Chapter 3
ROLAND
—You Can’t Pray the Gay Away
by Temmie Ovwasa
Abuja is so much better than Lagos.
We’ve been here for three days, training for our friendly matches against Brazil and Denmark next week, and if there is anything I’ve learned about Austin Coker, it is that he has perfected the art of avoidance.
Every time I walk into the hotel restaurant, he somehow finds a reason to sprint out the back. During training, he keeps his head down, refuses to make eye contact and moves around the field like I am a moving hazard he must avoid at all costs.
Logically, I know this is what I should want.
I should feel relieved—and I do—but there is an undercurrent of tension I can’t quite shake.
I guess I feel bad, too, because avoiding me means he’s isolating himself from the rest of the team.
Yesterday, after training, one of our defenders invited him to hang out with us at the hotel bar, Coker glanced at me once and then politely declined.
He bolted out of the stadium like someone had lit a fire under him.
I’m not even sure he showered before leaving.
It is exhausting for me because I’m the captain and shouldn’t be the reason someone feels uncomfortable or out of place, so I’m determined to talk to him today.
I walk to the hotel lobby and take a moment to look around.
The reception area is bright and clean, the floors polished enough that my slippers squeak with each step.
A few guests are scattered around, sipping wine or tea, or checking their phone.
I peek into the restaurant, scanning the tables and chairs, but Coker is not there.
I shake off a small sigh, and I force a smile even though it probably looks closer to a grimace as I approach the receptionist, a young woman with a neat bun and a name tag that reads Aisha.
“Hello, Aisha,” I greet her. “I’m looking for one of my teammates, Austin Coker. He told me his room number earlier, but I don’t remember it.”
She looks up at me and returns a bright, polite smile. “Mr Johnson. Yes, he’s in 4122. I can call him if you want.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I reply, hoping my smile does not look as stiff as it feels. “Thank you.”
Again, Coker must have perfected his disappearing act because we’re on the same floor and for three days, we haven’t passed each other in the corridor.
I hear a small, insistent voice at the back of my mind telling me not to go looking for him, but I ignore it.
I tell myself we can put this behind us and move on.
I grab a plate of fruit and leave the reception.
It’s been five days since Sandra told me about sleeping with Coker.
At the time, it didn’t bother me. I thought, maybe I would feel differently when I saw him, but I didn’t.
I guess I now think of him as someone who helped where I was lacking and provided emotional support and physical intimacy for Sandra.
I even saw Sandra after moving out. I had forgotten one of my sneakers at home (well, her house now) and she sent me a picture, asking if I wanted it back because she knew it was one of my favourites.
She even went further and brought it to the hotel I was staying at.
I don’t think Sandra is a bad person. She did something shitty, yes, but I understand why she did it.
I mean, it couldn’t have been easy for her to be on her own while I stayed in England, especially since she must have been sexually frustrated while I tried my possible best to ignore it.
She promised she would still come to England to support the team when we play.
Obviously, she won’t be staying with me anymore.
Maybe she’ll stay with Coker? That thought stirs something unfamiliar in me, but I shove it aside. It’s no longer my business.
The corridor is quiet as I walk, the carpet muffling my steps as I approach my room.
I get to my door and swipe the keycard, the green light flashes and the latch clicks.
I open it, dropping my plate on the table before stepping back into the corridor, heading towards Coker’s room.
I don’t make it far. He rounds the corner as I’m walking out of my room and we almost collide.
He flinches and steps back so fast I lose my balance a little bit.
“For God’s sake,” I mutter, reaching out and grabbing his arm. I pull him towards my room.
He shrinks back, covering part of his face with his hands. I push him gently up against the door after closing it. I open my mouth to tell him why I need to talk to him when he blurts out, “She lied to you, okay? I didn’t sleep with her. She just wanted to get a rise out of you.”
I freeze in place. “You didn’t?”
His shoulders tense. “Please don’t punch me in the face if that’s your plan. Maybe in the stomach. Somewhere it won’t be obvious.”
I look down at my hands and see they are clenched into fists. I unclench them, drop his arm, and take a slow breath. “I wasn’t going to punch you.”
“Y-you weren’t?” He blinks at me, relieved. “I really thought you would. I can’t blame you if you do. It’s just that my face is my currency, you know? I don’t want to explain to my agent why the money-maker got scuffed . . .”
I stay quiet as he rambles on. His outpouring words give me a chance to look at him, and I realise I’ve never studied him this closely before.
He’s not lying. His face is . . . well, it is exactly what he said it is.
A money-maker. The thing I notice most, the part I’ve never paid attention to before, is how light his skin is compared to mine.
Now, I see everything I had somehow missed before.
His face is perfectly symmetrical, with a strong, well-shaped, and smooth jaw.
As I keep staring at him, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with a stubble.
I cannot even imagine him with facial hair, but I try out of curiosity and it kind of feels wrong, like I’m forcing something onto him that does not belong, like he could not grow it even if he wanted to.
If I traced the line of his jaw, I wonder if he would lean into it or go still.
My thumb would probably move without me thinking, just following the curve and feeling the faint give of skin under my touch.
I blink and snap myself out of it, but my eyes soon return to his face.
This time I notice his cheekbones are high and angular without being harsh, and his nose sits in a way that make the rest of his face look balanced.
His eyes are dark brown, kind of black at first glance, but up close I can see gold flecks.
I have never seen that type of eye colour before on a full-blooded Nigerian.
His cheeks have a scattering of freckles, trailing down to his neck.
They soften the angles of his face, somehow making him look both approachable and untouchable.
My eyes trail to his hair and while I know he keeps an afro, he ties it during training, but now that he’s let it free, it’s so full and looks soft and springy.
I don’t know why but my eyes drag down from his face.
His body is lean with shoulders that are broad enough to be strong but not bulky.
His chest is firm, and the muscles in his legs not hidden by his shorts are defined.
I find myself noticing the smallest details, my brain refusing to focus on anything else.
The way the veins in his forearms stand out when he moves his hands.
But what gets me most are still the gold flecks in his eyes, which I keep catching then losing when he shifts his weight.
His lashes are longer than I expected and thick enough that they frame his eyes.
It doesn’t escape me that he’s avoiding my eyes for reasons I don’t know, but it only gives me more time to take him in.
I almost tilt my head to follow his gaze, just to see it better, but I stop myself at the last second.
I fix my greedy eyes on him while his own eyes drifts all over the place.
I want to see if the gold in his eyes brightens when it shifts or even glows the way his skin does underneath the hotel room lights.
He really looks every bit like the twenty-two-year-old athlete that he is.
I shake my head a little, trying to pull myself out of whatever this is and forcing my attention back to what he is saying, even as it slips again almost immediately.
“So, yeah. Like I said, you can totally punch me.”
He’s still talking, blabbing a little, but my mind is somewhere else. I avert my eyes from his face and say the first thing that comes to my mind amidst his ramblings.
“You’re sure you didn’t sleep with her?” The words come out sharper than I intend.
Even though I never felt murderous towards him for sleeping with her, hearing him say that changes the whole picture. It reframes everything. I find myself wondering why Sandra would do this. Why not just tell me she wants out of the marriage instead of fabricating a lie?
“I’m pretty sure I would remember if I’d slept with her, and I don’t appreciate her putting me in that position.” This time I can hear the anger in his voice.
There’s something about him that I cannot quite put my finger on.
He is nervous, of course, that much is obvious.
His shoulders are still tense and his hands keep fidgeting.
But there’s something else underneath that.
He keeps talking, words spilling out in uneven sentences.
I should probably say something, but all I can think of is that he’s so . . . beautiful.
That thought stops me cold. I stumble back without meaning to, my throat suddenly dry and I remember I haven’t even told him why I wanted to speak to him in the first place.
“Uhm, I wanted to tell you to stop running away after training. There’s no reason you can’t hang out with the team.”
“I can?” His eyes light up immediately. It’s such a simple reaction, but it smacks me square in the chest. A shiver runs through me without warning, starting in my arms and trailing down my back.
My brain stutters, then stalls completely. What the fuck is happening to me?
I want to say something. Anything that sounds normal or sensible, but my mouth feels dry and empty.
All I manage is a stiff nod because speech has abandoned me completely.
The room suddenly feels too warm. I need space and air.
I reach behind him, fingers fumbling for the door handle, but before I can turn, his hand closes around mine and my whole body seizes.
His fingers are warm and firm, not too tight but not letting go either.
I am aware of the way he’s looking at me, like he’s trying to read something on my face. My pulse jumps, loud in my ears, and I stay still, caught between the urge to pull away and the strange need to stay exactly where I am.
His lips part slightly as he licks them, just enough to make the movement noticeable. “Thank you for not hitting me. I will mingle with team,” he says, voice earnest. Then he steps back, gives me one last look, and leaves.
The door shuts behind him, and I stay where I am, staring at the wood.
I let out a shaky breath I did not realise I am holding.
There is something unexplainable going on in my chest, making it beat at a scarily fast rate.
I stare down at my sweatpants, at the bulge that I refuse to acknowledge and squeeze my eyes shut.
No. No, no, no . . .
I am not—I am not hard. I am not turned on by Austin Coker.
It has to be something else—we were talking about Sandra.
Yes. That’s the safer explanation. The more acceptable one.
But even as I’m telling myself that, I’m not sure I believe it.
Heat coils through me, my body feeling alive in ways I have never felt.
I feel restless, like I can’t get comfortable in my own body until I find release.
My hands itch at my side, and before I can think, they’re moving on their own, pushing down my sweatpants and fisting my dick.
I thrust into my fist quickly, my hands shaky as I keep stroking.
But it is not enough, I want more. Oh God.
I bite down on my bottom lip as I smear precum down my hard length and continue stroking myself from tip to base.
A whine tears out from the back of my throat, and my knees buckle.
I stumble towards the bed, gripping the edge to steady myself. But I can’t stop fucking into my fist.
I try to think of Sandra. I really do. I force her face into my mind, but it is wrong somehow.
The details blur and shift. Her eyes aren’t black as usual; they’re dark brown with gold flecks.
Her cheeks are sharp where they should be soft.
Her lips . . . I shake my head, but the image doesn’t go away.
My hands move between my thighs, my head dropping back as I keep jerking myself off, hard and fast. I hate that it feels so good. I hate that I can’t stop. My mind screams at me to stop, but my body ignores it until my balls draw up and I come harder than I ever have.
I slump back against the pillows, my chest heaving, staring at my sticky hand, guilt and shame warring in me.
What the fuck just happened?