Chapter two
A few weeks into the move and boxes still cluttered most of the house. With the football season in full swing, Jay’s training and away matches took precedence, leaving Seb waking up alone most mornings. The desire to unpack by himself hadn’t been a particularly great motivator. So he’d done what he could, which was next to nothing, and cursed on tripping over yet another load of piled-up crap in cardboard that hindered his late-morning scramble to the kitchen for a coffee to mask his mild hangover. Late-night gigs, and Seb always had to indulge in the odd beverage or two.
After a quick glimpse inside the top box revealed a perfectly folded set of Jay’s old football kits, he shoved it aside and headed into the kitchen to switch on the cafetière. He’d learned many a thing since moving in with Jay, the most important being how to make a decent cup of coffee for himself. Jay hadn’t allowed him to slink back into his old lifestyle of having everyone do everything for him. Cooking wasn’t his strong point, but he’d managed it enough to make toast of a morning when Jay wasn’t there to reprimand him for his jam-slash-sugar intake. So he shoved two slices of bread into the toaster and awaited the machine to spurt out his coffee fix.
He rubbed his eyes, sitting at the breakfast bar to eat and sip his coffee in front of his laptop. Such was the norm. Biting off a chunk of toast and jam, he was unable to chew it all without half choking. And that, there, was a metaphor for his fucking life at the moment. Not only was he a front man, the face, main composer and lyricist, he was also his band’s overall manager, creating the Drops’ image, deciding on which of their singles to release and which to upload for free, utilising social media channels. He also handled most of the financial accounts himself—his degree coming into good use after all. Thanks, Dad. Signing with a relatively small independent label had given him the ultimate creative control, but it had also taken him away from the part he loved the most—writing music.
Discarding the remaining quarter of toast, jam-down, onto the marble surface, he rubbed his hands together and tapped out a few lyrics onto a Word doc, the tune buzzing around in his head. Now? Now, I get my creative juices flowing and want to write a new song? Surrounded by boxes with a fuck-ton of marketing and promoting to get through? Fucking typical.
His mobile buzzing on the surface snapped him from having to make the difficult choice of what job to tackle first. He knew what it would have been, but liked to fuck with himself that it was a tough one to choose. “Wei.”
“Right, I know you said day off, but you’ll wanna hear this.”
“Good morning to you too, Martin. I haven’t seen you in, like, eight hours. What, pray tell, could have happened in that amount of time?”
“I got laid.”
“Lucky you.” Seb sipped from his coffee. “I got batted off at four a.m. this morning with a declaration that I stink of alcohol.”
“Dude, you did. You downed a dirty pint on stage.”
“Rock and roll.”
“Bet Jay wasn’t pleased at having to get up at stupid o’clock after that.”
“He says that now we have a spare room, I should sleep in that if I come in later than midnight.” Seb pouted. “Anyway, go.”
“Oh, right. So, Attax pulled out of V Fest.”
Seb nearly spluttered out the coffee over his laptop. “Where did you hear that?” Tapping on his keyboard, he tried to find the latest confirmations for the top festival on the live music calendar.
“I got laid, remember?”
“Of course.” Seb nodded. “Leah.”
“Yeah. She’s more than just a beautiful face.”
Seb emulated throwing up. Martin had turned into a right sap since meeting Leah during one of their festival gigs. Live event manager, Leah had insider knowledge, clout and kudos. All that had been in the band’s favour when Leah had hooked up with Martin on a more regular basis. She’d, by default, become a superfan and managed to get them on the bill, and a couple of main stages, at the last few late summer gigs. That had aided the Drops to rocket up the charts. My father was right, business is about who you know and who you can charm to get the right deal.
“Why’d they pull out?”
“Think one of them’s having a baby or some shit.”
“That’s a bit difficult. They’re all men. Trust me, I’ve tried it all ways and I’m still not up the duff.”
“Ha bleeding ha.”
Seb chuckled and slurped from his mug.
“How is married life? All joint mortgage now, is it? It’s like you’ve grown up. What’s your next song going to be about? Who’s turn to pay the council tax?”
“There’s a council tax?” Seb elevated his voice in sheer horror.
“Who do you think you pay for the blokes to take your bins away?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
“So Jay pays it then.”
“Or his new agent.”
“He get one, did he?”
“Fuck knows. I’m not privy to that life.” Seb pouted. “Anyway, digressing, Martin.”
“So, V Fest are looking for another main stager. And guess the fuck what, my friend?”
“Arctic Monkeys?”
“Nope.”
“Muse?”
“Already on the bill.”
“If this is heading where I suspect, then can you just give me a sec.”
“Sure.”
Seb slammed the phone on the surface without hanging up, scrambled out of his stool and leapt into the air, punching his fist and jumping around like a complete loon. Or more accurately, like he would during one of his more energetic gig performances. Straightening out his ruffled T-shirt over his boxers, he cleared his throat, stroked through the tufts of his fuzzy hair and picked the phone back up.
“Feel better?” Martin asked.
“Tell me you weren’t joking.”
“Technically, I haven’t said anything yet.”
“So fucking say it.”
“We’re on the bill. The Drops. Headlining. Our name, Seb, up there among the greats. Over a hundred thousand people. By this August, we’ll have just played one of the biggest festivals in the fucking world.”
“Shit.”
“Yep. So get the contracts all signed. Earn your position in the band. I done my part.”
“And what a chore it must have been for you.” Seb could hear the returning grin without any spoken confirmation.
“We celebrating this?”
“Of course.”
“Tonight? Combined house warming?”
“Ah.” Seb winced. “Tonight’s out, I’m afraid. I have the in-laws for tea.”
Martin’s cackle down the phone stung Seb’s ear. “Look at you, man! Refusing a night on the drink for a family roast. You’ve changed.”
“For the better?”
“Sure. Sure. Just don’t let the press know. They kinda like the idea you’re a proper rock star, y’know?”
“Luckily I made a pact with Jay to keep our relationship out of the press,” Seb grumbled. Bone of contention. Whilst Seb could only increase his visibility by talking about his relationship with the first out-gay professional footballer, he knew it wasn’t quite the same for Jay on the pitch.
“Smart move. The bloke knows you well enough now to know you get verbal diarrhoea, eh?”
“Exactly. I’ll chat to you later, I have to make this house presentable.”
“Good luck with that. Zai chen.”
Seb hung up, threw the phone on the counter and slipped back onto the stool. A few more minutes of band work, then he’d do some unpacking for sure.
* * * *
All wrapped up in zip-up waterproofs, base layers and trackie bottoms over their shorts, the lads all tried to stave off the fierce downpour while completing the man-to-man drills. Football training doesn’t stop even in the freezing February temperatures, nor, evidently, a waterlogged pitch—you can’t practice high-intensity tactics in a covered gym. So Jay and the other twenty-one men were forced outside at their Chadwell Heath training complex to pace through the possession-intensive game on one of the three main full-sized training pitches. They all earned a mint for it, even the new signings, so it wasn’t like they could complain about looking like drowned rats when the coach drew the session to a close.
Bruno, West Ham’s captain, had been partnered with Jay throughout the session, both of them having to stick to each other wherever they went in order to drill home the defence and clearing the opposition tactics. On the whistle, he slapped Jay on the back. “Good session, Rutts.”
“Yeah. That kid Davies is looking pretty sweet.” February meant an influx of fresh signings and Academy boys moving up to train with the Firsts, meaning Jay wasn’t the new kid on the block anymore.
Bruno arched an eyebrow. “Let’s not start hitting on the team, eh?”
“Fuck off.” Jay wiped the sweat from his top lip with the sleeve of his base layer, smearing mud across his mouth. At least the banter had started up again. A year of playing and being openly gay had caused most of the team to develop tight lips and a petulance toward PC. Slowly but surely, they were all drifting back to their more stereotypical brutish ways. Jay could deal with that. It meant he’d been accepted.
“Ruttman!” Sergio, the manager, stood at the side lines under an umbrella held up by the First Team coach, zipped up in an oversized rain jacket that prevented him from soaking through to the bone like Jay was.
“Yes, Gaffer.” Jay blew away the sodden hair slapped across his forehead.
“My office.” The man of many words stormed off and entered the main building at the edge of the complex.
“Trouble?” Bruno asked.
“Think it’s the agent talk.”
“You not got one yet?”
“Nah. My dad’s been keeping me afloat. Don’t see why I need anyone else.”
“You’d be surprised, Rutts. A good agent is worth their weight in gold, diamonds and open-top Ferraris.”
“Yeah, and that’s what all of ’em will cost.”
They bundled into the first team changing room, the stale musky scent of damp and sweat wafting down the corridors along with the lad’s riotous laughter. Jay headed to his section of the wooden bench where he’d left his kit bag and swigged from his bottle of water, zoning out of all the discussions that always seemed too forced, too trivial. He got on with his team. Most of them. He respected the majority. All the ones that had accepted him, anyway. The ones who hadn’t had been sold to other clubs during the recent transfer window—Sergio having kept to his word. His gaffer had supported Jay every step of the way, and that had meant casting off the dead weights who had been a little too vocal about Jay coming out.
“How’d the move go? You all settled in?” Bruno ripped off his jumper and base layer.
“Still mostly in boxes, but hoping it’ll be unpacked by the time I get home.”
Bruno nodded. “It’s serious, then?”
Jay didn’t respond. It was obvious it had always been serious. For him anyway. Seb had taken some moulding, but had fallen into the role of dutiful long-term boyfriend with an enthusiasm that had knocked Jay for six. And a footballer doesn’t declare his sexuality to the entire world for a passing fling.
“Paps found you, yet?” Bruno picked out his shower gel from his bag.
“We’re keeping low. Head down and all that. Like I’ve been told.”
“It’s for the best.”
Jay nodded. He’d heard the same spiel so many times over the past year, from Bruno, from his dad, from Sergio, that he’d gotten the apathetic nod down to a tee. They’d all been behind him one-hundred percent on coming out; now it seemed like they wanted to bury it. They certainly wanted to bury Seb. Deep.
Half an hour later, refreshed and restored, Jay sauntered through the building toward the back offices, where the door to the manager’s room was shut. He knocked and awaited the reply from his gaffer. Players didn’t often find themselves in these parts of the club, except during the transfer window when signing the contracts, or if there were any problems—press leaks, bad behaviour, family issues—anything that would affect a player’s game. Jay, however, had found himself there quite a lot. Against his will, most of the time.
The door was opened by Samantha Jones, the club’s secretary and the vital cog in the well-oiled machinery that was West Ham United. That startled Jay. He’d been expecting the usual frustrated bellow from his gaffer to get himself inside. Her presence meant that a financial transaction could be required. And she wasn’t the only one in there either.
“Come in, come in.” Sergio beckoned with his overdramatic hand. “Sit. Sit. I need to introduce you.”
Jay eyed the backs of the two men sitting opposite Sergio’s desk. One was quite a bit older, possibly his dad’s age, with greying flecks scattered throughout dark hair and a bald spot on the back. The other bloke had a healthy mound of light-brown hair swept to the side and held firmly in place by a gel that would rival Seb’s choice. They were both kitted out in perfectly tailored suits, power suits. For powerful men. Agents.
“Jay, meet Jeremy Booker and Riley Burton.” Sergio waved between the two men.
They twisted in their seats, offering Jay dashing smiles as he took up the only place left to park his arse —the armrest of the over cluttered leather sofa pushed to the side wall.
“They are here to discuss the possibility of representing you.” Sergio scurried through the papers scattered on his desk rather than offer the men, or Jay, any real attention. Clearly preoccupied, the manager obviously wanted a quick sign from him in order for any more ‘nonsense’ business to be conducted through a different channel other than Jay himself. Or his dad.
“Representing me for what?” Jay knew, but he thought he might as well play the dumb-arse footballer.
“Allow me.” The older gent—Jeremy—twisted in his chair, blocking out the younger bloke completely.
Sergio gesticulated with his hand in a circular motion, skimming through the back pages of a tabloid. Hand gestures were Sergio’s main source of communication. Being Italian, his English was good, but he liked to pretend it wasn’t to feign confusion rather than a clear lack of interest. Especially to the media.
“I’m a sports agent.” Jeremy held down his tie as he lifted up from the chair and offered his hand to Jay.
Jay shook it, then settled back on his uncomfortable perch. There was a reason R and R came directly after intensity training. His muscle fatigue was setting in from the gruelling session and not having had time to get the recovery massage in from the club therapists. Maybe Seb’ll be up for it later? His long piano-playing fingers are perfect for a deep tissue massage.
“We represent the interests of our sporting clients. Not just footballers, although they seem to fill our books mostly. So we have a wealth of experience of managing professional athletes like yourself. Riley, here, joined us recently and we’d like you to consider having us represent you. On and off the pitch. We’re not just about the contracts or getting you the best deal with your club—”
A harrumphed sniff came from Sergio, but he didn’t look up from his reading. Jeremy smiled it off and returned his attention to the charm offensive Jay knew he was getting.
“We’re also about making every other aspect of your life easier for you. Because if things are sorted off the pitch, then that makes you a better player on it. Which is why the club have called us in.”
Jay lifted his gaze to Samantha at the door, then Sergio who gave the faintest of eye contact back.
“You think I ain’t dealing?” Jay challenged.
Jeremy held up a finger, cutting off whatever Sergio might have found to say. “No one has indicated that there is a problem. You’ve played well. You’ve dealt with things most players would have cowered under. You’ve held it together by yourself for one season. And whilst the hope was that the spotlight on you would soon fade, it seems it’s only getting brighter. The press are waiting for your fallout. We can do everything within our power to prevent that happening.”
“How?” Genuinely intrigued, Jay sat forward.
“We’ll be a team. I can work the press, getting them to steer away from your personal life and focus on your football. I can work with the club to do that. Riley can work your image.” Jeremy sat back, allowing the younger bloke to have an in on the scene.
Jay met with brown eyes that for some reason threw him off guard. The bloke looked familiar, too familiar. Like Jay should most definitely know who he was.
“Jay.” Riley smiled, eyes softening. “It’s been a while.”
So Jay should know. He straightened on the armrest, racking his brains. Sergio peered up, renewed interest flickering across his dishevelled features, and even Jeremy whipped his head from one to the other. At least that meant Jay wasn’t the only one in the dark here.
“Do you know each other?” Jeremy asked.
“Sort of.” Riley shrugged with one shoulder.
Suddenly, it hit him and Jay’s chest rose at the realisation. What sort of fresh horse shit is this? He stood. “Look, I ain’t—”
“Jay,” Riley cut him off, joining him in the stand. “It’s all good, mate. Water under Stamford Bridge. I’ve grown up a lot. So have you. I’d really appreciate it if you could hear me, us, out. I think we can work something good here. For you.”
Jay could hear the bloke talking, and pick up on the confusion spreading from his gaffer and the other agent in the room, but all Jay could see was his fists pounding into the face of a seventeen-year-old boy who lay on the soggy grass of a football pitch—in front of the spectators, in front of the West Ham Academy crew, in front of his dad.
“Gaffer?” Jay faced Sergio, doing his utmost to keep his voice from cracking. “This ain’t a good idea. Cheers for thinking about me, but I’m good. I don’t need anyone running my life for me.”
With that, he lunged for the door, where Samantha pushed to the side to allow him to pass.
Jeremy stood. “I’m sorry, is there a problem?”
“No problem.” Jay yanked open the door. “Sorry for the wasted trip, fellas.” He bounded out into the corridor, head down. He had to get away. From in there, from the memories, from everything.
“Jay, wait, hold up.”
He got as far as the reception area when that voice halted him in his tracks.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Jay couldn’t help the fierce attack in his voice, but it was warranted under the circumstances.
“I know, I know, it’s weird.” Riley approached him, palms open.
“A head fuck, more like.”
Riley laughed. “I know. But hear me out. I been working as an agent for a couple of years, since I got back from Australia where I was doing similar out there. When my boss recommended this to me, he had no idea I knew you. Or our past.”
“And, what, you thought, hell yeah, you’ll represent me? Why? To ruin me? Get back at me for what I did?”
“Christ, no. No, Jay, I was a kid. So were you. I deserved it. Every hit.”
Jay exhaled a fierce breath. Riley looked genuine. But ain’t that what these agents are meant to be like? Smarmy wankers?
“I’ve grown up a lot since then. I never made it pro. Chelsea released me over what happened back then and I buggered off to Australia rather than do what you did. That’s where I grew up. What you’ve done is fucking brave, man. I admire it. I do. And I’m here to help. ’Cause if anyone is gonna know what you deal with, it’s a bloke who put you through it, right?”
Jay shook his head. “No offence, mate, but I don’t think you even have the first fucking clue.”
“Beg to differ. But that’s not the point. The point is, we can help you.”
“How?”
“By controlling what gets out, what goes in the press, your image.”
“Why me? There’s a fuck ton of Academy boys who need their lifestyle controlling. I can assure you, I don’t.”
“On the contrary, Jay. Who’s the one in the limelight right now?”
Jay hung his head, his nostrils flaring. Didn’t he bloody well know that? He’d thought by coming out, there wouldn’t be any more interest in him. That he could get back to just playing football and stay off the press’s radar. He could deal with anything the fans and the other players threw at him. He’d had years of practice at that. But the media? That wasn’t something he had experience with.
“You want it off you? Off your personal life?” Riley probed. “Then I can do that. We focus on your football, on charity work, re-establishing you as the every-man and not single you out as one exception to a hundred-year rule.”
It was almost tempting to say yes. But to Riley? Jay couldn’t.
“All right, just think about it.” Riley flicked open his blazer and fished a business card from his pocket. “Here. Take it. Jeremy can talk the finances with the club, how much he thinks we can be of worth to you and them. Me? I just want to do good. Make up for being a prick in my early career.”
Jay took the card out of ingrained politeness. But he pocketed it double lively, twisted and flew out into the parking lot. Head down, Jay headed over to his car just as a few of the other players emerged from the changing room.
“The geezer didn’t even know who I was!” Davies, the new signing, walked beside Pablo Santiago who had been giving the kid a lift to the training complex since he’d come up through the ranks.
Santiago nodded, his bouncy curly hair billowing wildly in the wind as they approached his silver Merc parked up a few spaces from Jay’s BMW.
“I told him, watch the game on Sat, then you’ll be sorry you didn’t let me in without ID.” Davies tutted and slapped Santiago on the arm. “Faces, man. I couldn’t even get into fucking Faces. What’s the point of playing for the firsts if you don’t get recognised?”
Santiago yanked open his car door. “Be careful kid. That place is full of brass and gold-diggers. Sometimes they’re both.”
“I don’t know what you gotta do around here for some attention.” Davies lifted the handle on the passenger side. “Fuck a man?”
Jay straightened, shooting a narrowed glare over his car bonnet. He caught Santiago’s eye and at least he offered a wince. Davies caught onto the three-way stare.
“Shit, Jay, I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it.” Slip of the tongue from the newbie. Whatever. Jay wasn’t one to go telling on his teammates. That’s a sure-fire way to be shunned from the team and find yourself on the scrap heap at transfer deadline day. So he bundled into his own car and, in the solitude of his blacked-out BMW, smacked his fist on the steering wheel.
He had no idea why.