Chapter 16
AJ
We are neck and neck in the scoring charts, but he is beating me by one in the assist column. Overall, our teams are level on points, and we sit at the top of the table, both winning our opening three games.
We play each other next. It’ll be the first time we’ve seen each other since I fell over my own feet to win the penalty and win the match. Kyle has made it clear how much he hates me by ignoring my attempts to reach out. It hurts, but I get it. Sort of.
If he doesn’t want to work this out and decides to dig his heels in, then so be it. I…I…never mind.
I get up early and go for a run. The emptiness of my house is getting too much.
I’ve always been a social person, so being alone most of my week is draining.
Sure, I go out with the lads, and now I’m starting to be pictured with more women, and they’re calling me “The Young Playboy.” What they don’t know is that my manager—my dad—approved a list of women.
They sign an NDA, I chat to them, buy them a few drinks, and my driver will drive them home at the end of the night, while I go back to my lonely house.
I did mention this to Kyle before, but who knows if he believed me. I hope he did. He’s the one person I want to believe me. It won’t matter at the end of the season anyway. My plan is already in motion. They can write what they want about me, I’ll prove them all wrong on the pitch.
Game day. The best day. And once again, I’m sporting a new look. Gone is the short platinum hair and in comes a dark brown mullet. It’s not long enough to be considered a proper one yet, but it’ll get the papers talking.
“Another new look, AJ? You young lads and your crazes.” McIntyre’s thick Scottish accent bellows through the dressing room and everyone turns to stare at me.
“What can I say? I need looks as eye-catching as my skills.” I hate sounding cocky, but I can’t let them in on my actual plan.
“You’re a six-foot two prodigy, how much more ‘eye-catching’ do you need to be?” Rohan asks.
“He’s trying to take focus off the fact he’s still level on goals with his old school mate.” Miller is now chiming in too.
“The guy who’s meant to be gay?” McIntyre asks, and I’m not sure if I detect anything in his voice.
I pull up my shorts and lace up my boots before saying, “And what if he is?”
“Nothing. I’m just asking.”
“Couldn’t have him in the dressing room though, could you? Looking at our cocks, getting hard and all that.”
I turn to face Rockwell, our thirty-something old left midfielder. I don’t use my size off the pitch much, but I tower over him and say, “You don’t have anything to worry about, you couldn’t find your cock with a magnifying glass and a torch.”
The dressing room erupts into laughter, and I hear him meekly say fuck off. I glare at him, and he doesn’t say anything else. I might be young, but I will take shit from no one. It’s a far cry from my normal happy demeanor, but I won’t take homophobia from anybody.
The gaffer, I mean, Gaffer Elmstrom, comes in and lays down the team talk.
Reminds us that this is a big game for everyone and that we need to take the rungs out of their ladder.
And once again, he ends it by saying, by any means necessary.
And I hate how everyone looks at me and smiles approvingly.
The roar we are greeted with is deafening.
We’re away, our fans are off in the corner, and they’re doing their best to be heard, but something seems different here today.
There’s something in the air. I hear the crowd chanting songs about Kyle, and it warms my heart and annoys me too.
Then I hear my name being serenaded, and I can’t help but smile.
AJ Johnson Du duuu du dooo.
It’s simple, but it’s mine. Then I see Kyle. I smile at him, and he stares me down.
“The fuck have you done to your hair?” he asks me. Honestly, the first thing he’s said to me in ages and that’s all he has to say. A wave of annoyance drowns out any happy feelings I had toward seeing him.
“It’s called style. Care to get some?” I can be cold too.
“I prefer scoring goals. I’ll leave the fashion to you. And the theatrics.”
That pisses me off. There are a million things I want to say, but my words jumble in my throat, forcing a blockage, and honestly, it’s for the best. Fuck him.
The ref blows the whistle, and we’re off.
Instantly my team is crowded off the ball, and Kyle is running toward the goal.
He nutmegs one player, goes around another, plays a delicate one-two with his winger, and then he’s shooting.
Thankfully our keeper saves it, and it goes out for a corner.
He’s just made our defense—that’s worth a combined ￡470 million—look like a Sunday league team.
And damn, he’s never looked hotter. Fuck. I need to get my head in the game.
The resulting corner comes to nothing, thankfully.
The ball comes out to me. I chest it down and sweep it wide to Rockwell.
He takes it in his stride, and now he’s running toward goal.
He passes to me just outside the area, but just before I can get it, who other than Kyle has intercepted it.
He’s everywhere, and the crowd responds by singing his name.
Six passes later, and they’re by our goal. One shot, and thankfully it’s saved again. I hear our keeper laugh, and that must piss off the striker. I’m sure Kyle would deck him one if he did it to him.
We go in at half-time goalless, and we’re lucky for it. Gaffer Elmstrom tells us we need more composure and that we will tire them out in the second half, and I hope he’s right, but Kyle in particular is playing out of his skin.
The second half is much the same. That is until, in the sixty-fifth minute, I’m brought down just outside the area.
I say brought down, but their defender has come in through the back of me—not in a good way—and taken me out.
The opposing fans think I’ve dived, and I’m sure from some angles it looks like that, but no matter what people think, I’m not that kind of player.
I look up to see Kyle staring daggers at me again.
“Tell your players to stop hacking me.” I shout to him.
“I thought you liked being on the floor, you’re there enough,” he says, cold as an ice bath. What the hell is wrong with him? He’s such a stubborn prick.
The resulting free kick is squandered by Rodrigo. Honestly, they should let me take the free kicks, it’s something I’ve been working on all summer. I know I’m fresh in the team, though, and I’m grateful for the opportunity. I just want to show everyone what I can do.
In the seventy-ninth minute, my loose pass is jumped on by Kyle, of course, and he runs down on goal. Our keeper rushes out at him, and Kyle chips the ball over him, and it goes into the back of the net. Fuck.
Then I watch his celebration. His normal knee slide and badge kiss has been replaced by him…diving, and he’s looking at me while doing it. What an arse hole.