mean very little to him in comparison to the comfort and steadiness he’s felt for the past eight years. Under Klopp, Trent had felt invincible despite being the hardest on himself. The trust was immeasurable, now he’s less and less assured, minute by minute, of his ability to be the leader everyone needs him to be. But he can’t tell Andy that, as much as he wants to.
“Don’t think about it too much,” Andy says, clapping him on the knee again. Then, quieter, almost awkward, “I’ll chat to you about it anytime, know that right?”
Trent knows Andy could mention Dominik, can see it in his eyes that he’s considering it. It’s not like they’ve avoided talking about it— but Trent’s made it pretty clear that he’s not in the mood. In the grand scheme of the ways Trent needs to get his shit together, Dom still falls pretty far down the list.
“I know,” Trent says, and nudges him back.
Then Andy picks up the remote from Trent’s side, throws his feet up onto the coffee table, and says, “Get your guest a drink then Trent, come on. Don’t be rude.”
And Trent reminds himself sternly that he’ll still get in so much trouble from Klopp and Virge if he aggravates Robbo’s shoulder by wrestling him into the couch. He’s still vice-captain until the end of the season, nothing’s changed as abruptly as he thinks. Yet.
*
It’s the next day that Dominik approaches Trent after training, running out towards him as he’s getting into his car. Trent slides into the front-seat, thinks too long about just driving off to avoid the awkwardness before Dominik’s at his window, tired and with a soft smile.
“Have you got any plans?” Dominik asks, tapping on the windscreen.
Trent hasn’t let someone down like this since he was eighteen, and he doesn’t ever remember feeling this bad about it either. He knows the excuses could be numerous: tired after training, a big-game tomorrow, sorry mate, actually found someone else to fuck. All of the above. Except he knows what’s actually waiting for him is a meal-prep and staring at his television screen for the rest of the night because his world is slowly imploding.
Trent taps at his wheel and tries to stare straight ahead. “Not a good idea Dom, what with a game tomorrow, you know?”
“Ah,” Dominik says, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. He leans further into the open window. “We can just. Watch a film, you know? Something not too stressful. It’s lonely, no?”
Trent wouldn’t call what he’s feeling lonely, but it’s probably the closest feeling he can imagine so far. The heaviness of it, the sadness. He can’t have Dominik feeling burdened by him— that’s the whole point.
“There’s Chelsea tomorrow, mate,” Trent repeats again, because it’s the only honest excuse he has. Dominik’s face doesn’t fall, which is good, so Trent starts his engine. “Shouldn’t be doing stuff before big games, you know that.”
“Alright,” Dominik says. His voice is almost gentle, like he really believes it. “But soon, okay?”
Trent pulls out and away, blinks at Dominik’s figure in the side-mirror before he gets into his own car. He’s expecting to feel relief, like a captain who’s finally steering the ship in the right direction. He doesn’t.
*
If Trent had to pick someone in the team to sleep with, it would probably always be Dom. He’d come up trumps every single time. It’s got less and less to do with how fit Domi is, lean and tall, muscled but not obvious. Exactly Trent’s type, historically. No. It’s more Dom’s personality, knowing how much he likes Trent back. The way he listens to Trent on the pitch, offers up his support when there’s a free-kick, a corner or a forward sprinting towards the Kop-end, looks at him with a smile like he trusts him.
The way he stays behind to follow Trent through the tunnel. Waits for him after training. Watches him make a brew or peel off his stickers or do his stamina routine on the treadmill. He's been so determined to break down his walls at every turn, so much so that Trent would find himself laughing if it wasn’t so endearing.
There’s a kind of longevity there that other people usually have to work for. That, digging underneath Trent’s skin he knows other people have to do before he opens the door for them. It’s easy knowing it’s mutual and that Trent doesn’t have to try very hard.
That makes it that much harder, to push Dom away.
*
Busy with training set-pieces and plays for the prem, weeks go by. They play Chelsea, Arsenal, Burnley before they slip to the second-spot in the table. There’s meetings everyday and where he’s used to playing a listening role, the difference now is, he’s actually expected to have an in-put.
Most days he barely stays behind to listen in to Virgil’s positivity talks. Why bother? Trent feels like telling him. We’re losing our leader, we don’t know what we’re doing, he wants to say. But he never does say it. He just ducks out of the locker-room after his shower and picks at his post-training meal in the nearly empty cafeteria.
It’s the weekend before they play Chelsea again that Virgil leaves him a missed call and a text reminding him that he’s expected at a team-social at Kingdom in less than two hours.
It’s the unofficial mid-season party. They’re notoriously loud and wild— even when Hendo and Millie hosted them. Objectively he knows how important it is he shows his face despite his lack of love for excessive partying. He knows his position now, couldn’t ever forget it, what with Virgil showing him the eyes in the tunnel or as they do their huddle, expecting him to add to whatever motivational soliloquy he’s practiced a thousand times in the mirror.
“Yes?” Trent rings back, staring at his television screen where it’s paused on an episode of a show he’s forgotten the name of. Koba’s asleep on his lap, and Prince is pawing at his throw pillows by the fire-place.
“When are you getting here?” Virgil asks, voice sober despite the music thumping in the background.
Vaguely, Trent hears a voice say, Is that Trent! We are taking shots, tell him to hurry! He recognises it as Dominik.
Trent squints at the television. At Michelle Keegan’s superbly pretty face and dark brown eyes. Things have been— uncomfortable between him and Dominik recently. Trent knows half of it’s due to the funny feeling he gets in his stomach whenever Dom touches him, and everything else to do with the fact that Trent hastens to ever let anyone get so close to him so fast.
You okay? Dom had asked, pulling him away from the cameras after Klopp had done his big speech in the locker-room. Trent doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the endearing concern painted on Dominik’s face, the crease between his brows, the hand around his wrist keeping him close.
I’m fine, Trent had replied, ignoring the look of care on Dom’s face. He hadn’t wanted to discuss it with him, show his vulnerability. Just watched as Dom’s face fell, as his grip loosened from his wrist before they all shuffled out onto the icy training ground.
That was that. They haven’t interacted much since— Trent ignoring the big gulf between them as if he didn’t create it himself.
“Trent,” Virgil sighs. “You knew. Don’t do this.”
“I’m not coming.”
There’s muffled noises, followed by a low grumble and garble in Andy’s angry Scottish. “Trentski!”
“No Rob—“ Trent attempts to answer back.
“Trent. You’re coming, no ifs, no buts,” Andy shouts down the phone, slurring already. “I’ll ‘ave an Uber outside yours in ten.”
Trent feels momentarily angry. “Not coming, already said it.”
“That so?” Trent can almost hear the delirious smirk on Andy’s face. “Suppose I come over then, hop in that Uber and fetch you myself? You’re not running away from this. Vice.”
Vice. He knows Andy’s said it as a form of manipulation. He also knows Andy won’t hasten to do what he’s threatened. “You hear me?” Andy follows up.
Trent tries to think about Virgil’s face as he pulls the phone away from Andy and tells him to hurry the fuck up. Thinks about the rest of the team and their faces after the match with Chelsea, exhausted and with only a point to their names, stumbling past Klopp into the tunnel, none of them quite wanting to take the slap on the shoulder like the affection that it was. Thinks about Dominik and the very obvious way he’s been pushing him aside.
It would be convenient to just run away and hide from it all like he has been doing. But nothing’s convenient in football. So, he’ll put on his mask like he has to. Because that’s his role now.
*
Kingdom is just as tragic and soulless as he remembers, even with half of the Liverpool team taking up the VIP section with bottles of Dom Pérignon champers and stray ice cubes. Andy’s in the middle of the sprawl holding court with two cans of cold beer in each hand. But it’s Virgil that finds Trent first, a head above everybody else, leaning against the booth with a bottle of water like the leader he is.
“You’re late,” Virgil says, gripping Trent by the shoulder. “Left two missed calls.”
He’s smiling, but he’s looking straight at him as he says it, eyes careful and studious.
“Wasn’t gonna dip,” Trent says, moving out of his grip.
Virgil looks less than convinced.
Curtis stumbles over with a trayful of brightly coloured shots. “Alright there la’? Made us all think you were gonna be a no-show.”
Trent forces on a smile, grits his teeth, before Virgil shoves him into the booth so he’s next to Andy and he can’t run away.
“Not gonna tell me why you’re moody?” Andy asks, gripping him by the knee.
Trent reaches for a shot-glass in the middle of the table, and Andy raises his eyebrows. It’s enough of a get off my back if he’s ever seen one, so Andy gives up for the time being.
Soon enough, Dominik makes his way through from the dance-floor, slightly tipsy and forehead all shiny. Trent tries not to look over at him, but Dominik’s never been one to read the room very well. It’s the best and worst thing about him.
“I was waiting for you,” Dominik announces, shoving himself down into the booth opposite Trent and grinning wide. He says it so openly too, as if Trent’s ignorance hasn’t been hurting him like he knows it has.
“Traffic,” Trent mumbles, picking up another shot. Maybe he’s making it too obvious, so he follows it up with, “Sorry. Am here now, if that even makes a difference.”
“Oh.”
Trent looks up and sees Dominik’s stupidly cute frustrated look. He’ll never get used to just how kind Dom is. When it comes down to it, he’s all soft edges despite the fire in his eyes. A handsome man who’s secretly quite insecure. A bit like Trent really.
Andy drags him up to dance not a few minutes later, crushing him between Harvey and Curtis on the sticky floor. Harv’s got on a stupid pair of raver sunglasses and Curtis’ eyes are wide and black with more than just alcohol. Trent forgets about football and the future and Klopp and submits himself to the music, even taking the banter with less than a wince when Dua Lipa comes on and the boys’ rally round like it’s a mating call.
*
By two in the morning, Trent’s lost count of his drinks. He’s just knows he’s back in the booth again, with Cody and Curtis opposite him, lain all over each other laughing at their phones. Virgil’s disappeared and Robbo’s somewhere on the dance-floor still trying to keep up with Darwin and Alexis who’s smiles couldn’t get any more wider, the only ones enthusiastic enough to match Andy’s drunken stupor.
Dominik appears at his left suddenly, leaning down to meet his ear, hand landing with a slap on his thigh. “You’re being far away from me.” The way he says things in English still makes Trent’s blood turn warm, every word so carefully chosen and translated for his ears.
Trent’s eyes flicker to Cody and Curtis on the other side of the booth. He turns to look at him, regretting it almost immediately when he catches sight of the sweat-curl of his hair, “Not on purpose Dom, just needed some space.”
“From me?”
Trent swallows. “Everyone, really.”
“We are friends, are we not?” Dominik asks. “You can tell me anything.”
Can I? Trent thinks. Can I tell you I’m losing it? That you’re distracting me when you’re not supposed to?
“I know you’re hiding from me,” Dominik says, sitting down next to him so they’re thigh to thigh. “I noticed it before, at training and in matches. Ever since Klopp said his speech.”
“Am not,” Trent says, a little petulantly. He hates that Dom can read him so well, like Andy, but only way more intimately. “Leave me be, man. You don’t know nothing.”
It comes out meaner than he would like it to. Dominik doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment, and Trent sees how much it hurts him with the way he pulls away, as if Trent’s slapped him.
“Okay,” Dominik says quietly, nodding at him. “Should I leave then?”
Trent reaches for him but he’s standing up, reaching for the last shot on the table. Curtis’ eyes are on Trent from the other side of the booth, not very subtle. Asking questions with his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Trent says.
Dominik throws down the shot in one, not even wincing. Then he looks over at Curtis and Cody. “Going home now,” he says, barely brushing Trent with a final look before he’s trailing off out of the booth.
The know when I’m not welcome is left unsaid but Trent tastes it in the back of his throat.
“Royally fucked that one Trent,” Curtis calls, once he’s got Trent’s attention back. “I know you’re feeling shitty because you can’t get used to the gaffer leaving but you didn’t need to do that, did you?”
Curtis’ harsh look twists Trent’s stomach into knots. And Trent goes over to the bar to get a fresh round even though the dance-floor is obviously emptying, to stop all the noise in his head. To make it all quiet.
*
Trent still remembers the first time. Pre-season in Singapore. Dominik knocked on Trent’s hotel-room door, asked some question about training the next day, something inconsequential that Trent could’ve just answered and shut the door on. Except he was sort of overwhelmed by the look on Dom’s face after training, flushed and gorgeous and a little ruddy.
Trent had been vice-captain for less than a week. He was still overjoyed, and Virgil had given him some chat about leadership and dressing-room talks and boosting spirits. Nobody looked at him any different, and that was what he wanted, but sometimes he’d look at himself in the mirror and repeat it to himself: Trent Alexander-Arnold, born in West Derby, Vice Captain of Liverpool FC. There was a lot of awe. A lot of that’s because of me.
Dominik didn’t seem to treat him any differently either. Just as warm and charming and talkative as ever, like Trent was just the same as everybody else. Not his new vice-captain that could determine his place in the locker-room if he made a misstep.
Trent was never much of a power-whore anyway.
Besides, Dom was fit. He laughed at Trent’s jokes like they were actually funny, pressed warm against him in training when their passes came together, took whipping shots on goal with all the expertise and power of a world-class striker.
He doesn’t remember when they got around to kissing. But it happened. It was sloppy— both of them too tired for any sort of finesse or rhythm, just heat and tongues.
Dominik pulled away first, with a little gasp and a swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip. “You want this?” He’d asked.
“Yeah.” Trent breathed out. He did. He really did. “You?"
And well, Dominik wasn’t hesitant in letting him know that he wanted it too, that he’d thought about it too. Self-assured but not cocky. Affectionate but not overbearing. They didn’t fuck but Trent came in Dom’s mouth and he swallowed it all. Then Trent pulled him to his feet, got his dick out of his briefs, warm and heavy, and jerked him off while they kissed the entire time.
Looking back, it was a little dirty and desperate, and maybe Trent shouldn’t have done it again. He still wouldn’t take it back though.
*
Virgil approaches him in the cafeteria two days later, pulls Trent to the side where the coffee machines are to cuff him by the ear.
“What’s up with you?” He asks. “And don’t bullshit me.”
“Nothing,” Trent says, manoeuvring out of his way with little luck. He sighs and leans back against the edge of the bar, folds his arms across his chest, averts his eyes to the floor. “It’s a hard run in the season, innit. Don’t need the aggro from you.”
“Everyone can see it,” Virgil says. “Even the young ones. You’re being a shit on purpose.”
Trent shrugs. Dominik’s walking into the caf, looking over at him before he sits down next to Darwin. Virgil follows Trent’s gaze.
He thinks about them recently. How they act on the training pitch and in the gym, like two distant planets, orbiting without the sun to help them. Disjointed and misshapen. Trent’s not gotten off in weeks, even though his ex-girlfriend’s been texting him.
“Andy told me,” Virgil points out quietly, leaning in to Trent.
Trent shoots him a look. “What?”
“About Dom,” Virgil says, eyes dark and formidable. He looks over at Dominik again, who’s gone to looking down at his phone even though Darwin and Alexis are having a joke-session so loud even some of the staff are staring.
“Dom what?” Trent asks after a long moment of silence.
“Don’t act dumb,” Virgil says, staring straight at him, almost exasperatedly. Like the way Hendo used to look at him after he’d made a stupid pass that almost cost them the game. “You know what you have to do, you’re not just one of the team anymore.”
Dominik’s looking over again, pursing his lips. Like he knows what Virgil might be saying, and he’s ashamed he’s getting Trent into bother. Thing is, it’s more Trent’s fault than his.
“Whatever,” Trent says and pushes himself away from the bar. He knows what he has to do, he’s just not ready for it. Maybe Klopp never expected the whole team to spin away like this when he announced his decision to leave, but Trent’s resenting him more and more for it every-day.
*
Few people get invited into Trent’s inner circle, probably less than most people think. He could probably count them on one hand. Even less in football if he discounts his brothers. Somehow though, Dom wormed his way in. Learned all of Trent’s little ticks and tricks in such little time.
Like, the fact that Trent’s seriously competitive, and weirdly nerdy. Sort of shy, in that way that doesn’t mean he’s awkward with it or impersonal. More in the sort of way that he knows when there’s a camera in the room or he lingers to the side when they have to do press. So Dom always does just enough to shake him out of it, cracking a joke or poking him. Loosening him up.
Or, that Trent’s always in a mood after a loss or a draw. The kind of mood which means he needs to block out his brain with something to keep him distracted. Music or a work-out or sex. The kind of mood which, at half-time, in the locker-room, when Virgil looked at him for input he’d feel a little frustrated. But then, Dominik would look at him, raise his eyebrows in a way which said, come on you can do it, almost jokingly, semi-patronising, enough that Trent would shake himself out of it.
And then, later, Dominik would come over. Press down onto him on his couch or in his bed with a sort of weight which felt reassuring.
“You did so well today,” Dominik would mumble, when Trent was drifting off, playing with the mess on his stomach. It’d be late and Dominik would probably get up to leave soon, but he’d always stay long enough to talk. “Seriously,” he’d laugh. “This league is harder than you think.”
“Saying I should give myself credit?”
“Credit?” Dominik said and then frowned. “Is that a good thing? Like points or something?”
“Yes, Dom. Like at a bank, you know?”
Dominik didn’t know what that meant. But it didn’t matter much. “They talk about the premier league in Hungary like it’s the best thing, the hardest thing.”
Trent hummed.
“So,” Dominik climbed on top of him, sweaty and weighty, pressing down on Trent so that he grunted and stirred. “You should feel happy with yourself. You achieved this, here. At this club that means so much to you. Think about how much it means for others to see you in this position.”
Trent exhaled heavily, blinked open his eyes. Dom was grinning down at him, keeping himself up on his elbows. “That what you really think, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Dominik lifts a brow. “Tell me you believe something else about yourself, hero of Liverpool. I’ve seen the big photo on the wall.”
“The graffiti?”
“Whatever it is,” Dominik shrugged. He leant down, brushed a wet kiss over Trent’s chin and down over his neck, groaning softly. Trent could feel his dick stirring again, brushing up against his upper thigh, already wet. Like the first time wasn’t enough. The moon was only just coming up. “Think we can go again?”
It was enough to have Trent blushing a little, in a better mood. Spurred on by words said in the aftermath of good sex, and before the next round, from player to almost captain, which meant way more than the fake ones he’d heard before.
*
They win against Nottingham Forest away, but it doesn’t feel like much of an achievement.
Dominik scores and Trent assists.
And the way Dominik looks at Trent as he runs over to give him a hug, surprised half-smile and trying to be normal, feels like it describes the whole of the season so far.
Later, in the hotel, Trent on the bed with the television on mute as he flicks through Instagram, there’s three loud raps at the door. There’s only a few people who’d do that: Virgil, Andy, Curtis, and — Dominik. He’s half and half over whether he really wants it to be Dom.
From the door as Trent steps up to open it, Andy’s voice rings clear. “Open up, Trent. Am not here for decoration.”
“What are you here for then? Trent asks, as he opens the door.
Andy pushes past him, rounds into the room and lays down on the bed on his back, groaning and stretching like a cat in heat. “Dom’s doing my head in. So is Curtis, cause you're hiding away from everyone like a teenage girl.” He sits up a little and throws Trent a look. “This is low, even for a twat like you.”
“I’m not Dom's keeper,” Trent sighs, sitting up by the headboard and reaching the remote. “I deal with stuff on the pitch, not his private life.”
Andy barks a laugh so loud Trent flinches and glares at him, twisting around to face him. “Think you ruined that when you fucked him.”
“Shut up,” Trent grumbles, cheeks-hot. “It wasn’t even an established thing.”
Truthfully, it wasn’t. When Trent starting ignoring Dom he sort of assumed both of them were just going to sweep it under the rug like the humidity in Singapore had made them both loopy. He’d not listened to Virgil’s advice and was hoping it wasn’t going to be brought up now that he was making more of an effort.
Andy covers Trent’s knee with a hand. “You’re making it worse, you know that right?”
Trent picks at a hangnail on his thumb, thinking about the time that Klopp approached him and told him was going to be vice. Briefly wondering if it was the worst decision he ever made when he said yes.
“It’s got more to do with Dom than Klopp, hasn’t it?” Andy asks when Trent takes too long to speak.
“Nah— no, it doesn’t,” Trent shakes his head and sighs.
At that, Andy laughs. “Trent, please,” he says. “I’m not stupid. You’re punishing Dominik because of Klopp, because of your position. It’s so obvious.”
“And it matters to you because?” Trent asks, lifting a brow. He’s being mean on purpose, he knows, because Andy’s one of the few people who won’t take it to heart. “I’m trying aren’t I? Can’t you see it? With McConnell and Bradley, I’m trying to step up. Dom’s been playing fine without it.”
“It’ll always matter to me, mate,” Andy says, squeezing at his knee to ease the outburst. “It hurts me too.”
And that does it for Trent— for sure. Breaks down his walls just a little. He’s been piling it all up on his own plate as if no-one else is affected, as if no-one else cares. He didn’t think it mattered if he span out on his own web because everyone else was still holding it together. Seems like that’s the furthest from the truth.
And Dom’s feeling it too. All because of him.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do Robbo,” he admits, now that he’s soft enough not to lie. “I can’t make any promises to him. About anything, not about us. Or— or about the team.”
“It’s Dom,” Andy laughs softly. “He's a top lad, he ain't gonna cry if you let him down."
“You don't know that,” Trent sighs.
“Just talk to him,” Andy whispers, crawling over the bed to get closer to him. “About Klopp or how you’re feeling or anything. Anything. It’ll help, I promise.”
*
Thing is, Trent’s hardly ever catches feelings.
Except it didn’t take very long from shagging Dom that very first time to realise he enjoyed it way too much. It came out in small ways, like when Dom would get up to leave, hair still wet from his shower, and Trent would wonder for a moment what he’d look like waking up in Trent’s bed. Or they’d be watching some nonsensical Netflix show and Dom would nod off, snoring softly, and Trent would feel bad about waking him up to leave. And Dom would always offer to drive him back even though it was way later than either of them expected.
Bigger still, it was the way Trent would feel around Dom. Calm, most of the time. In his element; even when Dom was doing the most annoying of things, like playing his stupid Hungarian music in his car, or tickling him in the ribs or cracking a smirk at Trent’s close-to-coming face in the middle of a blow-job.
He’d told himself immediately. That sex with Dominik needed to be a thing of the past.
He needed to let go.
Before he got left again, hurt again.
*
Andy leaves a little before midnight. Trent steps into the shower with his head down and tries to think of a way to approach the whole mess of a situation. He’s fiddling about with his phone, scrolling through Dominik’s messages on WhatsApp when there’s a knock on his door.
“I’m here because Robbo told me to come,” Dominik says when Trent opens the door. He’s in a dressing gown and slippers, face tired.
In so many ways it makes Trent feel worse.
“I should’ve called you,” Trent says, and opens the door wider. Dominik still hesitates despite the open invitation. “Get in here la’, not gonna kick you out.”
Trent makes the decision for him and pulls him in by the lapel of his gown, until he stumbles into the room before him.
Dominik still looks confused when he’s in the room, stood by Trent’s un-made bed.
Trent doesn’t know where to start.
Dominik swallows visibly, cracks a short grin. “It’s very messy,” he lands on.
Trent looks around the room, at his clothes spilling out of his bag, at the ice for his sore muscles melted into a puddle on the bed-side drawer, the wires tangled up in the corner. A reflection of his state of mind.
“Yeah it is,” Trent says, rubbing at the back of his head. “Didn’t feel like cleaning much, have to wake up early I think.”
“Want me to help?” Dominik asks, so, so kind and open. He’s sort of so beautiful in that moment that Trent feels sick with want and apology.
“No, no. Sit down Dom,” Trent laughs quietly, waving his hand about. “Making me feel well nervous like that.”
“Okay,” Dominik says, reacting immediately, sitting down on the bed and crossing his legs over. He cocks his head at him, pats the space next to him. “Going to join me?”
Trent sits next to him. And waits, feeling Dominik looking at him from his peripheral as he chews on his lip.
He’s never royally fucked up like this before. Well, he has but. He certainly hasn’t felt like this before, so lost and unsure and vulnerable. He’s scared of his place in the team. Of the future. Dominik’s the unlucky victim in Trent’s mental rigmarole.
“Trent?” Dominik says.
Trent turns to look at him. “Yeah?”
Dominik’s face opens up into a strange sort of half-smile, warm and reassuring. “I know what you are feeling,” he says, reaching for Trent’s hand on his lap. He shrugs, brows furrowing. “I mean. Sort of, I know it. What I mean to say is I understand and I am here…”
Trent looks to the floor, Dominik continues. “I know how much Klopp means to you,” he says, sounding like he’s trying really hard to get his words out right. “I get that you feel like this but, you must understand, you’re better than this. You mean so much to the team, you can’t let it hurt you this bad.”
“I don’t—“ Trent heaves in a big breath, lightheaded. “It’s more than that, though, innit. I can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This,” Trent responds, hastening a look at Dominik.
Dominik looks back at him, brows raising, hand loosening. “This, what?”
“Like, this thing between us,” Trent starts, clearing his throat. Looking back to the floor. “It was wrong of me to start it in the first place. To let you think it was something we could continue…with Klopp leaving, I need to step up. Virgil might go, Salah too. Can’t fuck the team up, can I? All for a shag with a teammate who might leave sometime soon too.”
Dominik is silent for a while after Trent speaks, like he’s processing his response. Trent knows he’s understood him, because he’s frowning into space, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. He looks heartbreakingly gorgeous.
Eventually Dominik blinks at him. “You think I will leave?”
Trent shrugs— but Dominik’s already talking again. “I won’t leave,” Dominik says, shaking his head almost exasperatedly. “I love it here, you know that. And I wanted to sleep with you all those times, I didn’t do it because you were my vice-captain.”
“Not just because your girlfriend left you and you needed to get your rocks off?”
Dominik shoots him a smirk. “Do you not remember coming home with me either?”
“I do,” Trent says after a moment. “I guess we both seemed pretty keen.”
Dominik leans back on his elbows, robe slipping over his shoulders. “So that’s what it was then? You thinking I was going to leave the club because of Klopp.”
Trent groans, throwing his head forward. When Dom says it like that, it does sound stupid. He’s not used to having think through his bad decisions, usually he doesn’t have to back-out this far in. It feels like giving up on the bone he’s been chewing for months.
“Go on,” Dominik says, throwing his leg out into his. Nudging him. “Tell the truth.”
Trent meets Dominik’s eyes again, and he glares softly. “Just told you the truth, ain’t I? Don’t rub it in.”
Dominik’s mouth twists. He looks curious. “What do you want then?”
Trent blinks, feeling a little sick. He hates confrontation. “What?”
“Tell me?” Dominik spins round to face him, nonchalantly. Cupping his head in his hands. “I know I’m not the first man, that was obvious. What else though? What do you want?”
Trent’s eyes widen. “Want with what?”
“With me?” Dominik asks. His hand slides over Trent’s hip, down over his upper thigh. It’s the first time they’ve touched so intimately in what feels like eons. Trent shivers. It’s very distracting.
“Depends what you want, Dom,” Trent says.
"Yeah?" Dominik grins. "I think you know what I want."
"We can't fuck Dom," Trent says, unimpressed. He'd like to-- Dom's got a gleeful expression, rumbled hair and the whole thing inevitably leads to something else. "We have the bus in the morning, and Man City next week. We can't."
"Can't?" Dominik echoes, riled up.
Trent wants to say something. About how Klopp leaving has opened the door for the relative unknown. About how their situation isn't fit for the long-term. About how he wouldn't mind asking Dom to stay over and sleep next to him, wake up to him in the morning like it's a comfortable routine he's hardly ever had the pleasure of experiencing.
About how every time they lose, a match, a point, three points, a part of Trent curls up inside and dies.
Instead he says, "I'll suck you off though, if you want?"
Later, they're lay star-fished on the bed side-by-side. Dominik butt-arse naked and Trent with his boxers pulled on.
"Want me to leave now?" Dominik tilts his head to the side to look at him.
"It's four in the morning," Trent murmurs. "You'll wake Robbo."
Dominik turns over, reaches over to press his fingers to a red-bruise on Trent's shoulder. "This is the first time," he says. "Never let me stay over before. What changed that?"
"You never let me stay over either."
Dominik blinks, frowns. "You never asked."
Trent doesn't roll over to look at him, just keeps his eyes closed. He can feel Dom pressing his fingers into his skin, swirling them around in some strange pattern, like a one-touch masseuse.
"You can stay," Trent sighs. He leans into the touch without thinking.
“Is this, how they say, louder than words? You know,” Dominik says, then he’s leaning towards Trent, letting his lips brush over his. “You’re a bit stupid sometimes.”
“Actions speak louder than words?” Trent mumbles curtly.
Dominik kisses him.
Trent’s brain tries to catch up, before he’s kissing him back. He feels a little paralysed, and, well, bloody stupid for not realising it earlier. That Dominik wasn’t going to just let him go without a fight. That all those months of shagging around actually meant a little more to him than just escaping mutual loneliness. It should’ve been obvious, Trent thinks.
“I told you,” Dominik says, putting a hand on his shoulder to push him down on the bed. “I’m not leaving.”
"This isn't going to work," Trent mumbles into his mouth, already warm all over. The tensions bleeding out like before, turning him lax and weightless on the bed. If he were an aerial view Dominik's body would be completely covering his; overshadowing it, like it didn't matter, like Trent was just a part of the furniture. Zero expectations, zero burdens.
"How do you know?" Dominik whispers back with a shrug.
And maybe that's the best response Trent's going to get out of this whole thing. Everything's changing and yet nothing's changed at all. Not really. Not yet. He might as well just run with it for as long as he can.