Chapter 17 Marlon
Marlon
AUGUST
It’s a terrible day. We’re getting London summer at its finest; grey and cold and clammy and going through all your clothes right into your bones. It feels like autumn is here. Like I should be drinking hot chocolate under a blanket, not play the first games of the season.
I’m still only wearing short sleeves; it is August, after all, and I refuse to be reigned over by the weather. Though I have regretted the decision with every cold, miserable gust of wind, I will take that secret to my grave. Stubborn, me? I prefer the term tenacious.
Practice has come to a brief lull as the coaches set up new training stations for us.
I wish I could have just kept on moving.
It would make me feel warmer. But at least I can look at Freddie and warm my insides, which also helps.
He’s laughing, goofing around with one of our athletic coaches, apparently not the least bit aggravated by the weather.
To be fair, I did wake him with a blowjob this morning. If he were grumpy, I’d probably take it personally.
It’s weird, doing this. We knew it would be, going in, but I’m still trying to get used to it.
Freddie is still my team mate. He’s still the same boy I grew up alongside, I still do my best to pass the ball to him so he can score.
But I didn’t anticipate how hard it would be to not look at him all the time.
I want to smile constantly, these days, and I worry that if people look too closely, they’ll see the tiny hearts in my eyes whenever I spot Freddie.
He's just as bad as me—worse, even. Only for him, it’s not just looks—it’s touches, too, fleeting presses of hands against my body when he thinks no-one is looking. A slightly too long clap on the shoulder. A hand in my hair, caressing rather than tousling.
“He likes you.” Mofe’s voice in my ear almost makes me jump out of my skin.
Shit.
My heart is making a valiant effort to escape through my mouth and I press a hand to my chest and wheeze, turning to look at my fellow defender. “You could warn a fellow instead of sneaking up on me.”
Mofe grins, then runs a hair through his newly cropped black afro.
“I’m like a black panther.” He winks at me and mimes cat paws and I shake my head at his antics.
Like a sensible person, he’s opted for long sleeves and tights under his shorts today and I’m ever so slightly envious.
I suppose being Nigerian makes him less stubborn about trying to weather the ungodly conditions.
“Seriously though,” he says now and moves to stand next to me, resting an easy elbow on my shoulder though we’re the same height. He nods his chin over to where Freddie and the coach are still laughing. “He likes you.”
A cold completely unrelated to the weather floods my veins and I tense, involuntarily.
Bloody hell. Surely he can’t mean what I worry he means.
Right? Because somebody noticing—somebody calling us out—could end our careers right here.
“Yeah,” I say, matter-of-factly despite my racing heart.
“We’re good mates, I like him too. We went through all the youth teams together,” I add for good measure, like he doesn't know.
Mofe gives me an unimpressed look. “Not like that, dumbass.” His tone is still light. He always sounds playful and good-natured, until he doesn’t. Even when he casually talks about my biggest, scariest secret, it’s all in good spirits. “In, like, a faggy way.”
A sledgehammer to the chest couldn’t have hit me harder. Faggy. I’m too shocked to be angry, although my brain understands the terribleness immediately. I could blame it on the language barrier, maybe? Mofe’s face is still friendly. I don’t think he realises how bad it really is.
I should still call him out on it. Say something. Explain why that’s not a cool thing to say.
But I only have one season under my belt and I’ve had definite rough patches. I need to be careful about how I handle this. Careful, and smart. Deflect rumours before they can even start.
“Oh yeah?” I say, aiming for a light, slightly surprised tone. “You think?” I look over at Freddie, who’s hopping from one foot to the other, looking absolutely demented, making all the people around him laugh. I can’t help but smile at his antics.
This is so bloody dangerous.
Mofe is a cool guy, but if he found out about Freddie and me—if he knew what we get up to when we’re alone—I have a feeling he would not be happy.
And it’s not just him, either. Lots of guys on the team would be uncomfortable, to say the least. Not to mention the manager, the fans, the investors, the sponsors…
everyone who is of importance in this sport.
There’s a beat of silence in which my heart tries to jump out of my chest and I need all my energy to appear calm.
“You into that?” Mofe asks finally, his tone a little accusing.
Oh, god. I’m so the wrong person for this. Freddie would be able to laugh it off, make some crude joke and be done with it, but I’m completely unable to be cool about anything. My mind is blank because what on earth can I even say?
"Into?" I repeat, like I've never heard the word before.
I fully deserve the raised eyebrows on Mofe's face. "Yeah," he says, like I'm dumb. He also now sounds even more suspicious than he was before.
Oh, bloody hell. What now?
What on earth would Freddie do? It's not often I want to emulate him, but extreme situations require extreme action. I'm too awkward and shy for this. I exhale, as inconspicuous as I can, and forcibly unclench my jaw and the tight fists my fingers have curled into. “You know,” I finally say, with a nonchalance I don’t feel. “I can’t blame him.” A little grin and a shimmy of my hips.
I aim for cocky, but even if I only make it to pleased, it works.
Then, genius strikes. I think. Genius, or insanity.
But I go for it. “Also, I have this thing. It’s pretty big. ”
I grin again, more lewdly this time, and feel terribly out of place in my own body. So I throw in a wink for good measure. “It’s my ego,” I continue.
Mofe stares at me like I’m mad and honestly? I can’t blame him.
“I like when it gets stroked.” I’m in this now, so I have to commit.
No matter how much I cringe at myself on the inside.
I let my hand pump suggestively—offensively—in front of my groin and want to shrivel up inside.
I’m much too English for this. But I swallow all of my pride, my sense of self, the upbringing my parents worked so hard to give me, and let out a little pretend moan and look Mofe in the eye.
“When you stroke it, it grows. So, yeah. I like it. Doesn’t matter who does the job, you know? As long as it feels good.”
Mofe stares at me for a long, long second and I worry I’ve fucked up. My cosplay as a fun guy was too much, or too little, just wrong. He could tell how little I believed in what I said. He’s going to call me out any second now, he’ll have some choice words for me—
“You fucking weirdo.” He cracks a grin. “Who the fuck says stuff like that?”
Relief washes over me, but I can’t end the act just yet. I need to keep going until I’ve fully distracted him from what he originally said. “Want to stroke it some more?” I half-turn towards him so I can push my hips forward in suggestion.
Mofe laughs, half amused, half uncomfortable, and raises both hands. “Yeah, no, I’m good, man.” He backs off, shaking his head at my weirdness, and saunters over to our goalie instead.
I almost sag in relief but do my best to keep my face straight. That’s one situation dealt with. How many more will there be in the future? Hundreds? Thousands?
As I’m getting out of fight-or-flight mode, anger bubbles to the surface. How dare Mofe say something like that? Use such a blatant insult like it’s nothing? Treat Freddie's sexuality—or what he thinks he knows about his sexuality, anyway—like an insult? Insinuate I should be offended by it?
Thankfully, the coaches are done setting up and we’re called to our stations for some intense footwork practice.
It keeps me from spiraling. I know it’s only the tip of the iceberg.
Homophobia is everywhere in this sport. We’ll never be able to come out if we want to keep our jobs.
Choice words from team mates would be the least of our worries if we did.
My eyes find Freddie, the way they always do, and this time he catches my gaze and smiles. It’s only a second or two of our connection before we’re both drawn back into our training reality, but it’s enough. It calms me and helps me change perspective.
Yes, queerness in professional male sports is a shit show. But we’ll make it work despite all of it. I love Freddie so damn much and he loves me. Sure, we’re young, and that alone is often a roadblock to long-term happiness in a relationship.
But did I mention I’m tenacious?
We’ll live with the homophobia. We’ll live with the stupid jokes and the degrading comments and the obstacles life might throw at us.
Because we have each other. And there is an infinite well of happiness inside of me when I’m with Freddie.
He makes me bolder and braver and in return, I calm him down and give him a place to be his true self.
We make each other better. Off and on the field.
And we’ll get through this. Together.