ONE SHOT: John scores his first goal in 9 years whilst Jack is at home with Covid (Part one)

Fucking hell, Jack had missed that face. It meant more than anything to see the confidence on it too. The scruff on the chin and above the upper-lip was looking a bit outgrown though. He'd be taking a razor to it later - John wouldn't let him, but he'd do his best to try.

An added bonus of his boyfriend being brilliant was the cameo he'd been making before every kick-off as the camera was forced in his face and the commentators raved about his recent form.

"And behind the dazzling momentum Manchester City have gained in recent weeks is that man John Stones, responsible, or at least half-responsible alongside his partner Ruben Dias, for what is so far the best defensive record in the Premier League this season."

'His partner Ruben Dias'? Jack had a little chuckle at that. He knew it meant nothing more than the pair were defensive partners, but pundits always wanted to talk about chemistry, didn't they, to big up bromances between players. All Jack knew was that John hadn't actually had much to say about Ruben, which was a good thing. He'd learned that if John didn't have much to say about something it meant he wasn't thinking about it, and if he wasn't thinking about it, it didn't matter to him. Not that Dias'd be much competition for Jack anyway - he wasn't John's type.

Jack wished he could reach out and put his arms through the image on the TV, wished he could pull John out of the screen and into the living room beside him where he belonged. It was coming up on two weeks since they'd last seen each other. A fucking corona outbreak in the Villa squad had not only shut down their entire first-team training sessions but had also meant John couldn't return home in case he got it and the same ended up happening at City.

It was a good thing John'd kept his flat in Manchester, some bright thinking on his half as per. Jack had grumbled at him - what did he need an empty flat in the middle of Manchester for if they were living together? Convenience, for one, John told him. If he was playing late he could stay over instead of falling asleep at the wheel on his way down to Birmingham. The second reason was to avoid suspicion. If the City staff ever needed to send something to him, or one of his teammates offered to drop him home, he couldn't exactly turn around and reveal all.

At least John had got his January rent's worth. Being separated by coronavirus wasn't something the pair had thought about but it'd definitely wound up as being a problem. They were technically already breaking both of their club's bubbles - something that John loved to say meant fuck all, anyway - but Jack knew it wasn't as simple as that, not with the way John also loved to panic and fret about anyone finding out they weren't following the rules.

He'd slipped up by reminding John that if anyone did end up finding out they weren't following the rules of the corona bubble there'd be bigger things to worry about, like explaining why the two of them lived together in the first place.

Jack spread himself over the spot John would usually occupy on the sofa and gazed up at the telly. He was soon joined by a warmth at his side, the sound of panting in his ear. When John moved back in it'd been halfway through November and Jack was days off getting the dog he'd been waiting for for months (the breeders had to raise him, train him properly, all that). It was a sleek black-haired alsatian he'd christened with the name Apollo, after Apollo Creed obviously, the Rocky legend he'd watched every other Sunday with his dad growing up. He'd have probably called him Rocky if Tyrone hadn't got there before him and taken the name for his own boxer dog.

One thing he hadn't done was tell John. He'd honestly just forgot, sort of, because he was too content, too caught up in the honeymoon phase of having him back. It hadn't even crossed his mind until the breeders brought Apollo round to settle him in. John was at training but his shit was all over the place, one of his warm-up jackets marked JS5 hanging over the radiator in the hallway. Jack grabbed it and threw it behind the nearest object as the breeder walked in.

"Now, Apollo's been trained to recognise you and your scent Jack, but is there anyone else who's round a lot? Anyone who'll be letting themselves in and out that we need to make him aware of?"

Jack grimaced. He couldn't exactly say yes, because then he'd have to reveal he had John living with him, but he couldn't exactly say no either, because suddenly the idea of John arriving home only to be attacked as he turned his key in the lock no longer seemed as funny as it might've in an ideal world.

So Jack decided to reel off everyone who'd ever stepped foot in the house, his family first, then some friends, and he casually slipped John in between all the other names. The breeder told him not to worry and showed him a trick he could apparently do himself, using an item of clothing to get Apollo to trust the scent. As soon as Jack was left alone with his new companion he went and dug out the training jacket of John's and put it on Apollo for good measure.

John had walked in fifteen minutes later to a huge, howling dog clothed in his jacket.

"What the fuck's this?"

"It's a dog," Jack had told him, holding Apollo back by his collar.

"It's a dog?! That's weird, that- for a moment I thought it was a fucking cat!"

"Alright, alright. Don't be a dick about it."

"I'm not being a dick, Jack, it's just- well why the fuck's there a dog here, and why the fuck's it got my jacket on?"

"Suits it, don't he?"

John looked like he wanted to turn around and walk straight back out the door. In the end it took no more than two days for him to fall in love with Apollo, and Apollo to fall in love with him. On Champion's League nights when City were in Europe, or late away days when Villa were down in London, whoever was left at home had Apollo to keep them company. Jack had been told by the breeder not to let him in their bed but with John in Manchester for the past two weeks he'd been naughty and invited Apollo to sleep at his feet. There was no way John was having that when he got back.

Jack hardly bat an eyelid when City got off to another strong start. Crystal Palace seemed as good as shut out of the game, and that was backed up by the stats when the possession figures appeared in the bottom corner of the screen. Dias and John were once again finding themselves with nothing to do except stretch the pitch and pass out from the back. The most they moved in the first twenty minutes was when they got to go up for a corner, hands to their mouths as they murmured instructions to each other that'd probably prove useless in ten seconds time.

De Bruyne put the corner in. It was headed away but he was definitely looking his best, especially when Sterling passed the ball back to him and he found himself on the edge of the box. A swerving, lofty cross was lifted in on his right foot.

A line of City players made the run towards the six-yard box. Jack could see it happening in slow-motion, the way all the other blue shirts peeled off and left just one person to rise up and connect with the ball. John met it with his head and gracefully nodded it into the bottom left of the net.

Jack went fucking mental. Apollo went fucking mental. The commentary echoed his own yells of John's name as he hurdled the arm of the sofa, head thrown back in gleeful laughter at the sight of the goalscorer punching the air as he ran off to the corner.

Goalscorer. John Stones, the goalscorer. Jack would be lying if he said he hadn't thought that goal at Old Trafford a couple of weeks ago had been a fluke. An amazing fluke. Well, maybe not a fluke, but there was a lot of luck in it. He'd basically scored with his dick for fuck's sake. Jack had rolled off the sofa and onto the floor in a fit of laughter when it happened, glad there was no neighbours to hear the racket he was making.

And in the two games following the United fixture, Birmingham City and Brighton, John had once again done the business. He'd hardly conceded a shot and it was scary just how good a side City looked with their defence on top form. At the heart of it was John. Dias too, but more John. Jack wouldn't deny Dias was annoyingly good as well, but he was biased, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Jack thought back to the John he'd first met, an anxious player lacking confidence who'd put himself down whenever he got the chance. But he'd always known John had it in him to be the player he was now, the player he'd been in days past, and a much better version of that player as well. He was too smart not to be. Jack wouldn't take any credit, but the saying happy wife, happy life, came to mind.

To be fair to John, there'd been a time just before Christmas that he'd been banging on about the fact he hadn't scored for years. Jack hadn't really been listening, half asleep with his head on John's chest, but thinking about it now he remembered exactly what had been said.

"It's all well and good that I've worked on my defending, I mean- that's my job, isn't it, but there are far better defenders out there than me. The thing that sets me apart probably isn't my defending. It's what I do going forward. So I need to start getting my numbers up there, getting into positions in the box, scoring goals from corners."

"Fuck me John," Jack had laughed, eyes shut, "who'd you think you are? Me?"

When the rebound of a saved header from Dias fell into John's path, Jack realised he might have to eat his words. Open-mouthed, he watched as John drew his leg back, and with the skill of a seasoned striker he put his left foot through the ball to send it flying into the bottom corner. A finish Jack would be proud of himself.

"And what a day this is turning out to be for John Stones!" came the commentary from the TV. "He's got another one!"

Jack didn't leap up this time. He hardly moved a muscle. It took a few moments for him to process that his eyes were wet and his chest was heavy, heart thumping from the sensation of pride he felt sweeping over him. He wished someone was there to see his euphoric smile, wished John could see the way he was fucking grinning to himself like a love-drunk idiot.

It was a shame there were no fans. If anyone deserved to hear the roar after a goal it was John. At least he was on the receiving end of enough love from his teammates - maybe a bit too much love from Dias mind, who was clinging to John like he'd just been told he'd won the lottery.

Jack wondered if John had told his new partner about him. It was unlikely, but you never knew with John. There'd been a couple of times when he'd done or said something and Jack had thought Jesus, where's that come from, for only an hour later to think, yeah, that's prime John, that's exactly the type of thing he'd do.

Scrolling through Twitter made Jack feel high. Every other tweet spelled out nothing but praise for John. World-class, England's best central-defender, the type of defender who was so classy he could be considered a midfielder in disguise. He wanted to retweet every single one he saw. Clog his follower's feeds with propaganda. No matter - he'd do one better.

He waited for a replay of John's first goal complete with De Bruyne's cross and filmed a boomerang of the TV screen. Two goat emojis were added for good measure before it was uploaded to his Instagram story. The usual suspects would soon flood his DMs with comments about his praise for De Bruyne, but little did they know it wasn't the midfielder he was calling the greatest.

Sterling scored late on to let Palace know just how shit they'd been and just how good City were. It ended four-nil. City's next opponent? Only Villa in three day's time. Villa, who hadn't played since New Year's, and City, who hadn't conceded a goal since then either.