Chapter 35
AJ
The penultimate game of the season. We are level on points with Union.
We both have thirty goals in the league, which are insane numbers for players our age and in the first full season.
Kyle has seventeen assists to my twelve though.
He’s always helped the team more, hell, I wouldn’t have racked up so many goals in our younger days if it wasn’t for his mad crossing and passing ability.
Sitting in the locker room, I’m taking it all in, like it’s my first ever game again.
There's excitement in the air. Gaffer is going over tactics and once again reminding us to “go down if you feel contact in the box” and once again it feels as if those words are directed at me. After all the goodwill I’ve gained with the media after last year’s “dive” and this year’s “threatening behavior,” it’s a damn miracle that they’re writing fluff pieces about me.
I guess when you play for the most powerful team in world football, it helps.
And that I’m all right at the sport, too.
Today’s opponents are fighting for nothing.
They always languish in mid-table, which means they will try and fuck up our chances of winning the league—maybe the team will turn into Prime Catalonia and bag a ton of goals.
They’re a physical side with a lot of height.
Some of them are as tall as me, but none of them are quicker.
Kyle’s team face off against a side battling relegation, so it will be scrappy and gritty.
They’re desperate to keep their status as an elite league team and will do anything necessary to remain so.
My teammates are all expecting them to crumble at the last hurdle, but I know better than to count Kyle out.
He’s dragged them by the scruff of the neck to where they are now, and it will go down as a fine one-man performance. He’s elevated every player around him.
I sip on my performance drink and finish getting ready, the excitement building all around.
“Win this game and there is every chance we lift the trophy next week on our home patch. Do not focus on our neighbors from across the city. They have a tough battle today, but it will mean nothing if we cannot beat who is in front of us today. Now go out there and make this city proud once again. Show the country that we are the greatest collection of talent the world has ever seen.”
The rallying cry from Gaffer Elmstrom garners whoops and cheers from all of us, and we head out onto the pitch to a hostile atmosphere.
Our opponents, although they have nothing to lose, do not like us in the slightest. It’s not just a jealousy thing either.
Four seasons ago, we relegated them by scoring seven goals against them in the final game, sending them down to the second-tier league via goal difference.
They’ve held a grudge ever since coming back up last season.
Upon their return, we have scored a further fourteen goals against them over three league games.
Watch—today of all days will be the day they shut us out.
It would be typical of them. This season they have beaten Kyle’s team and taken points off all the teams in the top six.
We are the only scalp they haven’t taken, and judging by the looks on their faces, they are out for blood.
Their fans are incredibly noisy, it’s making my ears ring.
The ref blows the whistle for the kickoff.
I pass the ball off to Rockwell, who makes a darting run.
He finds me on the edge of the area, and I go for a shot, but I’m closed down by two defenders.
They collect the ball and hoof it upfield to their striker.
The ball bounces over our defense, and their striker continues his run.
Our keeper runs out and dives at his feet, luckily collecting the ball.
The game swings back and forth, and the first real chance of the game comes from a corner.
Our captain rises above everyone else and gets a head on the ball, only for the keeper to tip his shot over the bar.
The second corner is wasted, and they somehow collect the ball and overload us, four to two on the counterattack.
They play the ball through the two defenders.
Our keeper comes out, but it’s pointless.
There are four of them, and they smash it into the back of the net.
Their fans are going bananas. It’s the first goal they’ve scored against us, and they’re acting like they have won the whole league.
I keep my head down and focus. The ball comes out to me, and I go on a mazy run down the left flank, cut inside to my right, and smash a shot goalward, but the keeper is once again equal to it.
We go in at half-time 1–0 down, and to say Gaffer Elmstrom is pissed is an understatement. His usual cool demeanor has been replaced by a fiery look in his eye.
“That was not good enough. But you know that. You should know that. Look at the crest on your kit. Look at it!” Spit flies out of his mouth, his teeth bared like a wild animal.
We all look at our crest.
“That’s who the fuck you are! Now go out there and show it!”
He leaves the changing room, slamming the door behind him.
We make our way back onto the pitch, and as soon as we do, it starts to rain.
I normally don’t mind playing football in the rain.
Kyle and I would play football in all weathers, but this rain—despite only being out in it for less than a minute—has soaked me through.
My kit feels heavy, and we won’t be able to play our slick passing movements in this weather.
The ball speeds across the surface at breakneck speed. I’m fast, but I can’t keep up with the ball at all. I shout out in frustration.
Sixty minutes are on the clock. We are still a goal down, and it’s looking more and more likely that we are getting nothing out of this.
The ball is played into me on the edge of the area, my back against the defender who is grabbing my shirt.
I manage to peel away from him and glide into the box.
There’s an oncoming defender, and he slides along the ground, taking me and the ball with him; somehow I manage to stay on my feet.
It was an annoyingly good tackle. I know I’ll be reprimanded for not going down, but I don’t want to win the title by cheating.
They race up the pitch again, and I chase after them. I make a lung-busting run and manage to thwart their effort on goal. I’m clapped on my back by my goalkeeper and captain. Thanks to all the extra running practice and other activities with Kyle, I still have plenty left in the tank.
Our keeper launches the ball upfield. The ball is played into me by Rockwell, and I shimmy past two defenders and smash a shot at goal. It’s saved again.
Eighty minutes have elapsed, and we are still a goal down.
I have no idea if Kyle’s team is winning or not, but we have to change our own fortune.
The ball comes to me from an inviting pass by McIntyre that splits the defense and leaves me one on one with the frustrating keeper.
I give him the eyes and send him the wrong way, slotting the ball into the left corner. Jubilation.
I run to our fans behind the goal and celebrate with them. It earns me a yellow card, but I don’t care.
The match ends 1–1. Not the best result, but we head home and into the final game of the season with a point.
I scroll social media to see that Kyle’s team won, and of course, he scored the two goals in a 2–1 victory. Despite myself, I smile because I’m glad the world is seeing how gifted he is.
Back home. Home. With Kyle. It’s funny, I have my own house, and I was raised by loving, yet ever so slightly overbearing parents, but until living with Kyle, none of it felt like home.
Home is where the heart is. Home is a place you deem safe and warm.
Despite our differences in results today, and our impending final match and literal cup final, there’s little to no tension in the air.
Sure, football is our dream and has paid for our very lifestyle, but he will always be my everything.
I watch as he makes his way over to his record player, and my face scrunches at the album he’s chosen.
“I never, in a million years, would have pegged you—I mean, um, taken you for a Kylie fan.” I snuggle up next to him on the sofa, a blanket over us as I play the Switch, and he nods his head to the music.
“My mum is a huge fan, guess it rubbed off on me. And yes, I’ll ignore your word usage, if you ignore mine.” He smirks at me, making my whole body vibrate.
It’s a late May night. I can feel his heartbeat, my head resting against his bare chest. We’re alone this evening.
A glimpse into our possible future together.
Earlier on, he cooked, and I cleaned up, using the rubber gloves that he has an endless supply of.
He wraps his index finger around strands of my hair.
“Shouldn’t the taller person be the big spoon?” he asks, still playing with my hair.
“Normally, yes, but I’ve had the shit day and you love me?”
He grunts. And I know that grunt to mean I’m right. I snuggle deeper into his chest and stroke his tanned, muscular legs with a feather-like touch.
“Are you nervous?” The sound of his voice shocks me slightly. I turn on the sofa, uncoiling myself from him to look into his eyes.
“About what? You have to be a little more specific here. The final game of the season where Union—my home team and the team you play for—could finally win the league after almost fifteen years, thus stopping the team I grew up hating and the team I currently play for? Or maybe it’s the European final, where my previous comment stands too.
” He laughs and places a hand on my cheek.
“Or perhaps it’s us playing in a Global Cup tournament together?
Or are you talking about us holding a press conference soon about us being in an intimate and loving relationship, which means shattering the decades-old stereotype and breaking down horrendous barriers and homophobia? ”
He lets out a breath and kisses me.
“When you put it like that, we have a lot going on at the moment.”
He looks worried. I don’t want to see that look on his face. “We can hold off on it all if it’s bothering you?”
“No. It has to be done. You’re right, annoyingly as always, it will be a win for us all.”
“I don’t want to scare you, but you know how this could go, right? The local media might be our allies right now, but they could turn on us at any moment and get their poison hooks into the mainstream media and make them hate all of the LGBTQIA+ family.”
“You know what they say: hatred wins and spreads because good people sit back and do nothing.”
I kiss him because there’s nothing else to say after that. Kyle says I’m his anchor but he’s my lighthouse.