Chapter 32 #2
“I thought about what you did at the bar all those weeks ago.”
“Well, it will certainly have a good impact on everyone in the park, and with all the selfies we took, it should be pretty great.”
“You’ve been working on your speed,” I say, amazed that he’s keeping up with me.
“And I promise you, the extra leg muscles will benefit the both of us in other ways.”
And now, all of a sudden, I can’t focus on running. Blood rushes to a part of me that I really wish it didn’t right now; thankfully I’m wearing dark joggers.
“You will have to show me soon,” I say despite needing to change the subject. I adjust myself and pick up the pace, leaving AJ behind, “but you will never be quite as quick as me.” I put on the afterburners and let the wind run through my hair.
A few moments later, and he’s caught up with me, only a little out of breath—I’ll give him that.
We stop outside a small cafe inside the park, and as soon as we enter all eyes are on us. I hate the fact that I kinda like the attention.
AJ leans into me and whispers into my ear, “Just smile and act friendly.” His warm breath tickles my cheeks, and it stirs a flurry of butterflies inside my chest.
I grunt at him.
We’re shown to a table in the corner and slightly out of the way, but that doesn’t stop the hordes of people clamoring around our table, taking selfies and asking us to sign shit.
It’s fine. I have coffee. More importantly, I have AJ sitting opposite me, smiling like a Labrador.
I don’t know how he manages to stay cheery despite all the crap we’ve been put through, well mostly him.
During a moment's respite, I pull out my phone and despite my better judgment, I check social media. I’m not at all surprised to see that we’re both trending around the world.
Pictures of us smiling together—with and without fans—have been shared thousands of times, mostly with positive things to say.
I manage to find the bad comments, but let them wash over me.
When the walls start to close in. I think of AJ and covertly stroke his leg with my own.
My anchor. My friend. My—well, he’s my everything.
We spend a good few hours in the cafe, and AJ does his “put everything on my tab” schtick again, much to everyone's delight. Honestly, how anyone can even hate him is beyond me. People must have rocks or mush for brains. He has the kindest heart and the warmest soul. Fuck knows what he sees in me.
A Pair of Screamers! – AJ & Kyle Spotted in Park & Give Out Free Ice-Cream!
Whole Latte Love! AJ & Kyle Pay for Lucky Punters Drinks for Two Hours!
Best Friends? AJ & Kyle Seen Together Again Despite On-Going Case!
Dynamic Duo – England’s Top Strikers Jog Together and Pay for Ice-Cream & Latte’s for Hundreds of People on a Blisteringly Hot Day.
We’re winning them over. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, as this could all change in an instant, but so far so good.
Since that day, AJ has spent every free day he has with me, and it has been perfection.
We’ve baked—poorly—"healthy choices” lemon cake, watched many—shite—rom coms. Conclusion, the shittier the better, and in the evenings, we’ve shared a bed.
Waking up next to him is a feeling I will never get used to, and something I will never feel that I deserve.
All this good stuff has made today utter wank, though. We both have away games in Europe. And what makes this worse is if we both win, we’re in the final…against each other. AJ is currently beating me in Europe by one goal, and I’m beating him in the English league by four.
“Good luck in your game tonight, I guess,” I say, giving him a nudge in the ribs as we stand by the front door, our luggage in tow.
“You too. Try to keep up with my goals.” He plants a kiss on my lips and smacks my ass.
“Honestly, you two! It will be nice to be rid of you for at least an evening. You’re like horny teenagers,” Trish says, sounding exasperated. I think she loves it, really.
“We’re just making up for lost time,” he says, giving my ass a firm squeeze.
“I wish you’d make up for it out of the way of the front door and when we’re not on a schedule.” She looks at her watch, and I’m reminded of my dad, which then reminds me of the ticking time bomb that is coming out to them before we tell the press.
Fuck. I refuse to let the walls close in. I pull AJ into a deep hug, and he kisses me on the forehead.
“Thank you,” I say to him in a small voice.
“For what?” His eyebrows knit together in confusion.
“Everything.” He kisses me on the forehead again, and we leave the house in two separate cars heading to two separate European cities.
The weight of it all drags me down as I’m getting ready for one of the biggest games of my life.
Coming out to my parents, the whole world, and trying to be the best version of myself to AJ, while being a role model to people around the world.
It all feels like a weighted blanket, forcing me into place.
“The wheels are sick, though, nice custom job.” Timbers, our left midfielder is saying to Colten, the center back, who is more style than substance.
In fact, as I listen around the room, not one of them is talking about the game or tactics.
It’s all social media this, insta followers that, fast cars, how many women they’ve shagged.
I’m one of the youngest on the squad, so why am I the most mature?
And sure, sure, we all need to unwind, but this game is so important, and all they’re talking about is meaningless shit.
What the hell? My hands ball up into fists, and I want to say something.
Hell, me from a few weeks ago would have said something, but I’m on thin ice and trying to show the world I’m a nice guy.
They’ll soon paint me as the villain if I go off on my teammates.
Finally, our manager comes in, and an air of silence washes over the room. He talks us through the tactics that we are going to employ during the game and who to target, what runs to make—that’s to me specifically—and to maintain focus.
“Lastly,” he says, an air of brevity in his voice, “I want to tell you all how proud of you all I am. Last season we were a laughing stock. Hell, we have been for a few years, if we are being honest. But this season you have all stepped up and bought into the philosophy. We are one win away from the final, and it might just be against City, so add that fuel to your fire. We can beat them in the final and we can beat them in the league. Play for each other. Die for each other. Protect each other.”
There’s a series of grunts, cheers, stomps, and other loud noises to show our manager that we mean business, and we are ready to go into battle.
The roar of the crowd is deafening. There’re flares going off, flags being waved, and a wall of noise.
We are in enemy territory. A tiny pocket of our fans is up high in the far corner, and they are doing their best to be heard.
We need to quiet down the home fans as fast as we can and take control of the game.
Which is exactly what we don’t do. Inside the first fifteen minutes, we are 2–0 down.
Piss poor defending and sloppy back passes have left us with an uphill battle to climb.
I take the responsibility on my shoulders, and yell for the ball from Bradley.
I use my pace to run around two midfielders before laying a sweeping ball over to Timbers on the left.
I dart inside, and I’m clattered by a brick wall of a defender, knocking me to the ground.
My teammates run up to the ref, asking for a penalty, but he waves them away.
I get up and dust myself off, shaking the stars out of my head and give my shoulder a quick rotation. That is going to hurt in the morning.
Thirty-five minutes pass, and we are still two goals down. I’ve been fouled approximately five times and have been given the square root of fuck all. Our small section of fans is giving the ref lip, but he’s taking no notice.
Forty-one minutes pass, and I latch onto a loose ball and drive into the box. The keeper rushes out to me, but I shift my body in time and get a shot away. It finds its way to the bottom corner.
Game on. I run to collect the ball and place it on the center circle. No time to waste.
At half-time, the score is still 2–1 to them.
“Lads, forget what happened early on. Move on and focus,” the manager is saying.
“Keep your chin up. Second half we’re going to go at them.
Keep up with the one touch passing, the give and go’s, and keep making them run.
They’re running out of legs, and they have very few options on the bench.
Kyle, use your pace more. Their center backs can’t handle you when you run at them.
Timbers, when you get the ball, look to whip it in.
Defenders, defend as a unit. Keep that line high and keep talking to each other.
Force them into offside and collect the turn overs. ”
We once again make an assortment of noises and head out onto the pitch.
Fifty-eight minutes pass, and I’m fed a cracking ball through the middle by Shippers.
I megs one defender and spin the other. Just the keeper now.
This time he stays on his line, giving me the eyes.
I smash the ball into the top right corner and peel away to our section of fans to celebrate.
I’m jumped on by my teammates, and for a moment, I savor this.
Two goals in a European semifinal. One more goal and we go to the final.
One more goal and it’s another dream come true.