Chapter 3
They lose.
They lose by two and it sucks and most of the mistakes they made were preventable and he can't tell Wil now.
Maybe when they win their first The Sovereign together, he can say congratulations in Moravian and he'll be too happy to care.
"Grant," a loud voice booms.
He turns to see a guy in security garb beckoning him.
Oh God.
They know he's been accidentally spying on his captain and they're kicking him off the team.
"Guest for you."
Oh.
Okay.
He exhales in relief.
It's sort of overwhelming how much he needs a hug from his mom right now.
"Guest?" Walt waggles his eyebrows.
"You got a girl?"
"It could be a boy," Wes says.
"Or a they.
Is that the right word?"
"Please stop talking," Marcus says.
"I want to meet Grant's lover." Wil grins and heads to the door.
For a split second, Oliver panics that Felix tagged along and he's never going to hear the end of it.
"Victor Wilcox!" Oliver's grandmother reaches her arms out.
His
grandmother
who watches all of his games at home, who hasn't seen him play in person in years.
She's here.
She's
here
.
And she's hugging
Wilcox
.
"Hello!" Wil takes the hug in stride.
"Wow," Walt says, "she's older than I expected.
Talk about a cougar." Oliver doesn't see who, but based on Walt's yelp, someone has the decency to punch him.
"We were so happy he ended up on your team," his grandmother says.
"You take good care of him, I assume?"
Only, she says it in Moravian.
Because of course she does.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Well.
It's been fun, this whole life on planet earth thing.
If only he wasn't going to hell.
It'd be cool to see his dad again.
Wil's face breaks into a grin.
"Yes!
We take such good care of him," he answers in Moravian without missing a beat.
Which is something.
Maybe.
"He takes care of us too.
He's an amazing player.
Where are you from?"
They start talking back and forth in rapid Moravian, and a little line forms in Marcus's forehead.
"Your grandma speaks Moravian?
That's your grandma, right?"
Graham shoots him a largely unhelpful, pitying look.
"Uh.
Yes?" Oliver says.
"It's—"
His grandmother rushes forward then, nearly topples him over.
"My beautiful boy.
You were perfect."
He blinks at her.
He considers responding in English, but he can't.
No matter how embarrassing this is about to be, she drove all this way for him.
That means something.
It means everything, really.
He takes the world's deepest breath and finally, finally, says in Moravian, "Thanks.
We did lose though."
"So?
You were the most handsome boy out there.
And the fastest." She squeezes his cheek.
He ducks his head, suddenly grateful that only Wil and maybe Hattie can understand her.
Small blessings.
"You'll be home for the holidays?"
"Yeah, for four days.
We'll bake together," he assures her.
"Good." She pats his cheek.
"Your father would be so proud of you."
"Oh." Oliver has heard this plenty of times over the past few years.
It shouldn't hit him so hard now, but it does anyway.
"Thank you."
He swallows down every last emotion and keeps his eyes trained on her until his mom helps her back to the car, until her figure's fully retreated.
Then finally, finally, he puts his best game face on and turns to his teammates.
"Hey, so what the fuck was that?" Walt says.
"You speak Moravian," Wil says more plainly.
He's smiling, but his eyes are all wide, an expression Oliver has never seen from him before.
Shock, maybe.
Oliver has no clue how to answer so he lands on a rather poetic:
"Yeah."
"Shit, man," Wes says.
"What else are you hiding from us?
Besides your secret girl or boy or they-friend."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Wil asks in Moravian.
He shrugs.
"My pronunciation isn't good," he replies in Moravian, dropping his gaze to the floor.
"I understand better than I speak."
"Your pronunciation is fine!
Great!
You're too hard on yourself, like always." Wil pats him on the back.
Okay.
So maybe this isn't the end of the world.
Maybe this will be nice, even.
The familiarity certainly is.
And maybe—
"Sorry did you..." He turns toward Marcus whose face is somehow redder than a Griffins jersey.
"Did you say you understand
Moravian
?"
"Um.
Yes.
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I shouldn't have—"
"Wait.
So you understand what Wil and Hattie say to each other?" Dorian pieces it together first.
Loudly.
In case anyone missed it somehow.
Well, it's not like he can deny it now.
"...
yes?"
"I'm so sorry." Marcus looks like he wants to die.
Oliver is acutely familiar with the feeling.
Victor, annoyingly, just looks gleeful.
"No, I'm sorry," Oliver says.
"I should have told you back in October."
"Why didn't you?" Marcus folds his arms tight.
"Marcus.
Is obvious why," Wil says.
"He is...
what is the word in English?
Pervert.
He is a pervert."
"No!" Oliver shrieks.
"Oh, so that means whatever the fuck you guys are saying in Moravian is perv material?" Wes says.
"Oh shiiit," Dorian whispers like this is a revelation somehow.
"Of course," Wil says, unphased.
"We are very sexy."
"He shouldn't have been saying any of that at work." Marcus seems to have pivoted from anger back to shame.
"I've told him that.
Many times."
"Yeah," Oliver says.
"I, uh, know."
"Right." Marcus clears his throat.
"Yeah."
"Okay, what the hell do they say?" Walt says.
"You have to tell us."
"We'll haze the shit out of you if you don't, rookie," Dorian says with a glare that's probably meant to be menacing.
"Sorry, I can't," Oliver says, because he's not stupid enough to cross Victor Wilcox.
Also he's pretty sure his cheeks will melt from heat if he repeats that shit to the whole team.
"You'll have to learn Moravian."
"We'll get it out of you," Walt says, earning an approving nod from Dorian.
"You won't.
He barely told us," Graham says, then seems to realize too late what he's confessed to.
"I mean.
He told me and Nolan yesterday.
That he understood.
That's all."
"Yeah," Nolan's voice calls from down the hall where he's been scrolling on his phone.
"Ask Victor about Marcus's slutty little mouth."
"Oh my God." Marcus groans into his hands while everyone else whoops and catcalls.
"I'm divorcing you.
I'm serving the papers tonight."
"No," Wil says.
"You would miss me too much.
My mouth is slutty too."
"Wow.
This is...
not what I expected when your mom invited me to tag along."
Oliver's head swivels to see Felix standing there, hands buried in the pockets of his jean jacket, gorgeous as ever.
Great.
What's next?
Is the clown who scared him at his ninth birthday going to make an appearance?
"Felix!
Hey!" Oliver says, and his voice cracks.
Like full on cracks right down the middle.
As if he's fifteen years old.