Chapter 30
Kyle
Truth be told, I have no idea what I’m doing.
I say I don’t want to get involved with anyone, and here I am, consistently letting my mouth—and other parts of my anatomy—run my life.
And now here he is in my living room, talking to my mum and making her laugh.
I even heard my dad make a laugh type sound, and that’s as rare as unicorn’s hair.
There is still tension in the air and far too many conversational bear traps, but AJ seems to be navigating them like he glides past people on the pitch.
I can see my dad chewing on his thoughts, and then I see what he’s watching—the football news—and my heart sinks. Of course, it’s about us.
“Looks like yer could be a wanted man,” my dad says to AJ with an awful smile on his face, “and I don’t think it’s because of your flamboyance, although, I’d get them to talk to you about that too.” I’m frozen to the sofa. Why is my dad such a homophobic prick?
“Now, ’Erb. That is no way to talk to our guests in this house, especially ones we’ve known for many years.” Her tone is not quite scolding, but it’s enough to make him shut up for a moment.
“…These players are role models to the next generation around the world, and they could potentially be looking at drunk and disorderly charges if the authorities pursue this. If found guilty, they could find themselves in much deeper water.”
“Yes, this news is unfolding as we speak and it would be a terrible shame for all involved if this happened. It could potentially ruin the career of these bright young stars before it even gets going.”
Fuck. The walls try to close in but I can’t let them. I need to be strong, not only for myself, but for AJ.
My parents look at us, and I want to be anywhere but here.
Every word I want to say is blocked in my throat.
My heart thrashes against my rib cage, and my vision goes small.
My hands feel clammy. Fuck. Not now. I can’t hold AJ’s hand, not here.
I visualize it, and focus on my breathing.
Please not now. Please. AJ glances over at me; despite him going through shit, he looks at me and smiles.
And despite everything, I smile back and feel the anxiety leaving my body.
I have two choices: come out to my parents and lose my family, or keep up with the lie and lose the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Boys,” my mum says, and I really do not like her tone. She pauses, and it feels infinite. It feels like a lifetime has passed. And then she grabs my hand. “Whatever ’appens. We are behind yer. Both of yer. Aren’t we ’Erb?”
Wait, what?
My dad grunts and focuses back on the TV. Thankfully it’s moved on from us for the time being.
My mum offers me a warm smile, and I try to read into it, but she gives nothing away. I have long thought she knows about me, but I’ve never had the courage to talk to her about it. About me.
“I better go,” AJ says, looking at his phone, and I can only assume his dad is blowing up his phone. His dad is great, but intense, and having him as your manager/agent/PR/whatever else must be an absolute nightmare—especially when all he needs right now is his dad.
“Are yer going to be all right, love?” my mum asks him.
He looks anything but all right, the color has drained from his face, like a poorly made cup of tea, and he has a faraway look in his eye. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. My dad is calling me about, well, you know,” he says, gesturing to the TV.
Fuck. Fuuuuck. This is all shit. Why is this still going on? Why does the media have to pull at every thread? What are they even gaining? A big part of me wants to go onto social media as a form of punishment because I feel I deserve this in some way. Who was I, thinking I deserved to be happy?
“Look after yourself, love. And you know where we are if yer need to talk.”
“Change that hair first and get that shit off yer nails. They’ll probably stop putting you in the papers then.”
“‘Erb! If you have nothing at all constructive to contribute, kindly keep yer trap shut or you’ll be going to bed on an empty stomach tonight.” She cuts him a steely glare, and I’m gob smacked. The childish threat has put my dad in his place.
My dad looks at his watch and switches the channel over.
It’s 4:00 pm, which means it’s time for one of his Cowboy Westerns.
I grew up watching them, sitting on his lap.
Stories of no-nonsense heroes doing what was right to help the little towns from the oppressive and downright evil antagonists.
The irony is not lost on me that I find myself in a similar situation, albeit one with less guns.
I see AJ to the front door and resist the urge to hold him tight.
There could be cameras everywhere. It’s a good job his now dry coat is covering my club crest. His offending clothes are in a non-see-through bag.
I watch him get in his car, and I again resist the urge to show any form of affection toward him.
We’re not safe anywhere, but I refuse to let the walls close in.
It’s been two days since AJ arrived on my doorstep in the rain.
Two days since the media have tried to ruin my happiness.
I have a game today and that’s all I’m focused on.
My manager has told me to block out the noise, tells me he and the club will protect me as I am “the victim” and have nothing to worry about.
On the surface he’s right, but I’m worried for AJ.
I keep my head down in training, focusing on the drills and work on my speed and timing.
The best thing to do is to make them focus on something else.
Becoming the league's top goal scorer should do it. Our game today is against one of our historic “bogey teams”—a team that turns into Prime Brazil whenever we’ve played them in the past. I used to sit in the stands in disbelief, wanting to run onto the pitch and help them out.
Now I’m going to be on the pitch, helping them out.
My name is cheered throughout the stadium when it gets announced by the PA system.
I still find it hard to get used to, but today is not a day to focus on the fairy tale stuff.
Today is about scoring goals and shutting up the media.
I noticed that AJ is only amongst the subs for his team, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s a direct consequence of the story, or if his manager is rotating his squad.
The ref blows his whistle, and I switch my focus to the game.
The ball comes to me in an instant. I carry it forward, weaving in and out of challenges, before laying a sweeping pass off to Bradley on the right wing.
He’s almost as fast as me, and the defenders can’t cope.
He dances into the box and shoots at goal.
The keeper parries it, but only as far as me.
A defender comes sliding in. I dummy a shot, sending him the wrong way.
I watch as the keeper scrambles back into position, then sell him the eyes and bury the ball in the opposite corner. 1–0.
I don’t celebrate. My teammates pile onto me, and the crowd serenades me. I pick up the ball and carry it to the center spot. I don’t have time for games, I'm making a statement.
We go in at halftime, 3–0 up. I have contributed with one goal and two assists. I read online last month that I don’t pass enough, so I’m fixing that error too. They can write whatever they want about me, as long as it’s the truth.
The second half is as one sided as the first, but now the tackles are flying in, mostly at me.
We are finally getting revenge on the team, and I’m feeling great about the whole thing.
When I’m on the ball, I feel free and relaxed.
I’m spraying balls left and right, dinking them over onrushing players, and at one point, I have a slight smile on my face when I score my second and third goal.
A hat trick and two assists. That should shut them up.
They’ll talk about my football ability for one weekend, at least.
The game ends, and I shake hands with the opposing team before heading back to the changing room, where I’m mobbed by my teammates.
“Kyle,” my manager says, “great work out there today. The press wants to speak with you.”
I wipe my face with a towel and put on my best “media friendly” face, which is slightly less than a scowl.
Once again, the room is filled with assholes with smartphones and microphones, itching to make the headlines with shitty journalism and falsehoods.
“Kyle, you scored a hat trick today; do you feel you’re finding your form with this team?”
“I am just doing what’s best for the team, whether that’s scoring a hat trick or, on this occasion, getting two assists.”
I watch as they all scribble stuff down in their notebooks and clack their keys on their laptops.
“Kyle, what do you make of the investigation toward your former friend, AJ?”
And there goes my media friendly face.
I roll my shoulders back and lean into the microphone. I don’t want them to miss what I’m about to say. “‘What do I make of the investigation toward my former friend?’ That is your question, right?” I ask. The person—slim as a pencil with a weasel face—nods, revealing a carnivorous grin.