To Arthur's surprise, a man sat down at his bar what must've been two hours after the game ended.

"Hey. One Budweiser, thanks!"

With a start, he realized this man was none other than Alfred. He set the beer on the counter and watched as the football player sipped it. He wasn't wearing his uniform, but rather wore a clean white shirt and jeans.

"What're you starin' at?"

Arthur blushed. He had been staring, hadn't he?

"I've just never seen you out of your jersey," he blurted. The quarterback laughed- a wonderful, booming sound that sent chills all the way to Arthur's toes.

"Tons a' people haven't."

There was a moment where Arthur shifted awkwardly, looking for something to say, before mindlessly repeating:

"You did well today."

Alfred cocked his head. "We lost."

"Yes..." Arthur frantically searched for words. "But, er, you did it wonderfully?"

Another loud laugh.

"You're funny. What's your name?"

"Arthur." he said, flushing. "Arthur Kirkland."

"Why don't you sit?"

A strong hand patted the stool next to him. An invitation. An outstretched hand. Was this really happening? Arthur sat, hoping didn't come in for a drink.

"So what're ya doin in Wisconsin, Artie?"

Arthur wanted to correct him, but the little endearing moniker wormed it's way into his chest and sat there.

"Went to university here. Decided not to go back," he brought his green eyes to meet Alfred's chilling blue ones.

"Kinda a weird place for you. A football stadium?"

"I don't mind it."

Alfred was watching Arthur with such intensity, the Englishman was afraid his sweater vest might catch fire.

"What?" he barked- intrigued, but irritated. Arthur wondered what went on in this handsome young man's head.

"Well. Wouldn't you rather do somethin you love?"

The two locked eyes, unwilling to back down. Alfred's were sparkling blue, and they almost sucked Arthur in, inviting him to stay for a while...

"Salut." came a rather obnoxious voice from the door.

"Hello, Francis." Arthur sighed at his boss's impeccable timing.

"And who is this? Alfred F. Jones, in the flesh?"

Something crossed Alfred's face- regret, bitterness? -before he turned around and nodded good-naturedly.

"I was just leavin'. G'night, Artie."

Arthur watched Alfred leave, his loud, naïve voice echoing in his mind. Do something he loved? He hadn't thought about his dreams since...when was

the last he thought of his ambitions?

Alfred slammed his head against the edge of his steering wheel, phone pressed to his ear.

"And just like that, his boss came in and you left?" His brother's voice crackled incredulously over the line.

"I'm tellin' ya, Mattie. I could've stayed there all night. I just wanna know more about him."

"Alfred's got a crush," Matthew sang with a giggle.

"Shut up, Matt. How about your internet penpal, how is he?"

"You'll never believe it. He doesn't live here in Canada, he lives in Wisconsin!"

"Weird." Alfred started up his car, deciding he should probably head home. "That's why you shoulda moved out here with me 'n Dad."

"Eh, hockey's more my sport than football." He chuckled. "I'll talk to you later, alright, Al?"

"Bye, Mattie."

And with that, the American headed home, anxiously awaiting the next game in which he would see this odd little Englishman.

There was much to do before a game- stock things in the back, tidy up the pub, that sort of thing. Arthur ran through the motions carefully, knowing after his little drink with Alfred his boss would probably skin him alive if he was out of it today (or worse, ask him on a date...again). All the while, he was staring out the window and groping in his memory for his dream, his ambition. He knew it was somewhere in there; buried under the good sense and taxes there were still stars and sparkles. There was a reason he went to college, a goal behind it, he was sure. Just when he was sure he was going to get it, people began to pour into the stadium and his pub. He put those silly things aside and prepared for the game ahead.

In the locker room, Alfred was doing the same...preparing for the game, that is. He tugged on his jersey over his bulky pads and smeared black paint and sunscreen on his face. He didn't talk to anyone. He went over the playbook in his head, stretched, and gave himself a pep talk. The Giants. No biggie. You've got this, Alfred. As he entered the fields, he looked not to the crowds but instead to a a dark window just to his left. He let out a wild grin, and winked.

Arthur jumped back from the window, heart pounding. No, he was probably winking for the cameras. He couldn't have seen him, couldn't have known he watched the beginning of every game from the seclusion of that window.

"You okay, buddy?" said one of the men sitting at a nearby table.

He realised he was clutching the fabric over his heart and smoothed his shirt embarrassedly.

"Fan-bloody-tastic," he growled, snatching a rag and scrubbing the bar like it would reveal the secrets of life.

"Were you arguing with the counter again, mon cher?" The Frenchman's breath was hot on Arthur's neck what seemed like only seconds later.

"I suppose." he mumbled, turning as calmly as possible to face his boss, plastering a smile on his face. In all fairness, Francis was rather handsome. He was hardly taller than Arthur, with sultry blue eyes, wavy ash-blond hair that grazed his shoulders, and stubble that dotted his chin. He was just very...up front.

"You have been doing well lately." His French accent made the 'h' in 'have..
disappear.

"Thank you. Sir." Arthur added as an afterthought. Francis was only barely older than he, but Arthur had to remind himself to be polite.

"And you are making... acquaintances... with the players," Francis hinted with a wink. "Also good."
Arthur could think of nothing to say to that, so he just kept eye contact with this annoying French man, wishing he'd leave.

"To celebrate, I believe we need proper drinks. Wine and such, oui? My treat, mon chou."
Arthur spluttered, realizing they were the only two left in the bar. All others had left to watch the game.

"I'm rather busy tonight. My apologies. Perhaps some other time," he denied cordially. Francis tsk-ed and shook his head.

"Some day." he smiled saccharinely, turning on the heel of his boot to leave.

"Some day."

Alfred fought his way through the bulge of paparazzi that had somehow made their way onto the field.

"Alfred!" came from all sides of him, followed by random questions, microphones shoved in his face. Too much, too much stimuli. He forced a smile onto his face, just nodding and pushing his way through. He was almost there when a question rang with his brain.

"Wait, say that again?" Alfred paused. A young reporter, no older than twenty-five, stepped forwards. The others looked jealous.

"A girlfriend, Mr. Jones?" she repeated boldly.

Alfred's eyes lingered on his favorite window for longer than necessary. Through it he could see a familiar Briton, his mouth an 'o' of surprise.

"No girlfriend." he said with a smirk.

"Goodnight, everyone."

The paparazzis' eyes followed his gaze, and questions erupted out of them. Only the girl who started the riot stayed silent. She had a curious look on her face: the eye in the center of the hurricane.

Alfred calmly walked into the locker room. Maybe he'd be sorry for this later, but right now he had his eye set on something...someone...