Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
Nico La Forge climbed out of a sleek black limousine to stand on a red carpet leading into Theatre du Chatelet, Paris’s finest opera house, like he fucking owned the limo and the theatre.
I prayed I gave off that vibe, anyhow. Inside my uncomfortable penguin suit, I was shivering like a jellyfish, but I’d be damned if I’d allow any of the rubberneckers lining the roped barriers, in the hope of catching the first sighting of éti in a frock, that satisfaction. She didn’t need to see me quaking either; she had enough jitters of her own to contend with. Not to mention a pair of stilettos. So, I gripped her hand in mine as tightly as she gripped mine back, kept my head held high, my eyes on the daunting entrance to the theatre, and ignored the camera flashes zinging all around us.
At least we had been warned. Once éti’s gossipy teammates knew something was going down, once the manager had had a quiet word with the club president and the investors caught a sniff of drama, it was only a matter of hours until the press got wind. Rumours of Salvador making a big personal announcement had gathered momentum. Press and fans lined the road up to the theatre five deep.
Spooling out ahead of us, I swear the red carpet stretched farther than a soccer pitch.
“Still not regretting this, still not regretting this, still not regretting this,” murmured éti through gritted teeth. Pausing just beyond the car to smooth down her frock, she dared a hesitant wave. The frock was one of three stunning, floor-length sheaths she’d thrown on then cast aside like an impatient stripper, until I’d coaxed her to try them all again. And again. And again, until at last she settled on this one in a shimmering mother-of-pearl, because I’d told her she was my precious mermaid in it. I, on the other hand, on a night so hot and sticky I didn’t know where my skin ended and my suit fabric began, felt like a fish flopping in wet sand.
Experienced from this side of the rope, a red-carpet event was surreal as fuck. Like we’d been deposited into the arrival’s hall of a strange and exotic destination and didn’t speak the language. Either that or we’d been rounded up as fodder for a cage of ravenous lions. Right now, the latter was an attractive option.
“Merde , my knees have gone wobbly,” said éti, in a voice that matched. “I’ve forgotten how walking works.”
A camera flash-fried my retinas, blinding me for a few seconds. Mon dieu, how did she put up with this on the regular? “That’s nothing, my love. I’ve forgotten how breathing works.”
A few feet ahead of us, Fabien cheerfully signed autographs and shook hands. Not that anyone was watching or clamouring too hard for him—every single one of the nation’s flashlights were beamed on us. After the initial flurry of excitement, now the crowd had done a collective double take, the noise level was dropping to a confused low babble. Which meant even a single shout hit home.
“Hey, étienne, you fag, it’s not a fancy-dress party!”
Thank fuck for security. God knew who the heckler was, but he was about to enjoy a pat down and an uncomfortable taxi ride between two bruisers to somewhere else. And if they hadn’t been up to the challenge, I’d have done it myself and far less politely.
éti whimpered. “Don’t let go of me, Nico, whatever you do. Not until we’re inside.”
I squeezed her hand even harder. “Not a chance.”
“Do you think this was a bad idea?”
“No.” I pulled back my shoulders. “You’ve got this my love. écoute: Salvador always stays on her feet; she always stays on her feet. Be brave, my love. Walk slow. Give some autographs like you do normally. Smile and flirt. Let them meet éti. Let them see how fabulous she is. Remind yourself that she is the greatest soccer star on the planet.”
“She is. She’s better than Neymar,” she muttered, and the hint of a smile curved on her lips.
“Better than Mbappé,” I agreed. “Staggering, but never falling.”
“Five times winner of the fucking Ballon d’Or, that’s what she is.” I sensed her huge intake of breath as she steeled herself. “Here goes the rest of my life.”
Tugging me behind, she strode with purpose towards a group of startled young fans clad in number ten shirts.
“Hi, good evening!” she declared brightly. “Thanks for coming! I’m éti! Hope you haven’t been waiting too long. Who’s got a pen I can borrow?”
Imagine giving a speech to a couple of million people across the world. On live television. Politicians accomplished it all the time, of course. Actors at the Oscars, too. And royalty. It came with the territory; speeches were part of the job description. Inherent competency was expected.
Now imagine giving that speech when the skills you were revered for involved your feet, not your brain. And you’d left school at sixteen without much in the way of qualifications, because those feet were so darn good at doing the talking. And, even more, the speech was about something so personal, so entrenched in your own psyche and yet so alien to such huge swathes of the audience, that you had absolutely no idea how the speech would be received.
If any of that was churning through éti’s brain, then she hid it extremely well. I, for one, felt sick as a dog.
“I don’t need notes or a dress rehearsal,” she informed me two nights before and tapped the side of her head. “It’s all in here. I’ve had this speech prepared for years.”
éti being éti, some of it had been recently amended, and the new additions took my breath away.
“Good evening. And welcome to everyone.”
With a fond touch, her slim hand caressed the lump of shiny metal as, behind her, an enormous screen played her finest goalscoring moments on a loop. “I’d like to start by acknowledging that many of you who voted for me to receive this prestigious award tonight,” she interrupted herself with a soft giggle, “are now possibly wishing you hadn’t.”
An uncomfortable pause stretched out, broken by a few titters from the PSG players. “Alors, too late. I’ve earned it, it’s mine, and I’m not giving it back.”
Her eyes hardened as they roamed the audience. “Some of you may want to leave, to walk out in disgust. Go now.”
No one moved; heads twisted around. “I suspect the desire to hear what I have to say has won out. Bravo.”
For a moment, her gaze landed on mine before returning to the solid golden football. She weighed it thoughtfully in her hand, dwarfed by the huge empty stage. Behind, a giant screen played her physics-defying goal against Manchester City over and over, yet still she held everyone’s attention. So small, fragile even, and yet so very, very determined. She cleared her throat.
“So, this award. Once more, it is mine. However, this year I am dedicating it to a very special woman who is not with us tonight. A mother who gave life to a son and brought him up to live that life with his heart wide open. Her son is my partner, Nico, and he is here with me now and, I hope, will be by my side always. Regretfully, Nico’s mother passed away earlier this year, and I never had a chance to thank her.” éti held the award aloft. “To Mme Marie La Forge, always loved, never forgotten.”
I missed her next words, too busy swallowing down the sea of emotion threatening to let rip from my eyes. My heart swelled to impossible dimensions with love for the woman shaping my future and the one who had shaped my past. I blinked up at the intricate moulded ceiling high above our heads, at the thousands of lights, like an ocean of stars, blinking back from the many chandeliers, cursing éti for not warning me and, at the same time, so fucking full of love for her I wanted to scale the walls of the auditorium and shout it from the highest balcony.
Fabien’s heavy arm around my shoulder brought me back to the present. éti’s voice gained confidence, her tone clear and precise.
“We are all gathered here tonight to celebrate the magic of football. My intention is not to hijack that, though the time has come to share something very personal. I don’t give many interviews, and that isn’t going to change. My private life will remain, as always, private. So, pay attention, because I shall share this with you all only once.”
A deafening hush swept around the room as éti sipped from a water glass at her elbow. Behind her, the image reel had come to an end. Her face as she stood at the lectern filled the screen: elegant, poised, and about to take the next step in the most important dance of her life.
“I am éti Salvador. Paris St-Germain’s number ten and the winner of this year’s Ballon d’Or. And, don’t forget, the winner for the last four years. I am a trans woman. My pronouns are she/her. Away from the football pitch, étienne Salvador has not existed for many years, and I will no longer respond in public or private arenas to that name. I appreciate this is new information to most people here tonight, but I assure you, it is not new to me.”
Each pause brought a fresh round of murmuring, like a disgruntled earthquake rumbling away in the distance but drawing ever closer. If éti was aware of it, she paid no heed.
“To some of you, I’ll always be a freak.” Her eyes leisurely travelled across and down the rows of the packed auditorium as if collecting, cataloguing, and storing away the bigots, the haters, the narrow minds, the threats. And, knowing éti’s big heart, doing her best to forgive them. “I may never convince the majority of you otherwise. But seeing as how I have this huge public platform and your attention, I owe it to my trans siblings to widen the camera angle between my public and private life and explain. I can’t take this microphone and speak for all of them; our individual experiences are unique. But by hearing mine, just maybe, just maybe , a few of you will walk out of here tonight a little more open-minded, a little less black and white, and a little more forgiving of our differences.”
With a wicked smile, her eyes flicked down to the lectern. “I’m going to take you on a journey back to your school days, to those January afternoons shivering in gym kit while the sports teacher divided the class into teams for a game of netball or hockey or football. Remember those? Nicer teachers walked down the row, pointing to each child, and randomly assigning them A, B, A, B, A, B, etc. Others, not so thoughtful, picked a couple of captains and let them select who they wanted. The most popular, the fastest, the prettiest, and the scariest were always chosen first. Some poor kid, the same one each week usually, was always left until last.” She paused a beat. “Of course, that poor kid was never me.”
That got a few laughs, but she held up a finger. “Yet this is the part I want you to try to comprehend, so listen carefully. Despite being one of the first picked, I still felt like that poor kid. Like the last person standing, stuck in the middle. Neither belonging nor comfortable in one team nor the other. For years and years, in fact, until one day, a long time ago now, a team chose me. A. Team. Chose. Me. And I’m making an important distinction here. I had no choice being this way. Trans people do not choose to be this way. The team chooses us.”
She sipped at her water as the murmurings swelled again, then up to the front row. A flash of chipped incisor filling the screen behind, her face crinkled into a smile. “Mon dieu, the FIFA president’s about to faint. Don’t worry, monsieur, there are no more surprises! All that is left is for me to thank all the good people without whom, my career would not have been what it is today.”
She listed a few names that, at knifepoint, no one present would have been able to recall. “And, of course, I wish to thank my parents, who sacrificed a huge part of their lives to shaping me into the best soccer player I could be. Sadly, they are unable to be here celebrating with us this evening.”
A diplomatic way of putting it. Some things were best left private.
“And last but not least, from the bottom of my heart, I would like to thank my teammates. Because without the team, I am nothing.” She grinned again. “And without their collective expertise, my first and only tattoo would have been an abomination.”
Once more, éti picked up the award, admiring it. “I am going to leave you with my gratitude once again for awarding me this trophy, and a simple message. Which is this: a day will come when someone receives this award, and whether they are straight, gay, trans, or bi will be an irrelevance. It will be all about the football. Until that day comes, you will have to put up with me, and I will keep dancing for you for as long as you are willing to watch. And, as I wish all of you a very pleasant remainder of the evening, I leave you with something to think about: joy takes fewer words than hate. And when you find joy, hold on to any piece of it, because a lot of people will try to take it away from you. Thank you and goodnight.”
Fabien was on his feet clapping even before she’d stepped back from the podium, tall and proud on the front row. Ruiz and Dubois rose to their feet next, flanking him, defying everyone else in the auditorium not to follow suit. A muted wave of polite applause echoed throughout the theatre. Another teammate wolf whistled. A few more stood; then, within seconds, the entire squad were standing, clapping and whistling, chanting éti’s name. Joined as one in a massive, united, supportive fuck you.
For the second time in the space of a few minutes, my eyes brimmed with tears; on the screen behind her, éti’s did too. The well of human hatred might not have been as shallow and dry as I’d imagined.
“Watch,” whispered Fabien’s wife on my left with a nudge. “They have arranged a surprise for her.”
Putain, Fabien was unfastening his jacket and loosening his collar. Ruiz too. All along the row, the PSG team were slipping out of jackets, removing bow ties, unbuttoning shirts. Like it was a stag weekend, and someone had ordered an elite team of male strippers. On stage, éti clapped her hand over her mouth, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Each player revealed not bare torsos, but the familiar blue and red of PSG. As one team, they strode towards her, Fabien leading the way, his huge arms stretched wide. And on the back of each player, printed in big white letters, were the words ‘éti Salvador, 10’.
Solidarity. For the whole world to see.
“Really, éti? After running that gauntlet, they expect me to plough through four courses of haute cuisine? I don’t think I can digest a mouthful of bread.”
Even éti, with her monumental appetite, struggled, although not because of leftover adrenaline.
“People will think I’ve swallowed a basketball if I eat any more in this dress,” she moaned. “Mon dieu, that tarte au chèvre looks scrumptious. Look at it! It’s calling my name! Why didn’t I wear something more forgiving? When I win next year, remind me to buy a kaftan.”
“Neymar will win next year,” hollered Ruiz from across the table. He was still in his Salvador soccer shirt; Meyer, the big German, had draped his around his head like a turban. “We’ll bribe the judges. We’re not going through all this palaver again.”
From her perch on Fabien’s knee, éti chucked a bread roll at him. “She even throws like a girl,” crowed Dubois. “Why the hell had I never noticed that?”
“Looking smokin’ tonight, by the way, Mrs La Forge,” Ruiz added wickedly. “If your man Nico here gets fed up with feeding you, you know where to come.”
With the cameras switched off and with the great and the good ensconced on a table as far from ours as the banqueting room allowed, decorum, class, poise, and filters flew out the window, replaced by childish fun. Rich footballers knew how to party—that was no surprise—but, more than that, they knew how to embrace change. And how to make me feel welcome, not that much was expected of me.
Now it was all over, I was happy enough basking in my girlfriend’s glory. To watch her relax, safe for now in the bosom of her accepting teammates. To let her low laughter soak into my soul, to take a cool dip in her steadfast eyes each time they flicked up at me, to drown in her chipped-tooth smile. To plot peeling her out of her shimmery dress once we were alone and claim her as mine all over again. Perhaps we could sneak away soon, after the cheese course. Was the guest of honour allowed to do that?
“That part of the evening will have to wait, I’m afraid,” offered Fabien, giving me a cheeky wink. “I saw you. You’re undressing her with your eyes.”
I blushed. “I can’t believe how accepting you all are.”
Fabien shrugged. “It’s not a big leap, to be honest. I think as soon as she told me, things clicked into place. It feels right for her. Natural, like she’s always been a woman. We just never noticed until she pointed it out. Dubois said the same thing.”
“How do you think the headlines are going to spin it tomorrow?”
Fabien’s brow pinched. “Mixed, I should think. But I spoke to the boss earlier, and the club are going to take a supportive line. Maybe an opportunity to appeal to a younger, more liberal generation. We’ll see. But as long as your éti carries on putting away goals and bringing us trophies, if she can stomach the abuse from the terraces, then I think she’ll be okay.”
Dinner drew to a close. The whole circus was almost over. And we’d survived. “You never told me there would be fucking dancing!”
“I’m la petite danseuse! Of course there is. And we have to have the first dance.” éti smiled at me, fluttering those damn eyelashes. “And, anticipating that reaction, are you surprised? The winner always takes to the floor first. It’s tradition! Like at a wedding.”
“Who did you dance with last year? And the years before that?”
“With my mother.” She pulled a face. “And Fabien’s wife. Now, take my arm and lead me out. No one expects very much. We just stare lovingly into each other’s eyes and shuffle around a bit until everyone else joins in.”
The first part came easily; I was an expert at the second too. Holding onto my arm, in a much more relaxed manner than several hours earlier on the red carpet, éti sashayed towards the dancefloor on her high heels like, well, a dancer. Whereas I tried not to appear like I was on my way to the guillotine. Pulling myself together, I plastered on a smile. How bad could it be?
What I hadn’t accounted for was a stray champagne cork lying in wait for us in the middle of the shiny dancefloor. I spotted it about the same time as éti zoned in. She twitched with anticipation. Ah, merde.
“No, sweetheart.” I hissed. “Absolument non. Everyone’s watching.”
“But can’t I just…”
“No! Pretend it’s not there.”
“But…”
“You’re wearing stilettos.”
“I know. Aren’t they gorgeous?”
“Everyone’s watching!”
“Yes, but I… it’s… I could just hitch up my…”
Putain, I was wasting my breath.
Call it instinct, call it years of relentless practise, call it a seasoned reflexive impulse out of her control. Whatever; I might as well have been trying to hold back the tides. Some things were meant to be.
“Do you reckon I could take out one of those chandelier bulbs if I get the angle right?”
I snorted. “And the FIFA president if he moves about a foot to the left. Right on top of his shiny bald head.”
Laughter welled in my throat as next to me, my love that came without warning, my darling éti and this year’s uncontested winner of the prestigious Ballon d’Or, paused in front of the lonely little cork and released my hand. Ignoring the romantic music, the interested audience, and the heckles of her friends, she contemplated it, her gaze flicking up to the chandeliers above our heads, taking in the portly FIFA president on the way back down, and then back to the cork. As if deciding where to place a penalty. With a dainty touch, she pinched the sides of her dress, inching it up little by little, until the sparkling fabric rested above her knees.
“Now, angel?”
I caught a flash of chipped incisor and grinned back. “Now and forever, my sweet.”
Beautifully balanced, neither staggering nor falling, éti Salvador, the world’s greatest soccer player, drew back her high-heeled foot, took aim, and booted the cork high up into the rafters.