Chapter 10
AJ
The penultimate game. We’re already champions, but we have the opportunity to have the most points ever.
And then we can focus on the cup final. The match against Kyle’s plucky underdog team.
Our squad is already writing them off, saying we’ll steamroller them like we have done with every other team this season.
But I know that they have a secret weapon in Kyle, and I know first-hand how stubborn he is.
How determined he is. When we were youngsters, everyone said he had this gift, and they were right.
He still has that gift. The ability to change any game at any moment.
Watching the game from the bench is torture.
I always want to be on the pitch, especially at home when we’re going to win the league title and lift up the trophy in front of all the fans.
I get it, though—Gaffer has said he’s saving me for the cup game.
We have a big squad, and to have played the number of games I have at such a young age is almost unprecedented.
I’m grateful for each and every opportunity.
I soak in the atmosphere from the bench, cheering along with our fans.
I can’t help it. I know a small part of my inner child is screaming at me, but I’m having fun, and like I say, this team is paying me.
I look around on the bench and everyone else seems pretty stoic in comparison.
I don’t get it. This is football. This is people’s dream, and we’re living it—at least smile.
I watch as the ball comes out wide, all of us rise in anticipation, and the ball is hammered in by our main striker.
The fans go nuts. I’m hugging everyone in the dugout, and our gaffer is running up and down the touchline.
Now the rest of my teammates decide to smile and be merry.
I pump my fist in the air and cheer along with the fans.
We’ve done it. We’ve officially gotten the most points in a single season, and I hear someone say we’ve also scored the most goals in a single season too.
The next minute the gaffer is calling me over, and I'm stripping out of my tracksuit and into my kit. I’m replacing our star striker.
I hold my hands out for a high five, and he duly obliges, a huge grin on his face.
There’s ten minutes left, still time to make an impact.
The crowd cheers my name as I make my way to my position up top.
The ball comes to me right away, and I’m shoved off it.
I need to work on my strength for next season, that’s for sure.
I read in one of the newspapers that I was a “wizard's staff”—meaning I’m tall and thin. I’ll show them all next season.
The opposing team tries to press, but we turn them over.
This time, the ball comes to me over the top of the defense.
I take it down with my right foot. The keeper rushes toward me and takes both me and the ball out.
I scramble back up to my feet and try to get the ball, but the defenders are back in force, and they clear it away in the nick of time.
Gaffer’s words come screaming at me from a few weeks back, telling me to simulate if I feel contact in the box.
I’ve seen so many players do it and swore I wouldn’t.
Besides, what would have been the difference in this game anyway?
I chase away the thought about what I would do in the cup final next Sunday.
I’d like to think I have enough integrity to stay on my feet, but if we’re a goal or two down, or if it’s the last few moments and we need a goal, I can’t answer the question of what I’d do.
I shake the thought aside, hoping it will never come to that.
The game ends, and we win it comfortably. I don’t manage to get on the score sheet, but I do set two goals up. Not bad for a ten-minute cameo. I have done enough to earn my place in the cup final, that was just the icing on the cake.
Only the home fans are left in the stadium, the noise they’re producing is unreal, deafening almost. We take turns in lifting and posing with the trophy.
When I get my turn, I run to the crowd, and they cheer, then our captain gets a champagne bottle and sprays it in my face.
We’re joined by other players singing the club songs.
I’m on top of the world. This is what I’ve worked my whole life for, but yet, my mind goes to Kyle, and I wonder if his team managed to secure the points they needed to stay up.
He’s far too good for that team anyway, and whatever happens, he should get a decent transfer away from that club.
I did, only half-jokingly, say to my gaffer that we should sign him, but he said they already have me, so there’s no need.
As much as that felt good to hear, we do need a backup striker, and it would be great to play with my…
my…whatever he is again on the same team.
Certainly not boyfriend, as he made that very clear.
I’m happy to have him back in my life, though, whatever shape that may be in.
There’s an exuberant atmosphere in the dressing room.
Players are dancing on the benches, others are going live on TikTok—even our gaffer is smiling, which is a great sight to see.
I pull out my phone with the intention to message Kyle.
I see on social media that he’s trending, and so am I.
My heart beats for an extra second; seeing our names in such close proximity could only mean one thing.
FillippeL09: AJ is going to be the face of this club next season, WHAT A PLAYER!
JVeridi19: Kyle will command a big transfer next season! A Hatty when it matters most at that age! Wow! Would love to see him at Union.
ColeP90812: I heard a rumor that there’s a premier player that’s gay. I bet it’s Kyle. Did you see him crying at the end of the match? Puff.
KyleT’sSuperFan09: Kyle, thank you for the goals this season. I’ll follow and support you wherever you go. You should be proud of what you’ve done, good luck with the cup game!
Blue4EVA1996: AJ is gonna be a National Hero within the next two seasons. Kyle will be a nobody. Bookmark this.
He did it. My heart leaps with joy for him, a hat trick. I really hope he’s seen all the positive posts and not the negative ones. My hands itch to reply to the shitty ones. I want to see his smile. He deserves this so much.
I open our messages and send him a congratulatory text. I stay on my phone a little while in the hopes he replies, but I know he’ll be celebrating too, so I put mine away and try to be present in the moment.
“Fuckin’ brilliant out there, lads. Fuckin’ history makers.
You left your blood, sweat and tears out there.
But don’t get too comfy. We go again next Sunday.
We go and win the cup and we will win The Treble again.
We’ll be the first team in history to do it twice.
Then, once and for all, we’ll be taken as serious contenders for best team in England.
This city is ours, it’s about time the rest of the country knows it.
” The whole dressing room cheers, even I get caught up in it.
This is my team now, my home. My loyalty is with them, no matter the costs.
There’s nothing like a cup final day. Back up north, the streets are lined with our team colors. Down in London, at the national stadium, it’s a sixty-forty split in our favor, despite playing a London based club.
Last night I barely slept a wink. The thought of playing at the national stadium was the stuff of my dreams, and now, here I am, staring up at the famous arch.
The two crests of the teams are emblazoned on the front of the stadium.
Nerves run up and down my body like an F1 race car at Silverstone, and a smile turns my lips upward. Oh, this is showtime.
“First time here?” our captain asks me. He’s an imposing figure at six foot three—only an inch taller than me—but he carries himself much taller. The best center back England has ever produced and a gentle giant…off the pitch. On the pitch, he’s a leader of men.
“As a player, yeah. As a fan, I used to come here with my dad to watch Uni—I, um, probably shouldn’t say I grew up supporting the enemy team, should I?”
Captain Smith chuckles. “As long as your focus is on the team you’re playing for, that’s all that matters at the end of the day.
I support the Red Dragons. I grew up down there, but ended up being captain of England instead, so I kind of know what you mean.
But make no mistake, when I pull on the white jersey, that’s the team I am willing to die for.
There is nothing I wouldn’t do to make sure my team wins.
” He gives me a knowing look. Seems like the captain wants me to play the simulation card if it comes to it, too.
The thought of doing it makes me sick. The thought of doing it against Kyle’s team makes me utterly repulsed.
People say it’s part of the game now, but I don’t care.
Time-wasting is part of the game. Yelling at the ref is part of the game.
Clattering the striker when he’s through on goal is part of the game.
These are all negatives, it’s unsportsmanlike.
I want to win games with honor and dignity.
I want people to be able to look up to me and say, “He might play for City, but he’s got some class.
” And sure, I know they won’t say that, I for one never praised a player who played for City, but at least I had a small amount of respect for the ones that didn’t cheat.
I give him a smile and head pitch side.
Wow, I say to myself, taking in the ninety thousand empty seats.
In a few short hours, this place will be full to the rafters.
The grass looks like a showroom carpet. I go to touch it, but there’s a sign that reads, “Keep off the grass,” so I obey the sign, despite the fact that I’ll be cutting it up in a few hours’ time.
The national anthem finishes, and I run to my starting position. The crowd is deafening. Both sets of fans are chanting, trying to one up the other. Despite them being smaller in size, Kyle’s team’s fans are raucous.
I spot Kyle and give him a secret smile, he twitches his lip upward, so minutely that if you blinked, you would have missed it, but yet, my heart leaps into my throat.
Then, I hear something. A chant aimed at Kyle: There’s only oooone Kyle Thurston! Onnnne Kyle Thurston. He scores all our goals. He’s twenty years old. We’re walking in a Thurston wonderland! His face turns the shade of beetroot, but he turns and smiles to them all and gives them a little clap.
“Cute song,” I shout over to him.
“Thanks, you jealous?” I am a little, but don’t say.
“Nah, I’ll just score a hat trick on you instead.”
“Wishful thinking,” he shouts back before taking up his position.
I smile back at him.
The ref blows his whistle.
Game time.
I sweep the ball out wide, and we go on the attack.
Kyle’s team do their best to marshal our offence, but it’s to no avail.
I make my way into the box, and I’m nudged off the ball by a strong shoulder.
I stand my ground and try to chase the ball down, but they’re already halfway up the pitch.
Kyle latches onto the ball, and he buries it past our keeper.
I’m shocked. My team is shocked. Our fans are stunned into silence.
We’re 1–0 down. How is this happening? Their pocket of fans are beside themselves with glee.
I watch Kyle slide over to them on his knees and celebrate with his teammates.
I can’t watch, so I turn my back and try to encourage my own team.
You need to go to the ground when you feel contact in the box.
Gaffer’s words ring out in my ears, and I try to shake them away.
Before we know it, we’re now two goals down. Our midfielder made a short pass back to the keeper, and who else but Kyle latched onto it and pretty much walked it in.
With forty minutes elapsed, the ball falls to me in the box.
I swipe at it as it bounces off my knee and then, in turn, bounces in front and over the top of the outstretched keeper.
I run to our supporters and celebrate. I’ve just scored at the national stadium in a cup final!
As elated as I am, there’s still work to do.
We go into the break still a goal down, but we have the players and the skill to turn this around and become history makers. I can feel the weight bearing down on my shoulders. I’m tough enough to bear this weight, I need to show it.
Sixty-eight minutes in and our captain powers in a header from a corner. Game on.
Both sets of fans are chanting away, trying to use the momentum to propel their team to the winning goal. Everything we throw at them, they telegraph. Every run I make is tracked—it’s like there’s two or three people on me at all times. I can’t seem to catch a break.
The assistant ref puts his board up, signaling nine extra minutes.
There’s a mixture of groans and cheers from the fans.
I can sense the legs getting tired on Kyle’s team, and this is my chance.
I call for the ball, and I peel off the defenders.
I barrel down on goal. The keeper stays on his line.
I’ve never run so fast in my life. I sense movement on my left-hand side.
My eyes are locked on goal, and then I’m tumbling to the ground.
I’ve fallen over my own feet. How embarrassing and frustrating.
I hear the ref blow his whistle, and then there are loud boos.
I look up, and the ref is pointing to the penalty spot.
Oh fuck. Ohh fuck. He’s not even looking at VAR. What the hell is going on? I wasn’t fouled, I fell over my own feet. Surely everyone can see that?
I move out of the box, and my teammates are patting me on the head, congratulating me.
I don’t say anything, can’t say anything.
Our midfielder steps up to the spot. The opposing fans are doing their best to put him off: jeering, booing, calling him all kinds of things.
My team waits with bated breath, my heart is in my mouth. The ball goes in.
I feel sick.
The world has gone silent. Kyle’s teammates are either protesting to the ref or on the ground deflated. None of that matters because I catch Kyle’s eye, and he looks pissed. He looks like he wants to rip me limb from limb.