Chapter 19
Kyle
Fuck.
I watch drops of water race down his torso. Over his abs. Over his light treasure trail. Over his perfectly defined ‘V.’ The worst part of it all? He’s leaning on the doorframe—with a smirk on his face. I repeat. Fuck.
I drag my eyes up from his dripping wet torso and busy myself with my phone. AJ is impossible. Impossibly good looking. Impossible to deal with. And this situation we’re in is impossible with a capital ‘I.’
I call Trish to tell her the book fantasy she had manifested had come true.
She screams with delight. She then tells me to “get some,” to which I told her “no” multiple times before hanging up.
She was impossible too. She told me that I’m a self-saboteur.
That I seek out the bad to prove myself right about why the world is shit.
I can’t help how my brain works. And it’s another reason I’ve tried to be so closed off.
But somehow, AJ always breaks through. Being the person in the family who has to provide has made me tough, but I guess in some ways mentally fraught too.
“Sorry if I interrupted,” AJ says, breaking me from my thoughts. I don’t look up from my phone.
“You didn’t.”
There’s another long pocket of awkward silence. AJ once again insists on filling it by asking more questions. I grunt my way through them, and then he says, “Mind if I get changed?”
“Why would I? We get changed in front of our teammates all the time.”
“Yes, but I haven’t fucked any of mine. Have you?”
I put my phone down and definitely do not look at the imprint of his dick in his white towel.
“No,” I say, moving my eyes up to his abs, which seem to have doubled in volume since I last placed a hand on them.
“Just—would you mind turning around?” he asks, pleading.
I do as he asks and pull my focus to my phone.
A few seconds later he says, “Done,” and I turn around to see he’s changed into joggers.
Bloody gray ones and a tight white top. His mini mullet looks all fluffy, and I want to run my hand through it.
There’s a lot of things I want to do, but he’s literally the worst, so I push those thoughts from my mind.
He jumps on the bed and shuffles up to the top, resting his back on the white quilted headboard.
The silence lasts no more than thirty seconds—I counted—and that makes me think of my dad, which in turn removes all thoughts of a sexual nature. So great, thanks, Dad. “What did you say?” I ask.
“I said, are you excited about potentially playing?”
What kind of question was that? Of course, I am. It’s what I’ve dreamed of. What we’ve dreamed of.
I try to remove some of the venom from my words and say, “Yeah, I think we will get a good run out. England have already qualified from the group. These are formality games. The boss will want to see how we play together, I guess. ”
The room goes silent again, and I shift uncomfortably on the end of the bed.
“Why did you say all that shit about me?” he says, his words hitting me like a two-footed tackle from behind. I begrudgingly turn to face him.
“What shit?” I ask, knowing full well, but I try to buy myself some time.
“You know, about me being privileged and all that.”
“I didn’t.” I see the cogs begin to turn in his head.
“But ‘the source’—”
“Was bullshit,” I say, resisting the urge to look back at my phone. I don’t want this conversation, as I know where it’s about to lead.
“And why did you do that goal celebration?”
Right on cue.
I suck in a breath, and let it out. “The same reason you dived.”
“I didn’t dive. I tripped,” he says, pleading his innocence. And I want to believe him. I really do.
“You didn’t protest much.”
“Would you? Your team had been given a penalty and you could win the game. Would you then stride up to the ref, with thousands of your fans watching and millions more around the world, and tell them you tripped over your own feet?”
I let this ruminate. My suspicions that he’d been a clumsy mess were true. My silence speaks volumes.
“See, not so easy, is it?”
The room is silent again, and before I think that’s it for the night he says, “I had death threats from that. Supporters from your old club, telling me I should die.”
My jaw goes slack. I had no idea.
“It’s not so bad. First time I went to the field in my platinum blond look, I got some more too. People were posting the pride flag on fire, telling me I’m next. All for them thinking I’m gay, for having a different hair color.”
“Fuck” is all I can manage. I want to go to him. I want to comfort him, but I’m not strong enough to reach over the bed and hold his hand. I am too weak.
“I’m coming out at the end of the season anyway.
This is all part of my plan. The world needs to open its eyes to the future.
I look around in the crowd and see happy families.
I look at my parents and see happiness. I look at people in the street, and I see people holding hands, kissing in the street.
Their hearts are full of love. My heart feels like a ghost town. ”
I watch him wipe a tear from his eye. I see his outstretched hand, and I want to hold it. I want to tell him it will be okay, but how can I tell him that when I don’t even know myself if it will be?
Coming out is hard. Coming out while a football prodigy is even harder.
“Sorry,” he says.
“You don’t have to be sorry at all. Not one bit.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for pushing you away.
I’m sorry for not reaching out. I’m sorry for not being there for you.
” My voice hitches and suddenly I’m crying, and then AJ has his arms around me, and I’m crying into his chest. So much for the strong and silent type.
He strokes my hair and kisses my forehead.
And I don’t want this moment to end. I want to stay here forever in his arms. Why can’t it be like this?
Why do we have to hide away? I’ve lied and hidden parts of myself all my life.
I wasn’t true to myself in my teens. Now I’m twenty, and I’m staring at a brick wall. All my fears are lying in the same bed.
But at this moment, I have AJ. And with AJ, I can do anything.