You, Me, & A Penalty

Preseason

Kyle

The coach has been talking to my parents for a really long time. It must be important because my dad keeps waving his arms about like he’s a windmill. My coach has his arms folded, and even though I can’t hear what he’s saying, I think it’s bad news.

“Hey, Kyle, great passing again today!” AJ says, full of joy, as always.

“You’re always in the right place, that’s why.

” I fist bump my best friend. We've been friends for as long as I can remember. And we’ve been the star strikers at our football club for about the same amount of time.

We might only be twelve, but we have already been compared to some of the best finishers in history in our age bracket and among our friends.

I guess that’s what scoring thirty goals a season and almost as many assists will get you. I think it’s just down to playing with your best friend and always knowing where the other person is.

“Wanna come back to my place after and play Xbox?”

“Sure,” I say, like we have any other plans.

It’s our ritual. I’m not superstitious, but I think we are great at what we do because we have a perfectly rehearsed routine.

We always go to his house because it’s a lot bigger and cleaner.

And he has all the newest games. His parents are way nicer too, they have the decency to not argue in front of us… if they ever do.

“Kyle. Let’s go!” my dad yells from across the pitch. God, he’s so embarrassing.

“I’m going to AJ’s. I’ll be back home later.”

“Not tonight, you’re not.”

“But, Dad. I always go to his place after a game,” I protest.

My dad closes the distance between us, and he has this look in his eyes that I don’t like. “Not tonight you’re not. You’re coming home. We have things to discuss.”

My heart sinks. Whenever he says that, it means trouble.

He said the same thing when I dressed up as Winifred Sanderson from Hocus Pocus last Halloween.

Boys shouldn’t be in makeup and dresses.

Especially footballers. And he said a very similar thing when he found me with eyeliner on a few weeks back.

That day, I thought he was going to beat me and make me confess I was gay, so I ran to AJ’s house and didn’t return until the next day, making sure the eyeliner was off my face, of course.

I haven’t dared to explore anything like it since.

I wave to AJ and jump into the car, slamming the door behind me and burying my head in my hands.

“We have things to discuss,” my dad repeats once he buckles himself up. I let out a groan.

“What is there to discuss?” I attempt to ask stubbornly.

“Not here. At home. Over dinner.”

Oh, this is serious then. I rack my brain wondering what it could be about, worrying if I’ve left anything too gay lying around my room.

The only thing I can think of is that I left my CD of The Greatest Showman on my desk.

And I know, who listens to CDs these days?

Well, me. I do. I like the sound quality you get from older media.

I would prefer a vinyl player, but they’re too expensive.

My CD player is a relic from the nineties.

It was my mum’s. It’s even got a tape deck, which I use to play old rock albums. My mind starts racing again.

Did I leave more damning evidence? In the changing room?

Did my dad tell the coach about that one time I wore pink boots?

He immediately told me to take them off, and then he returned them to the shop.

I never saw that pocket money again, but then a bigger memory rises; our goalkeeper, Craig, is also gay.

And also very closeted. A few weeks back, when we were the first to arrive, we made up this stupid competition.

If I could score five goals past him, he had to kiss me.

As a joke, of course. At least, that’s how I played it off.

The thing is, he let all five goals in. Once the last one went in, he strode up to me and smacked his lips onto mine and then walked off with a smile on his face, and left me feeling like I was floating on clouds.

I look forward to it each time we play the game.

Luckily, we have been playing that game ever since.

We thought we were so clever. Only playing it while we were sure no one else was around. Quite clearly that isn’t the case, or my dad wouldn't have spoken to my coach today.

The whole car ride home, my heart beats quicker than when I’m on the football field. I rub my sweaty palms on my shorts, but that doesn't seem to help.

“Get yourself cleaned up and then come straight down. I’m giving you twenty minutes. If you’re not down in those twenty minutes, you will be dragged downstairs. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Dad,” I say with all seriousness. I sassed him back once and got a clip around the ear.

Another time, I took twenty-three minutes to get ready, and he came upstairs while I was performing a shower concert to West End show tunes.

He flushed the toilet, thus making the water freezing cold.

Dad has this strange thing about time and punctuality and rules. He says it’s for my own good.

Nineteen minutes later, I’m back downstairs and sitting at the dining table opposite Mum, who looks—oh no, she looks sad.

Dad has his back to me, plating up dinner: a side of salad and chicken breast for me and a sports drink.

I thank him, and he takes a seat next to Mum.

Not the biggest of meals but we’re not the richest of families.

One day though, one day, I’m going to make it right by them.

Pay them back for all the effort they’ve put into raising me.

There’s an awkward silence, or tension. Mum won’t look at me, and Dad is staring right at me. I shift nervously in my seat.

“Son.”

“Yes, Dad?” I ask, not liking this at all. Every fiber in my body is telling me to flee from this table. To run to AJ’s, lock the door, and never come back here.

“‘Yer coach and I ’ad a little chat today.”

“Oh?” I ask, trying to stay very calm. I’m not the only gay kid on the team.

But none of them have my dad. My brain, as helpful as ever, creates a highlight reel of everything it could possibly be.

My chest tightens in dread. Even if I wanted to run to AJ’s now, I couldn’t.

My legs are rooted to the chair. I’ll be sitting here for all of time, moss growing on my body and the same horrified look on my face.

I shift the image from my head and try on a neutral expression while listening to my heart try to escape from my chest.

“You’ve been transferred,” he says, breaking me out of my fear.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again! I promise!” I blurt out, as my face burns red with the memory of the kissing game with Craig. My eyes are too heavy to look up at him, and instead I stare at a spot on the table. Then realization dawns on me. “Wait. What did you say?”

My dad looks like he wants to circle back to my initial outburst, but instead, he starts to smile.

The last time I saw him smile was when he recounted the tale of how our club won the treble—the three main trophies in English Football: The League Cup winners, the Football Cup winners, and the European Cup winners.

I wasn’t alive at the time, of course, but whenever Union loses, he puts on the highlights of that amazing season.

He sheds a tear every time and tells me, “Those were the days.”

“You’ve been transferred, son. And it’s a big one!”

“Wait, why would they get rid of me? Which team?” This is all going too fast.

“They ’ad no choice! Not when one of the best teams in London comes knocking.

If ’yer were at t’ Union Academy, of course, things would be different, but ’yer not.

The London Hornets have a great youth Academy, not Union level but it’s still good.

” Another dig, reminding me that I’m not quite as good as I think I am.

But with this news, does that mean I actually am?

My mind is whizzing in all directions. I have been transferred to the London Hornets.

In London. Away from my family and my friends.

However, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.

So why do I feel like my dad isn’t wholly happy?

If I was in the Union Academy, sure, I could be closer to getting into the England set-up.

I need to make my family proud. No matter the sacrifice of moving away from them. And AJ.

“What about AJ?” I ask hopefully.

“What about ’im?” My dad seems delirious with happiness, and for the first time, I look at my mum; her face gives nothing away, she only gives me a quick flash of a smile.

“Well, I don’t want to go if he’s not coming too,” I say, and fold my arms across my chest.

“Don’t be so daft. He’s been holding ’yer back. Think of how many goals ’yer would ’ave scored if ’yer didn’t keep passing to ’im!” His face burns red, like he’s mad at me for passing to my teammate.

“I still bag thirty a season.”

“And ’yer could get even more without ’im. Football is about scoring goals, son.”

“It’s about the team!” I shout, trying to get him to listen.

My dad just waves me away. “They’ll teach that out of ’yer. Don’t ’yer worry. You’ll be playing for t’ England squad in no time now.”

That makes my heart flutter. Other than playing for Union, playing for England is my ultimate dream.

“When do I start?”

“Next month,” my dad says with the biggest smile I’ve quite literally seen ever. Not even the ‘Treble Memory’ comes close to this.

“Wait, how is this all going to work? What about school? My friends? AJ?” I ask.

My dad’s eyes shift, and his smile broadens and suddenly, I don’t like that smile at all. It looks like a big bad wolf smile.