Chapter 6
AJ
I’m not at all surprised to see Kyle arriving at the exact same time as me. Once again, we seem to be similar, just like we were when we were younger. His blond hair is immaculately coiffed to the side and his green eyes are so striking, I’m almost rendered speechless.
What on earth is going on? I never lust after straight guys—especially fellow footballers.
This is not the done thing. But seeing him in his tight, buttoned paisley shirt, dress slacks, and boat shoes is making me think some very un-football-like thoughts.
Like, I wonder if his balls are as golden as his hair. Nope. Stop that. It’s inappropriate.
“Hey. You came,” he says.
“Not yet,” I say for no good reason. I splutter for different words, but none arrive. I’m malfunctioning, and he’s…wait, what is he doing? He’s laughing.
“Oh, really?” Is that a smirk? Oh, my god, he’s smirking.
Wait. No. The thought that crosses my mind is absurd.
Just because he dresses well does not mean he’s gay.
I do wonder, though. I’m also dressed smartly, but I actually am gay.
Not that dressing well automatically equals gay.
This is a minefield, and I should—should—tread carefully.
We enter the pub and if I’m not mistaken, I see the same look of relief in his eyes as I feel in my whole body.
It's not busy. It is, however, one of those pubs where if you’re not a local, you’re looked at like you are some being from outer space.
Kyle leads the way up to the bar, ignoring the eyes on us.
His stubborn ways coming in handy this time.
“What you drinking, AJ?” he asks, turning to me.
What I’d really like is a nice cuppa. But I don’t think this is the place or the time to be ordering that, so instead I say, “I’ll have a pink gin.
” I watch his face for any sign of a reaction.
Normally, if I’m out with the lads after a match, which is rare, and someone orders one of those, or something of similar ilk, they get terrorized for the rest of the evening.
And Rockwell will normally lead the charge. He’s a dick. And not the good kind.
“Make that two,” he says.
Was this a code? Fuck, I’m so out of touch.
Maybe he just likes pink gin. I scold myself for reducing him to a stereotype.
But was there something in his eyes, a glint maybe?
I pull my eyes away from him. Lusting after a straight guy has never steered me well.
Yet, I’ve fallen for it at least half a dozen times.
Despite dating two women, I classify myself as gay.
It’s a stretch to call it dating anyway, as I was in school, and we held hands at the absolute most… once.
We find a table, and he’s wearing the same half scowl, half smirk he’s had since we were youngsters. He was always getting shit for “having a moody face,” and I’ve lost count of the number of times he clapped back, telling people, “It’s my resting bitch face—get over it, I’m fine.”
“So,” I say, trying to fill the silence, “congratulations on getting those two goals today.”
“Thank you. I got a bloody nose for my troubles, but it was worth it.”
“Shit. You all right? Looks like you didn’t mess your mug up too much.” And because I’m feeling brave, I say, “Good job.”
I look for any sign of a shift, but either he has an excellent poker face or I’m being too subtle. I implore myself to stop, but I have to know.
“Thanks. Nice one on your goal, too. Though, I don’t know how you would have coped if you got bashed in your nose. Hell, I’ve seen you pitch a fit when someone musses your perfect hair.”
“Hey, all I’m taking from that is you think I’m perfect.”
“Take it how you want,” he says, in his deadpan voice, his face still giving nothing away. He stretches his legs out under the table, and they reach mine. I have no idea if he’s man-spreading or reaching out, either way, the warmth of his contact is electric.
I sip my gin, savoring the taste. I seldom drink, and when I do, it’s always a fruity gin. Unless we’re taking shots, then I’m not as fussy.
Searching my brain for topics is hard when the only question I want to ask him is the very one I can’t.
Especially in a place like this. The decor of the place is actually quite quaint.
There are paintings of animals in royal attire and an open fire.
It’s got a homely feel to it, despite the fact that all eyes seem to be on us.
“What’s the betting that one of them has Googled us and is now trying to work out which one of them should come up and ask us if we are who they think we are?” he asks, arching an eyebrow at a cohort of elderly gents in the corner of the bar.
“I’d say that’s highly accurate.” And lo and behold, before I can finish my sentence, an elderly gent with a flat cap and white whiskers sprouting from his tanned chin ambles over to us.
“There’s a rumor floatin’ ’round this ’ere establishment that you two are quite famous.” He stares into us, not giving anything away. His tweed jacket has a light dusting of mud and hay on it, signs of working on one of the local farms. Hello, he probably owns all the land around here.
Kyle and I exchange a knowing glance at each other, and he nods at me. I take that as he wants me to take the lead on this one, so I do, “And what are the rumors saying as to how we might be famous?”
The man strokes his whiskery chin, “Well, they’re saying that you’re famous footballers.”
“I wouldn’t say famous.”
“Not yet anyway,” Kyle adds in his low rumbling voice.
“But you are footballers?” the man asks.
“We are,” I say with a smile.
The man looks at us for a long while before saying, “That’s what I thought. See, there’s a feller over there that thought you were both queers. Not that there’s much wrong with that. You can do what you like, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Well, we thank you for your approval.” Kyle says curtly. My legs feel cold, and I realize he’s taken his touch away from me.
“Is there anything else we can do for you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
I don’t much care for his insinuation, but causing a scene, even in a small pub, is liable to get us splashed on the front pages of the red top gossip newspapers as well as the back.
I stand up, survey the pub and all of its eight or so patrons and say, “Okay, everyone, for the next hour, drinks are on me, just put it on my tab. As a thank you for welcoming us both to your pub and giving us the grace to have some privacy.”
Kyle shoots me a look, and the pub erupts with grunts of approval.
“Why on earth are you paying for a bunch of homophobic people’s drinks?” There’s an edge in his voice.
“They’re not homophobes, they just don’t have the vocabulary to articulate what they actually mean. If they truly thought we were gay, we would have been run out of here by now. And sure, then we could safely say they’re homophobes.”
His look softens, and we smile at each other.
There’s a thousand things left unsaid in our silence.
This time, I stretch my legs over to his and to my delight, he doesn’t move.
My heart races at our little touch. Sound from the TV mounted crookedly on the wall captivates the rest of the pub.
The sound that I’m captivated by is the beat of my own heart, willing me to reach across the table and link my fingers into his.
For the next hour we nurse our gin and fill in the gaps of our lives over the past few years.
He tells me he graduated from college and that he’s seen almost all the west end shows in London.
Again, I wonder if this is a little wink and a nod.
“I would love to see a show down in London. With you.” I feel the need to clarify far too boldly.
He smiles at me, and I swear he shouldn’t be allowed to do that in public places because it stirs a rich mix of emotions in me. It’s a lovely change from his scowling.
“I would like that,” he says, and I will myself to let my hand rest in no man’s land.
I look at him. He looks at me. I look at my hand.
And. And then he takes his off his bottle and brushes my knuckles with his index finger.
Electricity coils in the fingers he touched.
And then the warmth of him is gone, startled away by a cackle in the far corner of the room.
We look over and see they’re laughing at a rerun of a comedy program. It’s in black and white, so I have no idea what it is. My hand retracts back to my side of the table, desperate for one more slight touch but knowing that could mean trouble for both of us.
Reluctantly, thanks to time going too fast, we decide to call it a night.
I clear the tab, thankful they didn’t take the piss by not ordering too much, and walk Kyle out.
I don’t want this night to end. I want to stay under his gaze.
I want to hear more of his voice. I want to be near his warmth. I’ve missed him.
We walk side by side down the empty street, our hands at our sides.
The urge to hold his in mine is overwhelming.
Just as I’m about to pluck up the courage to find his hand, his fingers interlink in my own for the smallest of seconds.
His touch is like a firework display. It’s overwhelming.
It’s incredible. I look up, and he smiles.
My heart quickens, the words I'm dying to say are pushing past my lips.
“How’s that girl you're dating?” he asks, causing my head to spin. I stop dead in the street, facing him.
“Dating? Me? Think you have the wrong guy.”
“I saw it in the papers, and there’s no mistaking your looks. You’re one of a kind.” My cheeks flush red.
“If you’re on about Stacey? Then, well…” My eyes dart to the floor. “My PR team thought it would be good for my image if I was seen with a woman on my arm.”
“Oh.” There’s so much emotion in that syllable. “So, there isn’t a woman in your life?” I pull my eyes up to his.
“No. And other than my mum, there never will be.” My heart quickens, and I can feel a trickle of sweat run down the back of my neck. I force myself to stay looking at his eyes, searching for anything in them that might…give me hope.
“Ah, so you’re career focused?”
“I didn’t say that.”
I’m acutely aware of my pulse quickening, of my heartbeat racing to get out of my chest. I yearn to hold his hands in mine. We’re alone in the street, the two of us illuminated by the streetlights.
“Would you…would you date a guy?”
“Yeah,” I say, almost whispering.
“Would you kiss a guy?”
“The right guy, yeah.”
We move closer to each other.
“Would you kiss me?” My heart races, time stands still, and I see the glint in his eyes. He wants this as much as me. I’m breathless. I’m tethered to the spot. I’m weightless. I’m moving closer. And so is he. There’s a paper-thin gap between us now, and my heart leaps in anticipation.
I close the gap and push my lips onto his. He pushes his onto mine and his tongue roams my mouth. I deepen the kiss, my tongue intertwining with his. My hands grip the back of his head, and he moans softly.
He pulls away, gasping for air.
“We can’t do this,” he says, “not here.”
“You’re right. Wanna go to my hotel room?”
“More than anything.” His eyes have taken on a darker color, and a mischievous smirk flashes on his lips, making my insides twitch with delight.
His lips caress mine for one more fleeting moment, and then we head to my hotel. This is not how I imagined this night to go. Hoped? Yes. Believed? No.