Chapter 15
Kyle
Training has been glorious. Hard. But glorious. My manager, Robins, pulled me aside during our last session to tell me how impressed he is with me. It made me feel pretty great, hearing a manager you’ve admired from afar for so long tell you how impressed he is with you. That’s dream fuel.
What isn’t dream fuel is Trish’s experiments. I swear, for some reason, she is trying to kill me. Yesterday, she force-fed me—okay, maybe a slight exaggeration—a kiwi with the skin on.
“It’s the best bit,” she crowed. My gag reflex made sure it didn’t pass the tonsils.
I heaved it up like a cat with a hairball, much to the chagrin of Trish.
If she wasn’t trying to make me eat fruit flesh, she was hounding me to see if I’d replied to AJ’s message.
Why I felt compelled to tell her about him and me in the first place is beyond me, but I did, and now my past actions are my present consequences.
With her by my side in my home, I have less time to listen to the noises in my head. I have less time to worry about my anxiety. Trish tells me I’m still grumpy and as “stubborn as a spot on a Wedding Day,” but I'm not changing the habit of a lifetime.
I’m in my brand-new retro room, as Trish calls it.
On the walls are single shelves with vinyls on them and a classic looking record player on an old varnished oak sideboard.
I would say I varnished it myself, but after watching two hours’ worth of very unhelpful videos and one “gargantuan meltdown”—Trish’s words, not mine—I think it was a reasonable response. I hired someone to do it for me.
I did feel a slight pang of “poor family guilt,” but I tipped him generously, which, in hindsight, made me feel worse, as I didn’t want him to think I was a privileged tosser.
I have my big headphones on, and I’m fully reclined in my classic brown leather La-Z-Boy chair when my phone buzzes from under my hand. I pause Jefferson Starship and read the Instagram message.
AJ The Diver??
Hey, I know you’re still ignoring me, but we live closer to each other now. Can we please work out whatever issues we have with each other? Like I said before, I miss us.
I put my phone away without replying. When will people understand that just because they have access to your DM’s, you do not owe them your time or your response.
Especially cheaters who dive to win cup games.
I’ll do my talking on the pitch. Trish has asked me why I haven’t gone ahead and blocked him.
I don’t know why I haven’t. I have thought about it, but then, I also thought about replying to him.
Maybe I want him to see he’s not blocked and that my not replying is hurting him more than a block would.
My mind is an irrational beast, always intent on causing me misery, and yet I can’t help it.
I put the album back on and close my heart a little more to AJ.
I’m actually here. In the hallowed Union dressing room.
My exterior is hardened, as I don’t want to look like a kid who won a contest, but my insides are as giddy as a goat doing backflips.
I go through my pre-match ritual, but with one small change.
I can finally kiss the crest, like I used to when I played in the park.
The blood red kit warms my heart. It was surreal seeing my name on the back of the shirt and the number I've had since I was a kid: Thurston 9. I think about all the other famous number 9’s that have played for this club—and some awful ones too—and hope I can fall into the good famous side once I finish my career.
“First game of the season lads. We need to be up for it this year. New owners. New faces. Same passionate fans. We will not let them down this year. Every single game is going to be a cup final. I want your blood, sweat, and tears to be left on the pitch after every game. I want you to remember that people spend their hard-earned cash to watch you play. For some people, this is all they have. YOU are all they have. So don’t let them down. ”
“YES COACH!” we all chant and stamp our studded feet on the concrete floor.
Now that’s a speech! We burst out of the changing room and head down to the tunnel. I can already hear our fans. They’re up for this. It sends a wave of anxiety down my entire body. I can sense the world getting small. I can hear voices near and far. Fuck. Fuck. Fuuuck.
“Thurston, you good?” Whitney, our Welsh keeper has his giant mitt on my shoulder.
“Yeah, all good. This has just been a dream for me, taking it all in,” I say, not so sure how the words sound, so I give him a stoic look. “I’m ready.”
“Good,” he says, and pats my back, hard enough to jolt me out of my funk.
We run out onto the pitch, and the noise of the crowd takes my breath away.
They’re magnificent. This is my life. Nothing is going to take this away from me.
I’m going to make sure of it. I join the huddle with my Union teammates, and Captain Shippers leads the team talk.
He fires us up as much as Robins did. I love this club.
I make my way to my starting position, and the ref blows his whistle to start the game.
Our fans are in fine voice. I was once a voice in that crowd, and now I’m on the pitch, playing for this club.
I don’t have time to revel in it as the ball comes at me.
I’m instantly surrounded by four Seasider players.
I drop my shoulder to two of them, and back heel the ball through one of their legs, and peel off the final one.
The crowd erupts at this, and a smile blooms on my face.
I charge down on the goal. Another of their players comes in hot, and tries to slide tackle me.
I dink the ball over his legs and continue my pursuit to goal.
The keeper comes rushing out, I give him the eyes and slot it under him.
I watch as the ball trundles into the back of the net.
I’ve scored.
I’ve scored for Union.
I’ve scored for Union at home.
I’ve scored for Union at home in my first game in the first minute.
I run to our fans—making sure not to dive into them. Wouldn’t want a yellow card to accompany my first goal. I use all my restraint, but I manage it, just, and slide on my knees while kissing the badge. I’m swamped by my teammates.
For the next fifteen minutes I’m marked harder, and a few heavy tackles are attempted on me, but the extra runs with Trish have paid dividends as I’m quicker than all of them.
In the thirty-seventh minute, Jackson finds me in a space outside the area, and I let fly with my favored left foot. The ball goes into the top corner. This is unreal. I repeat my knee slide and badge-kiss celebration, and the crowd eats it up.
We go into the break, two goals up, and I’m still on cloud nine. I’m thrown a banana by the fitness coach, and I eat it, and then wash it down with a bottle of water. Robins is praising us, but demanding more.
By the seventy-ninth minute, we conceded a goal, making it 2–1 to us.
I can sense the fans' nerves. This would be the time when we would crumble.
But not anymore. I dribble the ball past three players, play a neat one-two with Bradley, our right winger, and he lobs the ball over the top.
I take it down with my right foot, shift to my left, and bury the ball into the bottom right corner.
I have just scored a hat trick on my Union debut. I find myself at the bottom of a pile-on, and I couldn't be happier at this moment. This is the stuff of dreams. A hat trick on my debut for my hometown club.
The ref blows the final whistle, and I head over to our fans and celebrate with them. I take a few pictures and sign a few shirts. I listen for some homophobic slurs, but don’t hear anything. I ride this high all the way home.
Trish is in the living room with the evening game on; AJ’s City, and some post game snacks.
“Welcome home, superstar!” she says with a huge grin on her face.
“And how is Aaron AJ Johnson going to respond today after Kyle’s debut Hat trick for Union?”
“Up until I heard that, I was convinced it was a dream.”
“And how do you know it isn’t still?” Trish asks, not moving from her chair.
I eye her ‘snacks’ and say, “If I was dreaming, that would be chocolate and not something packed with a million proteins that taste like dirt. No offence.”
“None taken. You’re the one paying me,” she says, and flashes me a wink.
“Touche.”
I take a handful of Trish’s carefully crafted stuff, and settle onto the sofa just as the game kicks off.
Every time the camera focuses on AJ—which is a lot, because how could it not, especially now with his new look?
And he has definitely been working out more too.
The shorts are so tight around his ass the match should be on primetime.
Not that I’m complaining. Despite my anger toward him, I cannot say he doesn't look good. Which is all the more frustrating.
“What do you think of AJ’s new look?” Trish probes.
“He’s either going for The Beckham or The Foden, but what he really should be focusing on is The Thurston.”
“Oh, should he now?”
“You know what I mean, stop being, whatever you’re being.” I fold my arms and try to focus on the match, my tone on the edge of stoic.
“But you miss him, though?”
“He’s a cheater,” I say flatly, making sure to remove all emotion from my voice. AJ is just another person who has let me down. And I should have known not to give him a chance. Let the world in, and they piss on you.
“Is he, though? We both saw him tumble over his own feet.”
“He was always a clumsy guy. We had a tally once, how many times he’d fall over his own feet in a day.
Nine. Nine times in one day. He said it was because his feet were too big for his body.
Back then, he was smaller than me, now he’s this giant,” I say wistfully at the memory, again, despite my better judgment.
As much as I want to be mad at him, it’s—well, it’s complicated.
I curse myself for trying to defend him.
It’s like my mind is at war with my heart.
I hate it. I was better off without feelings.
“Is it true what they say about guys with big feet?” Trish says, now sitting on her knees on her chair, chin on elbow, looking at me, invested.
“A guy never kisses and tells.” I do however, yawn, stretch my hands out in a knowing gesture, and Trish screams with delight. I allow myself a smile at the memory. At the feeling.
“And that’s goal number one for AJ. What a start. What an unstoppable goal. The way he shrugs off not one, but two defenders, then shifts his body to the righ, and drills the ball low and hard into the bottom corner. You can’t teach that. That’s something you’re born with.”
“Stare much?”
I covertly wipe some drool from my chin.
“I was admiring the goal,” I say, wholly unconvincingly.
“Look, your tough-guy moody act might work with the press and other people, but your family and I can see through it.”
“I don’t have a tough-guy moody act.”
“Sure, you don’t. And you didn’t score a hat trick for Union on your debut today.”
I grunt something and focus back on the game.
After three games of the season, there is no escaping the comparisons between AJ and me. From the TV to the newspapers to online, everyone is calling us the “Golden Boys.” Some less nice people have started calling us the “Gay Boys”—so original. So funny. So fucking childish.
Some parts of social media has been particularly sewer-like.
StefaHowzer3234: Why are we even comparing these queers?
WokeAgenda: I don’t know if AJ and Kyle are the two gay players, but can we please stop making people gay? We didn’t have gay players back in my day.
But for every bigot, there are some nice people:
Kylessmile: I don’t care what anyone thinks. Kyle is hot. Especially when he’s smiling and scoring goals. If it’s him, I hope he’s happy. I wish I was the guy he smiled for.
For the first time, I choose to focus on the positive comment. It’s the thing that keeps me focused going into game four. AJ.
AJ and his unanswered messages, making the chasm of our former friendship grow wider.
AJ and his dive…?
AJ and his clumsiness…?