Chapter Nineteen
“Morning, handsome.”
“Morning yourself.” Jay smiled, sliding his leg across the bed and stroking his toes down Seb’s leg.
It wasn’t the first morning after, nor the second. They’d been pretty much rolled up in the duvet for a few days straight, only venturing out to eat, shower and bathe Jay’s finger in Seb’s healing cream. The R and R part of Jay’s recovery now seemed to be going to plan. The next stage was imminent.
“How long have you been awake?” Seb returned the foot fondling beneath the sheets.
“A while.”
“Uh-huh.” Seb yawned and stretched. “Could’ve made a start on coffee.”
“And miss out on you waking? No ta.” Jay rubbed his nose to Seb’s and kissed the tip.
“You’re especially jovial. How’s the tatt doing?” Seb reached for Jay’s hand, entwined their fingers and pulled it up to his lips. He kissed first, then checked the ink work. “It’s pretty good. Once that soreness goes down, it’ll be blinding.”
“Yeah?” Jay pulled his hand away, still not used to having the guitar outline drawn on the back of his finger. But he liked it. “I still scrub my hands, thinking it’s a stain.”
Seb chuckled and swept back Jay’s fluffy hair from dangling in his eyes. “You’ve made me want a new one. A football, perhaps? On the same hand? Matching pair.”
Jay knew he was joking, but shrugged with nonchalance. He honestly wouldn’t care. The last few days Jay had made a lot of promises to himself, and one was that he would no longer rein Seb in for his stupid decisions and runaway mouth. He wouldn’t. He really wouldn’t. Honest. He bit his lip.
“Maybe ‘Rutters’ stamped on my forehead?”
He’s trying to rile you. Don’t rise to it. “Why stop there? Put it on your arse.”
“Then no-one will see it.” Seb pouted.
“I will.” Jay grabbed a handful of Seb’s backside and squeezed.
“I could, of course, go naked on stage. I think that might sway anyone away from thinking I’ve gone mainstream.”
Jay snorted. “Do what ya like, babe.” He kissed him. “I mean it.” And he did. Although, deep down, he had his fingers crossed in the hope that Seb neither got the tattoo nor bared all in front of a crowd. But he enjoyed the look of surprise spreading across Seb’s face. Chuckling, Jay rolled away from him and sat, dangling his legs over the bed. He pressed his foot to the carpet, testing it. His knee hadn’t hurt on first waking for the last couple of days, so he leaned more weight onto it and smiled. “I’m gonna go for a run. You need to come with me.”
Seb slammed back against the headboard. “Champ, you know I—”
Jay threw a stern glower over his shoulder. “I need you to. I have to go and I need a pacemaker.”
“I’ll never keep up.”
Shoving Seb’s shoulder, Jay urged him out of bed. “I ain’t believing any of that bullshit about you not able to manage a light jog. I’ve seen you dance and I’ve seen you fling yourself about on stage for two-hour sets. Get the fuck up.”
“We going now? Not even breakfast first?”
“We’ll get something on the way back. We’re outta grub and there’re plenty of cafes down Southbank.” Jay stood and made his way to the ensuite bathroom.
“Southbank? Why are we going there?”
Jay poked his head out, doing his best to keep anything from showing on his face. “Less hills.”
“But it’s busy.” Seb frowned. “With people.”
“You forgotten that you like people? We’ll do the river run. Means I can take it easy. Get up.” Jay flung a towel at him.
Catching it, Seb pouted. “I’d forgotten how utterly aggravating your self-motivated arse could be.”
Jay stuck his middle finger up, but his lips curved into a smile and he continued his morning ritual with a squishy stomach. One last look in the mirror and he took a deep breath, telling himself this was right. This was what he had to do. He just hoped it went according to the plan he’d hacked up overnight. As long as the blasted thing stays in my sky rocket.
Padding back into the bedroom, Jay stopped short. Seb held out his arms in display. The full West Ham kit, number nine Ruttman stamped on the back, hung off Seb’s slender frame and his shit-eating grin pushed every one of Jay’s buttons. His old ones. The ones he’d torn off one by one over the last few nights.
Passing, Jay kissed him. “Looking good, babe.” He pulled out the drawers for his own running gear, rifling through with a breezy whistle and chuckled at Seb’s returning huff.
Once dressed, trainers on, and swigs of water taken, Jay led Seb out the house. Apprehension drained off his shoulders and he smiled. God he’d missed the early morning runs. Crack of dawn just ain’t the same unless you’re pounding the pavement.
“Why don’t we just run here?” Seb waved a hand up the street. “There are flatter parts of the park.”
“Remember when you said you’d start listening to me?”
“No.”
Jay slapped the back of Seb’s head, but didn’t say anything else and trundled off through their residential street. Seb huffed, following along beside him. The High Street was fairly quiet, only a few dog walkers and newspaper scramblers were sharing the crisp blue sky and empty path with them. Jay concentrated on getting his legs to where they needed to go, and as they came up towards Cutty Sark, Jay chucked a left and joined the riverside walkway.
He was probably attempting too much too soon, but he was desperate to prove himself. He could do this. He had to do this. And now he had a reason to do this. And as the stretch burned through his legs, he smiled against the breeze. He’d missed this—missed the air in his lungs, his trainers pounding London pavement, and the endorphin rush to his brain. It was blissful.
Half an hour in, and the unusual-for-Seb silence broke. “You all right?” He didn’t sound out of breath, which was either a good sign or one that Jay was taking this far too easy.
“I’m good.”
In the distance, the peaks of Tower Bridge seared into the low clouds. Jay upped his pace, every long stride ridding him of the fear of pain. Peace and tranquillity, everything a run had provided for him before, came back to him. Just like Seb had.
Seb ambled off ahead, Jay’s name and jersey number plastered on his back, and Jay breathed through a fond chuckle.
“We crossing north?” Seb called, jogging backwards to face him.
“Nah, head toward City Hall.”
“You got it, Champ.” Seb twisted, chucking a left to avoid heading onto the bridge, but ran to his own tune. Out of time, no pacing, and all over the shop, dodging those who walked the riverside path toward him. The way Seb should.
This, this was everything. Until—
‘“Climbing high, pounding the street…”’ Seb’s effortless singing voice carried through the breeze toward Jay. ‘“Shed my tears, broke through myself…”’
Bollocks, he’s performing a new fuckin’ song! “Seb?”
‘“Following through, now I’m up on my way…”’ With a hop, skip, and criss-crossing his feet, Seb ignored Jay’s pleading call. ‘“I’m a man who’ll take you all on!”’
“Seb!” Jay gritted his teeth through the yell.
Seb punched the air out in front of him. ‘“Too many times, I fell to the ground…”’ He twisted and winked. ‘“But I won’t stay down for long…”’
Jay made cutting motions with his hand across his neck as another couple of runners passed Seb, then him, and chuckled.
‘“I won’t lose the dreams that I have…”’ Seb’s singing increased in volume that it could be heard over the foghorns of the passing Thames clipper boats.
Jay regretted ever asking the man to come with him.
“Tell me how to shut you up,” he called.
“You know how, baby,” Seb replied whilst twisting a three-sixty. ‘“I’ll fight to the death ‘til I’m free!”’
He couldn’t very well stick his dick in Seb’s mouth out here—the only foolproof method that ever got him to shut up. Apart from that one time that Seb had used it as a microphone. What do I see in this man, again? He got his answer as Seb stopped, spun and met Jay’s gaze with a salacious grin.
Jay shook his head. “Don’t. Please, just don’t.”
“Oh, come on, Champ. I’m on a roll here!” Seb threw his arms in the air and raised his voice to pelt out what Jay assumed was the starting line of his new made-up chorus. ‘“I got iron in my blood, love in my heart, I’m the—”’
Fuck my knee. Jay sprinted, full-pelt, like he had a chance at goal, and slapped his mouth onto Seb’s. He sliced through with his tongue to drive home to the back of the net. Score, one-nil. Seb attempted to continue his performance through the violation, but soon gave up and wrapped his arms around Jay’s neck, humming into the kiss.
“Fucking gross.” A bunch of hooded clad youths cycled past on BMXs and spat on the ground by their feet.
In a complete disregard for life and or limb, that he’d just got back full use of, Jay stuck his middle finger up behind him, refusing to end the PDA. Not just because it had achieved the task of shutting Seb up, but also because, well, he quite liked it. And should do more of it. To hell with every bastard who says otherwise.
Tyres scrunched on gravel halting the bikes to a stop. Jay’s heart pounded. He twisted, shoving Seb firmly behind him, and faced out the groups of lads. It’d been a while since he’d been in a street scrap, and he wasn’t quite match-fit yet, but there was no way he could walk away from this. Seb trailed his hand down Jay’s arm, clutching onto his fingers. Jay didn’t think he was scared—Seb rarely thought that far ahead—but more he just wanted to keep up the public display, reaffirming their team status.
“’Ave a butchers, Trev.” Black Hoody nudged his mate. “That’s Rutters.”
“Rutters? West Ham?” Matey squinted, raking his disbelieving gaze up and down the full length of Jay. “Shit, yeah, it is.” The bloke raised his chin, then nodded in approval. “All right, mate? How’s the knee.”
Jay narrowed his eyes. “Better.”
“Good to hear. Got a season ticket, me. Cannot wait for you to get back on that pitch.”
Jay snorted. “Cheers. Won’t be long.”
“Better not be. I put a score on a twelve to one that you’d be back before the end of the season and get a hat trick.”
“That’s some bet.” Jay squeezed Seb’s fingers behind him, in a bid to reassure and also to prove that he wouldn’t let go. Not like he would have probably done before. New him.
“Yeah.” The kid angled his neck to peer behind Jay. “That your fella?”
“Yeah.” Jay nodded. He bit down on his need to inhale a deep breath. That would show he was scared, ashamed, worried. He wasn’t any of those. Not anymore.
“Tell him his last album was pony. I want a refund.”
Jay bit through a smile and hung his head, choosing the moment to check on Seb behind him. Seb’s eyes narrowed, brow furrowing.
“Laters, mate.” The lad spun his bike around and nodded for the others to follow. They did. Some gave a glower, some a grimace, others a wave.
“What the fuck does pony mean?” Seb asked as Jay spun to face him.
Jay kissed him.
“Pony does not rhyme with anything good.” Seb stuck his hand on his hips.
“Pony and trap.” Jay bumped his shoulder to Seb’s and started up with the run.
Seb stayed where he was for a while, and Jay could practically hear the cogs turning in his brain. Eventually, he caught up to Jay with a yell of, “Motherfucker!”
Jay chuckled and rubbed a soothing circle over the small of Seb’s back. They settled to an easier side-by-side pace with the River Thames swashing in gentle waves beside them. They dodged through the milling tourists and morning commuters rambling around the Mayor of London’s wonky glass house, and onward to pass HMS Belfast floating guard on the river, then around the heritage site of Southwark Cathedral. It was almost like Jay was seeing his city for the first time, now with open eyes. He’d run so many east London streets, often tracing the path from memory, that he’d all but forgotten he lived amongst such steep history and romantic architecture. Does Seb feel the same? He glanced to his right, where Seb jogged beside him with a smile. Seb caught his eye, and winked. Yeah, perhaps he does. They’d never done this—never been out, together, as tourists in their own city. They’d left that to when they’d been away, when Jay hadn’t feared being seen, or snapped by the paparazzi. This time, however, he couldn’t have wanted that more.
A few passersby did recognise them, mainly due to Seb wearing Jay’s kit, and they scrambled to get their phones out in time to take a snap. Perhaps they even managed it. Jay smiled, wondering where those images would end up by the close of play.
“Ever been on the London Eye?” Seb nudged Jay’s shoulder with his own, nodding up to the huge Ferris wheel tipping over the heads of the buildings.
“Nah.”
Seb laughed. “What type of Londoners are we, eh?”
“Proper ones. We’ll go on it one day.”
“I’d want it to go fast. Like it’s on speed. Be sucked onto the glass through G force. Fuck all the sights.”
Jay chuckled, then pointed ahead. “Take the steps. Millennium Bridge.”
“The bridge?” Seb shook his head. “Can’t we stop for a coffee yet?”
“And mess with my cortisol levels?” Jay pulled a face he hoped came off as serious.
“I swear that is absolute bollocks.”
“Tell that to the nutritionist at West Ham.”
“I will, because he’s seriously stunting my ability to remain amiable.”
Jay arched one eyebrow. Seb snickered and scaled the steps onto the bridge two at a time, almost tripping on the last one and having to be held up by an elderly gent with a walking stick. Jay cracked out a laugh and Seb held his middle finger up to Jay once the gent was out of view.
Couples, families, mums with buggies and teenagers either bunking school or late for it were all crossing the bridge both ways. It meant Seb had to dip in behind Jay to let them pass and they ambled along in almost slow motion. Jay glanced out to the river, taking in the view that was currently being stencilled and charcoaled onto paper from the dozens of street artists stacked along the railing. Tower Bridge gleamed to his right, with Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament peeping through the gaps on his left. East and West. This’ll do.
Jay stopped.
Seb had jogged on ahead before he’d obviously noticed Jay was no longer with him, so he stopped and twisted around. “You okay?”
Jay bit his lip and nodded, gazing out to the distance. A tiny slither of apprehension rippled in his gut, but he shrugged it off to produce a wide-toothy smile at Seb.
Seb cocked his head. “Champ?”
“Shut up.” Jay walked forward and placed his hands on Seb’s shoulders, steering him backwards to stand against the railing.
Seb opened his mouth.
“I said, shut it.” Jay gripped Seb’s lips between his finger and thumb and squeezed. Not enough to hurt the fella, but enough to drum home that he meant it. He smiled, nodded in approval, then sank to his knees.
“Ja—”
Jay peered up with a stern glower and Seb slammed his mouth shut.
“Sebastian Michael Saunders…”
“Whoa!” Seb held up both palms. “Shit. Fuck! What?” He darting his gaze at the sudden approaching onlookers.
Jay tutted. “Keep your trap shut! I love you. Sometimes, I ain’t sure why.”
Seb breathed through a laugh, his body trembling. There were a few more chuckles from behind and the odd click of a camera or two, so Jay assumed they were surrounded by onlookers already. But Jay focused solely on Seb and how his dazzling dark eyes never left his.
“But I do. And I’m ready for the whole damn world to know about it. So let’s start here. Let’s be us. Me and you. Together. Against the world. Our team, our band, dancing to our tune. If no-one sings with us, or passes us the ball, then fuck ’em.” Jay stuck his hand in his pocket and when he pulled it out, he produced the solid silver ring he’d found online and had express delivered to the house when Seb hadn’t been looking. Thick metal, chunky, simple and understated. “I want you to wear this.” He held it up. “Until the day we can get proper hitched. ’Cause we’ll be campaigning for it, yeah? Loud and proud. ’Cause, Seb, I ain’t mucking about. I’m in this for the long haul. I ain’t letting you go again. I want you, I need you and I love you.”
It seemed as though everyone sucked in a breath, and Jay had to grit his teeth to stand the pain of being down on bended bad-knee after a five-mile run. When the silence dragged, Jay slapped his hand down to rest on his knee. “All right, you can say somethin’ now.”
“Fuck me,” Seb breathed out, then shook his head. “Sorry. Sorry. That just fell out my mouth.” He crouched to Jay’s level and slapped the back of his hand to Jay’s chest. “You bastard.”
That wasn’t what Jay had expected and he baulked. He kinda wished he now wasn’t on full display. But this had been his plan—to finally rip the last part of his bandage off and to prove to Seb he could be the man he wanted.
“I was going to do it!” Seb slid his hands around Jay’s neck, clamping his fingers together and tugging Jay forward to rest their foreheads together. “I went all the way back to fucking Kensington to get the ring. Family heirloom, priceless piece of gold! My granddaddy’s. Jesus, Jay!”
“Okay…”
“But I was going to do it in private.” Seb gritted his teeth. “And then you come out here like this, bended knee on the effing Millennium Bridge. What the fuck, Jay! What the actual fuck?”
“I thought it was time. Perfect place. Show the world.” Jay’s confidence in his plan was now wavering and his legs were in danger of buckling. A simple ‘yes’ had been what he’d been after. And expected. Hoped. He licked his dry lips, tasting the congealed moisture from the run.
“It is perfect.” Seb kissed him. “Anywhere you chose would be perfect. You’re fucking perfect. And I fucking love you.” He planted soft kisses all over Jay’s face. “Yes, I’ll wear your bloody ring. Yes, I’ll marry you when the time comes. Yes, I’ll make a life with you. I’ll have kids with you—”
“Hold up.” Jay held up a hand, staving off repeated kisses. “I ain’t said nothin’ about kids.”
“But you will.” Seb smiled, and kissed Jay’s lips. “Until then we can get a dog. No, two dogs. One dark, handsome and morose. The other blond and scrappy.”
“You sayin’ I’m scrappy?”
Seb shrugged, then kissed him. “I love you scrappy. You’re my bit of East End rough.”
Jay laughed.
Seb tugged him closer, swiping his forehead to Jay’s and his features drew serious. “I’ll say yes to anything you’ll ever ask me.”
Jay smiled. “Will you come to my next game?”
“With fucking bells on.”
“No bells.”
“Whistles? Trumpet? That crackling thing you wave in the air.”
Jay balled the front of Seb’s shirt, his shirt, into his clenched fist and yanked him forward for a languid kiss. He drowned out the cheers and claps, and snaps of photographic evidence that would find its way to the morning papers and online before that, and indulged Seb in a public kiss that they hadn’t shared since university. Things had been so different back then. Easier. He’d forgotten how to be that carefree. He’d been institutionalised by the club, by the fans, by the media, by football, and had forgotten what really mattered. Seb. Love. Family.
“And I’m gonna come to every one of your gigs,” Jay declared on separating from the kiss. “When I can. I will. I want front row tickets to Glasto.”
Seb grinned. “Deal.”
“I’m sorry I shied away from it before. But that ends now. Both ways, Seb. You and me. Together. A unit. We come as one, right?”
“You bet.” Seb kissed Jay’s temple. “You want a hand getting up?”
“Yeah. Better had.” Jay gripped Seb’s hand and pushed up, Seb guiding him to his feet. The dull ache in his knee was back, but it wasn’t going to ruin the moment. He’d just made a giant leap into the unknown. This would be news, splashed over every media channel there was. It would make it into the football press, make it back to his club, to the players, the fans…
But he was back on his feet. And he was ready to face this, head screwed firmly on. No more ‘blocking it out’. No more ‘switching it off’. Healed. Double proper.
The crowd parted and drifted off to wherever it was they were heading and Jay took Seb’s hand, slid on the ring, and interlaced their fingers to lead him toward the north side of the bridge. Seb held their hands up, kissing Jay’s knuckles and used the opportunity to check out the ring.
“Nice.” He nodded in approval.
“Looked like it’d suit ya. No bling. Understated.”
“Wait til you see yours, diamond-encrusted crown jewels all around it.”
Jay must have displayed a look of pure horror as Seb hacked out a laugh. At least now they could find a decent cafe. Jay needed the rest. Taxi home and all. Indulge Seb in the luxury lifestyle he was born for.
“Why this bridge?” Seb suddenly asked through the breeze.
“You’ll call me a soppy git.”
“Probably.” Seb shrugged. “Tell me anyway.”
“It’s halfway.” Jay held onto the railing at the steps and stopped to take in the view.
“Halfway to what?” Seb furrowed his brow.
“Halfway, east to west. Blackfriars, over there—” Jay pointed to the tube station north of the river—“is the half way point between High Street Ken and West Ham on the District Line. It’s kinda halfway between you and me. Our middle ground.”
Seb smiled, then leaned in and placed a soft kiss to Jay’s lips. “Soppy git.”