Chapter 27
AJ
My return game isn’t until tomorrow. Training has been a welcome relief from the isolated boredom I’ve endured.
When I train, I put my headphones on and shuffle a workout playlist. I try to block everything out—despite generally being a people person.
However, due to my newfound status as a “bad boy”—according to all the shitty papers—and my stint on the England squad, playing for the best team in the world, I’ve had to use gyms at night.
I thought it would be awful, but I soon welcomed the quiet gym.
He’s been in contact with my coach, and according to Dad, he’s on board with this plan.
Mum, on the other hand, is still insisting that Kyle comes over for dinner.
I haven’t broached that subject with him yet.
Our conversations have been light, sending a meme of our “fight” here and there.
According to social media, I should be sentenced to prison.
A lot of rival fans are thinking up songs to serenade me with, mostly calling me prison-bait.
The flag shaggers still hate how I look, and they’re really going to hate my new look.
My nails are a light blue, and my hair is now shaven on the sides, with a long fringe swept to the side in a very light blond.
I like this look, it’s probably my favorite one so far.
With nothing else to do, I decide to watch Kyle’s game.
Not that I was going to do anything else anyway.
I wouldn’t miss his game for anything. The cameras keep panning to him on the bench.
His face is focused, and he’s sitting alone.
I know he’s thinking how he’s going to change the game when he gets on.
His team are currently 2–1 down. Since our suspensions, my team has dropped two points and his team haven’t won a game.
We sit in second place, and they are now in fourth.
“And there’s Kyle—as you all know, he’s been in hot water lately due to what is being called ‘Two Lions in a Brawl.’ Even though, from the looks of it, Kyle was the innocent one in all this, he still got punished. This is his first game back, and it’s no secret his team has missed him.”
“You’re right there, the goals have dried up. They look as lost as they did most of last season. It’s incredible how much he has impacted the club already.”
“A lot of people raised eyebrows about him being bought. Those same eyebrows were raised when he was selected to play for England. But those eyebrows have suddenly looked a little sheepish.”
“There’s no denying his quality at all. I can’t wait to see what he does, if and when he comes on.”
Great, any hope of this dying down is not going to happen. Something bigger and more exciting has to happen first. But what is bigger than a perceived fight between two upcoming pros?
I head into the kitchen for a healthy snack and a bottle of water, and then park myself back on the sofa.
The commentators are right, without Kyle, there doesn’t seem to be much shape.
He has always had this uncanny ability to slot into teams and make everyone on his team work harder and run that little bit faster. One of his many amazing qualities.
“And here he comes, Kyle Thurston.”
“Look at his face. Eyes focused on the game. I bet he has been waiting for this moment since his suspension.”
Kyle sprints onto the pitch and barks orders to his teammates like a captain. He has always been great at that too, a real leader.
The ball is played into him, and he wriggles past an oncoming midfielder before playing a neat one-two with his winger around a defender.
With his eyes firmly on goal, he shapes himself up for a shot, but the keeper is equal to it.
The crowd are serenading him with songs, as usual, and then there’s a counter-chant from the away fans,
“Fight, fight, wherever he may be,
Kyle got decked in a back alley”
Not the most well-crafted of lyrics, but it picks up momentum. The commentators are doing their best to talk over it, and the sound engineers are trying to mute it without being suspicious.
Kyle picks up the ball in his own half, and I have never seen him, or anyone, run so fast with the ball. He looks possessed, weaving in and out of players, jumping over tackles, and now he has his sights on the goal again.
The keeper rushes out, but Kyle sidesteps him and walks the ball into the goal. He then does his trademark knee celebration in front of the home fans, which instantly silences the away ones. Job done. The score is now 2–2.
I don’t quite believe what I’m seeing, but Kyle wins the ball back from them instantly after their kick off and goes on another mazy run.
This time the keeper stays on his line so Kyle belts the ball into the top corner.
The stadium erupts into cheers. His song is sung out from the rafters. I can’t help but clap and cheer along.
“Kyle Thurston. He dreamed of playing for Union.
Scores goals in his sleep.
In hiiiis sleeeeep.”
Slightly more catchy, and it’s better than my song.
I am so proud of him.
The game ends 3–2 to his team, and all the talk after the game is about Kyle, as it should be.
Watching Kyle yesterday has lit a fire under my ass.
I want to make as much an impact as he has, and I get my chance on the hour mark.
Our away fans give me a warm welcome back.
The home fans rain a chorus of boos onto me.
The reception is polarizing. As soon as I get the ball, I’m tackled from behind, but to the sheer joy of the home fans, the ball comes to me again a few moments later.
I nod it on to my winger—England teammate Rockwell.
He runs down the channel and into traffic, forcing him to pass the ball back to the left-back, Millers, who plays a nice bit of passing with McIntyre.
He then threads a ball to me, splitting the defense in half like a hot knife through butter.
With the goal in my sights, I put my head down over the ball and smash it into the top corner, past the keeper's outstretched hands.
The goal puts us 3–0 up. We take our foot off the gas for the remainder of the game, but I manage to get an assist too, making the final score 4–0 The home side use me as their pantomime, villain-booing me every time I touch the ball.
I should be happy with the result, but I want more. I know I can give more too.
After the game, I’m called in to talk to the press, and my stomach turns into knots; it has my dad’s fingerprints all over it.
Normally I'd say a few words to a cameraman and presenter, this time, there’s a room full of people.
I try to pick out some of the familiar faces, but see so few that I recognize.
I know what they’re going to ask, and lo and behold, as soon as I sit down and the floor is opened for questions, I’m struck with:
“So, AJ, what is your reason for assaulting a fellow England player while on international duty?”
I’m like a deer in headlights; my carefully planned answers have been locked inside a vault. I look over to my gaffer, who is offering no help at all. Cameras flash in my face, a sea of faces with microphones and recording devices stare back at me.
“It is an action I will regret for the rest of my life. I have spoken to Kyle since and, we are good. We have been friends for a long time and intend to stay that way.”
Hoping that will satisfy them and we can move on, I smile for the first time.
“AJ, did you attack him because you believe him to be gay? Was this a hate crime?”
“What? Absolutely not!” Blood rushes around me, and I clench my fists under the table.
My heart is battling with my head. If I come out now, and explain to them I was doing anything but trying to hurt him, I will not only out myself, but him too.
As much as I want to defend myself from these accusations, I cannot throw Kyle out of the proverbial closet.
Every queer person deserves to come out on their own terms.
“Then why did you feel the need to attack another player?” The question breaks my train of thought. I am sure I have answered this question already, worded differently. This must be a media tactic to trip me up.
I take a sip of my water to compose myself and then look out at the media mob.
“As stated before, it was a mistake that will not happen again. Kyle and I have patched things up. We have been friends since we were kids, we’ve had bigger arguments over football games on the computer than we have on the real pitch. ”
Some of them laugh at this, which is good. I take this opportunity to glance at my gaffer, and he gives me the smallest of nods.
“Unless it is about the match, AJ will be taking no further questions.” Gaffer Elmstrom’s voice cuts through the hubbub of the room, and it falls silent.
I don’t know if that says more about them only wanting to talk about the incident or if I didn’t perform well enough in the match for them to pick apart and analyze like they normally do.
Not long after, I’m excused from the press conference and head back into the changing room. I’m the only one left, and the silence feels like a weighted blanket. I hit the showers and get ready to go home. Alone.
Normally, I like my own company, but having spent so much time with Kyle on international duty, the emptiness in my house seems too much.
I do the wrong thing and doom scroll social media.
The press conference didn’t go down as well as I hoped, people are calling me arrogant and smug.
Saying I don’t care about consequences and that I’ve only gotten away from any sort of punishment because I play for the biggest club in England.
If only they knew. If only they knew how much I’ve actually lost. If only I could tell them.
I think I need to accelerate my plan. To do that, first of all I intend to up my game on the pitch.
It will be hard to slander the best player in the world for becoming his true self, right? I sure hope so.