Stark doesn’t know a lot about soccer. In fact he knows next to nothing about the league standings other than Manchester United is like soccer’s version of the Lakers and David Beckham does really hot underwear ads when he’s not kicking the ball around. Whenever Alex is with another fan, the talk quickly devolves into hopeless jargon and frustrating metaphor and whenever Stark merely suggests he doesn’t understand what’s going on, Alex gets that flat-eyed look of his that frankly Stark finds more frightening than his great aunt who smelled of mothballs and used to pinch his bottom. Alex seemingly knows everything about baseball, which, he does live here. But listening to him talk about Barry Zito is still frustrating when Stark knows nothing.
Two weeks ago, after a great blowjob, mindblowing sex, and a particularly vicious bite that Stark left in Alex’s shoulder, Alex stroked down his side and said, “Come home with me.”
Stark had stared at him in the dark, taking in Alex’s unreadable stone-faced expression that meant he really cared how Stark was going to answer. He’d breathed for a few seconds and then tightened his fingers around Alex’s wrist.
“Yes.”
But that means Alex’s crazy friends. And football games. He knows that Alex is planning to drag him to at least one Hammarby game and possibly to Djurgården, in Ostermalm to see Elfsborg kick the shit out of them. Or so Alex has promised. And Stark is really good at getting people to like him, but part of the secret to that is being incredibly prepared. He will not be like the girlfriend introduced into the men’s Monday night football games only to require them to explain everything. That girlfriend sucks.
The next time he meets up with Hugh for coffee in the village he asks for a crash course. Hugh thinks for a minute, coughs, and says, “Well, the Swedish league’s admirable in that they can hang on to their players, but their players are all for shit so it hardly matters. The five players they do have that know which direction to run down the pitch all play for other leagues.”
“I can’t say that to him,” Stark says, taking a bracing swallow of his black coffee.
Hugh ordered a cappuccino and he swirls his spoon around in the foam before saying, “American’s don’t understand coffee. Always running around with their to-go cups. I would die for some biscuits.” Stark raises his hands and looks at him with a mournful expression. “Right, so, Hammarby, that’s his team.” Stark nods and Hugh continues. “They’re a working class team, not bad, no PSV—” he stops at Stark’s blank look, “Dutch team, used to be a factory squad. You know what? Never mind. Hammarby is ranked in the middle somewhere, but their rival, Djurgården, is even more shit than they are, so they’re at the bottom.”
Stark wonders if he should be taking notes.
“The only Swedish team worth paying attention to is Kalmar. They’ve got a couple of Brazilians playing for them, so they’re not actually embarrassing.”
Stark glares at him.
Hugh takes another sip of his coffee and rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry, think of it this way, the way you feel about Mexicans playing basketball, that’s how I feel about Swedes playing football.”
“You’re terrible. Really terrible,” Stark replies. “I was going to pay for your coffee when the bill came, but now you’re on your own.”
Hugh laughs. “You asked, grasshopper. Now, the thing you need to understand about football rivalries is that they make your silly Eagles/Cowboys and Lakers/Celtics throw downs look like pillow fights at a little girl’s slumber party.”
“Right, rioting and that stuff,” Stark says and pushes his cup forward to be refilled when the waitress comes by.
“No, no, my naïve friend, that’s sheer bonhomie right there,” Hugh says and waves his hand, “Let me tell you a story. Have you heard of Fiorentina?”
Re: prompt!
Two weeks ago, after a great blowjob, mindblowing sex, and a particularly vicious bite that Stark left in Alex’s shoulder, Alex stroked down his side and said, “Come home with me.”
Stark had stared at him in the dark, taking in Alex’s unreadable stone-faced expression that meant he really cared how Stark was going to answer. He’d breathed for a few seconds and then tightened his fingers around Alex’s wrist.
“Yes.”
But that means Alex’s crazy friends. And football games. He knows that Alex is planning to drag him to at least one Hammarby game and possibly to Djurgården, in Ostermalm to see Elfsborg kick the shit out of them. Or so Alex has promised. And Stark is really good at getting people to like him, but part of the secret to that is being incredibly prepared. He will not be like the girlfriend introduced into the men’s Monday night football games only to require them to explain everything. That girlfriend sucks.
The next time he meets up with Hugh for coffee in the village he asks for a crash course. Hugh thinks for a minute, coughs, and says, “Well, the Swedish league’s admirable in that they can hang on to their players, but their players are all for shit so it hardly matters. The five players they do have that know which direction to run down the pitch all play for other leagues.”
“I can’t say that to him,” Stark says, taking a bracing swallow of his black coffee.
Hugh ordered a cappuccino and he swirls his spoon around in the foam before saying, “American’s don’t understand coffee. Always running around with their to-go cups. I would die for some biscuits.” Stark raises his hands and looks at him with a mournful expression. “Right, so, Hammarby, that’s his team.” Stark nods and Hugh continues. “They’re a working class team, not bad, no PSV—” he stops at Stark’s blank look, “Dutch team, used to be a factory squad. You know what? Never mind. Hammarby is ranked in the middle somewhere, but their rival, Djurgården, is even more shit than they are, so they’re at the bottom.”
Stark wonders if he should be taking notes.
“The only Swedish team worth paying attention to is Kalmar. They’ve got a couple of Brazilians playing for them, so they’re not actually embarrassing.”
Stark glares at him.
Hugh takes another sip of his coffee and rolls his eyes. “I’m sorry, think of it this way, the way you feel about Mexicans playing basketball, that’s how I feel about Swedes playing football.”
“You’re terrible. Really terrible,” Stark replies. “I was going to pay for your coffee when the bill came, but now you’re on your own.”
Hugh laughs. “You asked, grasshopper. Now, the thing you need to understand about football rivalries is that they make your silly Eagles/Cowboys and Lakers/Celtics throw downs look like pillow fights at a little girl’s slumber party.”
“Right, rioting and that stuff,” Stark says and pushes his cup forward to be refilled when the waitress comes by.
“No, no, my naïve friend, that’s sheer bonhomie right there,” Hugh says and waves his hand, “Let me tell you a story. Have you heard of Fiorentina?”
“No?”