Chapter 3
Dane
“I’m home,” I yell out of habit, though I’m pretty sure the house is empty.
It’s a two-up two down terrace, small enough to tell if anyone is home the moment I step through the door. I don’t feel like talking to anybody. I can’t get Alex’s expression out of my head. Like he expected better from me. I don’t know why he would.
I drop my tennis bag in the hall, where Mum will probably trip over it later and yell at me as though I’m thirteen years old again.
Every time I come home, she acts like I revert back to adolescence.
I go into the living room and flick on the TV, not bothering to turn on the lights on the Christmas tree.
They always make annoying reflections in the screen, and anyway I’m not in the mood to be jolly.
The same tree ornaments my family has used since my childhood hang from the green plastic branches.
I feel like the reindeer are staring at me in disappointment.
I swear they’re trying to make me feel guilty about what I just did to Alex.
I flip through the channels, unable to focus on anything.
Hallmark film… Hallmark film… Christmas music clip show…
ancient comedy repeats… TV close to Christmas is fucking dire.
The advent calendar on the mantelpiece has ten pieces missing.
Only a couple of weeks to go. And I just made a move worthy of Scrooge himself.
I’ve never outright cheated in a match before.
It was like something took control of me.
Forget Scrooge, I feel like Macbeth or something.
Which makes me think about Alex again. His big brown eyes lined with smoky eyeliner and the ridiculous overdramatic clothes he wears even to play tennis.
When we were at school we were in English class together and we studied Macbeth.
Most students hated reading aloud and mumbled the lines into their books as fast as possible, their faces beet red.
Alex owned it and loved it, giving monologues worthy of David Tennant.
I could never take my eyes off his face, even back then.
You could see every emotion flickering through his eyes.
He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve too much.
Even as a teenager he didn’t have the wit to hide that he was moved by the boring plays we had to read for English class.
He either ignored or didn’t hear the snickers of some of the other students as he got too into it.
Enthusiasm wasn’t the route to popularity at our school.
I did my best to protect him from those snickering idiots, kicking the backs of their chairs or giving them dark looks that implied I’d catch up with them later. Sometimes I did.
The way he just looked at me over the tennis net made me feel like I’m Macbeth.
My cheating was unjustifiable. Alex didn’t deserve that.
Even so, I’m pathetically trying to find ways to justify it.
Alex doesn’t need this exhibition match like I do.
I’m studying physiotherapy and considering a tennis coaching qualification on the side.
Alex hasn’t been playing for as long as me.
He only joined the club because I invited him.
He probably doesn’t even care that much.
Tennis is only one of his many talents: sport is the only thing I’m good at.
He’s much more into music. Plus, he’s studying law and on his way to being a barrister.
Already I can imagine him commanding a courtroom the way he tried to command our English classroom at school.
He doesn’t need some small-time tennis match.
I know, I know. Weak excuses. I’m pathetic.
The front door opens, breaking into my spiral. My sister Olivia comes in.
“What’s wrong with you?” she demands.
“Nothing. What do you mean?” I couldn’t sound any more defensive if I tried.
“You look like somebody just gave you a week to live.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, you look terrible.” A flicker of sympathy. “You lost the match then?”
“Won, actually.”
She wrinkles her nose, confused. “So why do you have a face like a slapped bum?”
“Because... I feel bad for Alex.”
“Why? You usually love beating him.”
Yeah, when I actually beat him. Not when I cheat like a little bitch. I don’t answer, fidgeting with a thread on the arm of the sofa.
“Tell me what happened, Dean,” she orders.
She only calls me by my real name every now and again, when she wants to cut through my bullshit and get to the truth.
Dean is my official name, the name on my birth certificate, but I started calling myself Dane in primary school because it sounds cooler.
Most people have probably forgotten all about Dean, except my family.
I look up to see her puzzled, worried face, and suddenly I can’t hold it in any longer.
“I cheated,” I mutter.
“What?” The word explodes and Olivia’s face gets red with anger, the kind of righteousness only eighteen-year-olds are capable of.
I hold up my hands in surrender, worried she’s going to pummel me with a cushion.
“I know it was wrong. I just... got tempted, okay?” I say.
“You need to wise up. Get sport into perspective.”
“I do have it in perspective. It’s my life. Alex has so much more going for him.”
She snorts so loud it sounds painful. “Spare me the self-pity. You have plenty going for you. You’re just a slimy wee cheater.”
I wince as the word rings around the room.
Cheater. It sounds so much worse out loud than in my head.
Olivia always tells it like it is. She’s always unapologetically her.
Pan and fully capable of explaining that concept to curious older relatives at family dinners.
Meanwhile I’m fucking Alex every chance I get and afraid to even put a label on it in my head.
I’m not gay. Bi at most. Maybe. And only for Alex.
Shit, that sounds bad. Like I’ve got it bad for him or something. Scratch that thought.
“I know why you’re so nasty to him,” Olivia says.
“Why?”
“Because you’re attracted to him.”
We have this conversation every so often, so it’s no shock to me.
It just makes me feel weary, and sad. At least she doesn’t know we’re already fucking.
I don’t think she knows, anyway. She’s pretty close to Alex.
They’re in a rock band together. But I doubt he’d admit to her that he lets me fuck him, or that I let him fuck me.
“Being scared of your feelings is no excuse to treat Alex like dirt,” she says.
“It’s not like I singled him out. I just wanted to win that game.”
“So you’d cheat against anyone? That’s so much better.
I refuse to defend myself. I know I deserve this onslaught.
Olivia’s disapproving face softens, just a little. “Why do you think Dad would care if you like Alex?” she says. “He doesn’t care about me and Cara.”
“That’s different.”
“Why? Because I’m a girl?”
“Olivia, can we just leave it alone? Please?”
She takes me literally, standing without another word.
Strands of dark blonde hair fall into her eyes as she shakes her head with exasperation.
She goes into the kitchen. I hear the sound of the kettle being filled.
She’s making tea without offering me a cup.
That’s means I’m really in the bad books.
It’s practically like being excommunicated in Northern Ireland.
Whatever. Let her be mad. Whether she likes it or not, it is different for her.
Dad is a man’s man. I’ve always been his mini me.
He expects me to be into the same things as him, like cars and sport.
There’s no room for dark-haired, dark-eyed boys in make-up.
No room for Alex. Dad would be shocked if he even suspected.
He doesn’t hold Olivia to the same standard.
I look in the mirror above the fireplace.
Big guilty eyes look back at me. My hair is a mess and my cheeks are ruddy from the cold, like a kid who’s been playing outside in the snow.
I look childish and silly-looking. I’ll never be cool and effortless like Alex, with his shrewd, angular face and black hair which falls across his eyes just perfectly.
Perfect rock star looks for the boy in the band.
And his band is even good. He seems to be good at everything.
While I grew up listening to whatever’s on Radio One, he was listening to artists with names like Deadly Weasel and Pierced Lace.
His guitar is covered in pink sparkles. He’s a badass. And I just fucked him over.
I glance through the open-plan living room to Olivia in the kitchen.
She’s clunking cupboard doors, loudly stirring the tea with an aggressive machine gun style to make a point.
She thinks I’m scum for what I just did to Alex.
I kinda think the same thing. Just as the guilt threatens to overwhelm me, the front door opens again and Dad comes in from work, shaking snow out of a wooly hat all over the carpet.
“Snow’s coming on out there,” he says unnecessarily.
“According to the weather forecast, there’s a decent chance of a white Christmas,” Olivia shouts from the kitchen.
“They say that every year, but it never happens,” I say moodily.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dad says to me. “Did you lose the big match?”
Olivia stares daggers at me from the kitchen. Dad’s eyes are on me, wide and ready to commiserate or celebrate.
“No, I won,” I say.
“Unbelievable,” Olivia says.
Dad isn’t paying attention, focusing on me. “Well done, son,” he says.
He pats my shoulder awkwardly. We’re not really a hugging family, especially the men. He looks at me for a moment but seems to be out of words. There’s real pride in his eyes. It would make me feel good about myself, but I know it’s not deserved.
After a few moments he wanders into the kitchen, sensing tea on the go.
Sighing, I pick up my phone, click on Alex. As soon as I see his name I’m transported back to the showers, the scent of his fancy shower gel. The look on his face as he came. Like he’s so mad with himself for wanting me. I start typing.
Hey, sorry about earlier
I don’t expect him to reply right away. But after a few seconds, my phone buzzes.
Fuck you
His anger sizzles through the screen, making me wince.
I’m sorry. I panicked, you know how I hate to lose
And I like it?? What, your pride’s more important than mine?
Fuck, this is going wrong. I thought he would try to play it cool. I didn’t think he’d be so emotional, so… vulnerable. I feel more like Macbeth than ever. I look at Dad and Olivia in the kitchen, laughing at something over their cups of tea. And I make a decision. I was raised better than this.
Look I’m going to tell Malachi what I did. I’ll tell him I cheated and you can have the exhibition match
No answer. I try again.
I don’t know what got into me but I’m going to make it right
Three dots appear. Alex is writing something. Then the dots disappear. And reappear. He can’t make up his mind what he wants to say.
Finally a message appears.
Don’t do me any favors
I can picture his eyes narrowed, trying and failing to hide his hurt behind a screen of coolness.
It wouldn’t be a favor, asshole. I cheated
Doesn’t matter, asshole. I don’t want to play in the exhibition match anymore anyway
He’s such a pouter.
Don’t sulk
I’m not sulking. I have plans that day
Already?
Yeah just got the message
Do I believe him? I’m not sure. His pride could make him give up the match, even if he wanted it. Hard to tell what’s going through his head sometimes.
And you’re not mad at me?
No, Dane. I don’t care enough about you to be mad
That remark slices deep. Deeper than I like to admit.
Anyway. I tried. I offered him the win, and he threw it in my face. I should forget this now. He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. I should take him at his word. This works out for the both of us. He gets his big “plans”, if they exist, and I get my game.
I throw the phone onto the other chair and finally drag myself off the sofa.
I go upstairs and strip, getting under the shower, shivering when the hot water hits my cold skin.
I already showered at the club, but I was too distracted by pissing off Alex to rinse my hair properly.
I rewash in a morose mood. Usually about now I jerk off thinking about Alex’s head thrown back and his neck arching as he comes for me.
Sometimes I think about the two of us doing it in a real bed, rose petals, candles scattered around the room, all that romantic shit.
It feels wrong this time, after the conversation we just had.
Why do I keep treating him like shit? It goes all the way back to school.
The worst thing I ever did to him happened when we were both fourteen.
Peak bullying age, in our school at least. It was around Christmas time.
Alex waited for me under the mistletoe that had been sellotaped by some romantic soul to the wall of the school corridor.
I don’t know how he got the balls to do it.
Lots of people had kissed there before. Always boys and girls.
But he had the nerve to stand there, looking at me meaningfully.
Like he actually thought I had the courage to do it in front of everyone.
We’d flirted a little, but only ever in private.
I wasn’t out like he was. He knew that. What was he thinking?
I froze, panicking, as everyone looked at Alex, and then looked at me.
I didn’t move, hoping I could play it off as Alex’s unrequited crush.
As long as I didn’t step toward him, as long as I looked confused about the whole thing, everything would be all right.
No one could guess at the extremely not-straight thoughts about Alex that had been running through my head for weeks.
Then Rob, the biggest asshole on the rugby team, came over holding a can of Coke.
As Alex stood there waiting for my kiss, Rob poured the Coke over his head.
I’ll never forget the look on Alex’s face.
Shock and then so much hurt. A couple of students laughed as Coke dripped down his chin, staining his white uniform shirt.
A few more started yelling at Rob for being homophobic and a dick.
I didn’t laugh, and I didn’t yell. I just froze.
I wasn’t the one who did it. I wasn’t the bully.
But I wasn’t the protector, either. I could’ve just kissed Alex before Rob had a chance to pounce. But I didn’t do anything.
I was a coward then, and I’m a coward now.