Chapter 26
Kyle
My face lights up like a Christmas tree. I don’t know how he has this effect on me, but he has his hooks in deep. He is decimating my walls, and now people are starting to notice.
“Got a text from AJ, I take it?” Trish says from the other side of the sofa.
“I have other friends, you know?” I say, almost grunting, but I’m not one to conform to other people's perceptions of me, so I scowl instead.
“No. You don’t. You have me, and you have AJ.” Her face turns into a grin that I don’t much care for.
“Bold of you to assume you’re a friend,” I say, making my scowl deeper, and this time, I add a grunt and sit further up on the sofa.
“Wanna make it one friend?” she says, staring me down.
“Good point.” My false bravado wiped out in an instant, I slide back down the sofa. Only a fool would be brave enough to take on Trish. She smirks at me, knowing she’s won the battle.
“So, was it AJ then?”
I sigh. “Yes, it was AJ. He sent me a picture. And no, not of his penis. Of the night sky.”
“Wow, I never took him for the romantic type.”
“He’s always been a dreamer. I swear he was the one who manifested our good fortunes.”
“And the fact you are both this generation's greatest prospects?”
“Everyone keeps saying that.” I groan, and stretch my leg out from under the blanket.
Trish, with her odd concoction in her hands, is sitting cross-legged on the other side.
She tuts at me as I almost knock her leg.
I’ve been told about my ‘man spreading’ a few times.
My mind races to AJ, and how he stretches out and how I curl into the nooks he makes.
“Are you not?” Her voice brings me back from my fantasy.
“It would be rather conceited of me to admit it, but that doesn’t matter after today anyway.”
“Why? You told me the manager said you can still play.”
“I know,” I say, shifting my position on the sofa and taking a sip of my water, again being mindful of her space. “But I still don’t know how my teammates are going to take it.”
“They’re not going to beat you up. It’s not some high school drama.”
I ponder for a moment, taking another sip of water and say, “They could uninvite me to things.”
“You don’t like being invited to them anyway.”
“True. But they could ignore me.”
“You hate people talking to you.”
“Also true. But okay, the media. They’re already winding up the flag shaggers and the ‘anti woke’ mob.” I cross my legs, put my drink down on the table, and mimic the ‘go woke; go broke’ army by wagging my finger and scrunching up my face.
“And the better you play, the more they’ll get wound up and fade into nothing.
Also, most of them are calling for AJ’s head, wanting him suspended and put in jail for fighting.
No one knows you’re gay for AJ. All they think is he tried to knock you out.
So, all your worries are unfounded anyway. ” She shrugs in a matter-of-fact way.
“Yes, I know, but you know what all this macho bullshit is like. Some people online think I’m gay anyway. Well, like I said, the flag shaggers and ‘anti wokers’ do and also the first name buncha numbers lot.”
“So again, nameless people shaking their fists at clouds.”
She’s right. I know she is, but still, my worries are still there.
My manager, Robins, suspended me for two games and has asked me to donate a portion of my week's wages to a local charity. I agreed to both. He said my first team spot is not in jeopardy as long as I keep putting in the performances once I return and not fight again. I agreed to his terms and left. It was so much better than I had feared. But I can still feel my walls caving in. I’m thankful for AJ and Trish, without them, I don’t know what I would do.
I open his message up again, and reply:
Kyle
The one closest to you.
Visibly cringing, I get up and grab myself another bottle of water.
Hooonk. Hoooonk. Hooooooonk.
I fling up out of bed so fast, I fall out of it, clutching the covers around my nakedness.
“Rise and shiiiine!”
I stare at her. Hard. Really hoping if I stare at her with enough force, her head will explode.
“What, in the actual fuck do you think you are doing?” I ask her in my croaky sleep laden voice.
“Getting you up for your run. You didn’t think I was joking about making you work all that shit you ate off, do you? And besides, you can’t train at the complex, so until you can, it’s Trish Camp.”
“What. Time. Is. It?” I ask, through gritted teeth.
“Five fifteen,” she says, cheery, like she’s just announced we’re going to Disneyland.
“Five fifteen? FIVE fifteen? In the morning?”
“Obviously.”
Her hair is up in a bun, she’s clad in running gear. I try once more to explode her head with my vision. It doesn’t work.
“Come on, chop-chop.”
“I am not getting changed with you standing there.”
“You do know we’re both gay?”
“I am quite aware, but I would still like to get changed in private.”
“Okay, but if you go back to sleep, I’m getting a bucket of ice-cold water and tipping it over you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Want to try me?”
She stares at me. I stare back. I back down. Fuck, she is good.
“Be ready in ten minutes.”
“Fine.” I growl, and she leaves the room.
I actually get ready in six minutes. Still fearful from my childhood days with my dad’s obsession with times and making sure I was also prompt to the millisecond.
I called them when I got home yesterday, explaining the situation.
They were disappointed, but glad I was okay.
I assured them I was, and promised them a visit soon.
I head into the kitchen, and Trish thrusts a drink in my hands. A homemade “health shot” made from ginger and other shit. It’s awful, but I down it in one, and get my trainers on. I know a run will do me good, but not at five thirty in the morning.
We do several laps around the park, the air cold on my face, but I soon get used to it and at one point, I’m even thankful for it.
In some ways, maybe this will make me sharper and more alert.
There’s an old saying in football that goes something like, “Yes, he might be good, but can he do it on a wet and rainy night in—” and then you add the shittiest team in the league currently.
Well, I’d like to think I can. Once the run is done, Trish insists on burpees.
After much—and I mean much—protesting, telling her it was unethical to do burpees, especially at 6:20 am, I manage a new personal best: one hundred burpees.
I collapse to the floor gasping for breath like a fish out of water.
I might be an elite athlete, but burpees can fuck right off.
Once that is done, the next item on Trish Camp is shooting practice.
But with an imaginary ball because she “forgot the bag”—I’m pretty sure she wants me to make a fool of myself.
I aim the “ball” at the “goal,” which is a green council bin overflowing with used condoms and dogshit.
We do this for fifteen minutes after “missing” all the shots.
Then we take a run back home. Trish makes me another protein shake—this time it’s quite delicious—and I collapse on the sofa.
“You did well today. I think you’ll make it pro one day. Not at imaginary ball, as you’re quite shit at that, but at the real stuff.”
“Thank you. And if the role of a drill sergeant ever comes up, you’ll get it, hands down.”
“You are so kind, but flattery will only get you more burpees.”
“No! No more! I can’t take them.”
She laughs. Like an actual movie villain.
“Remind me again why I hired you?”
“Because I’m the best and you know it.”
I grunt at her and drink the protein shake. I don’t feel like admitting she is right.
I would love to say that Trish Camp went by smoothly, and without any incident at all. However, it didn’t. Trish woke me up earlier and earlier each day, making me run longer, making me endure more burpees, and when I wanted to stop, she made me do more.
I will never, ever admit this to her, but I’m glad she pushed me so intensely. Returning to the team today will feel like a holiday, and I will be ready to outrun everyone. I can also confirm I am now “adequate” at “invisi-ball.” I'm proud of this for reasons I’m not sure of.
Walking into the dressing room, I’m greeted by Jackson with a nod.
He was one of the quiet ones on the England squad.
Bradley, on the other hand, also part of the England squad, gives me a wide berth.
I ignore it, because, well, fuck him. In the eyes of the media, I am the victim.
There have been calls for interviews, to what my side of the story is, but I have declined them all.
I know they will make it worse, twist my words, and use them as ammo to hurt AJ.
“Welcome back, Kyle,” says Whitney, our Welsh goalie.
“Thanks.”
“Missed you the last two games,” he says, strapping up his giant hands before inserting them into his gloves, a red dragon emblazoned on each. He’s an extremely proud Welshman, and I respect that.
“Me too. Can’t wait to get back out there and help the team.”
“You’ve got a Golden Boot record to protect too,” says our captain, Shippers. “Can’t believe that prick started on you,” he says, pulling on his training kit. “What was it even about anyway?” I shift uncomfortably.
“He was probably drunk. I can’t remember much. You know what the media is like. They take anything out of context and run with it.”
“So, he wasn’t about to beat you up?” Bradley asks from the other side of the room. I’m extremely glad he’s piped up. I was wondering when someone was going to put fifty pence in the dickhead.
“I don’t recall saying that,” I say, opening my kit bag and taking out my boots.
“I can’t believe you let a queer looking guy put a hand on you anyway,” he says, blowing out air from his lips.
I bite back my anger and swallow my rage. It wouldn’t be good to get into an actual fight with another one of my teammates.
“What makes you think he’s queer? Have you had sex with him?
Are you a lover of his?” I rise to the bait, and instantly regret it.
Bradley comes around to my side of the locker room and stares at me.
He’s taller than me, but not by much. I look into his dark brown eyes, and I smile. This seems to wind him up more. Good.
“I’m one hundred percent straight. One hundred percent Alpha Male,” he announces proudly, and he actually flexes his muscles. Honestly, what the fuck is wrong with some people. He’s twenty-nine years of age, and he’s acting like a roadman.
“Then you should have nothing to worry about,” says Shippers, and I’m glad for his intervention.
More players filter in, and I continue with my ritual.
Training is as easy as I suspected it would be, thanks to Trish Camp. I’m doing some warm-down stretches on the far side of the field when my manager comes over to me. My heart flips in my chest.
“Good work out there today. I’m going to put you on the bench against the Magpies. Stay out of trouble and you’ll get more game time. Use it to help the team and you’ll be back in the starting lineup.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, giving him as much respect as he deserves. You don’t become one of the greatest managers of all time without earning respect from everyone in your profession.
I finish my private training session with shooting practice. Sinking every shot. Swish.