Chapter Twenty
“Shove over, fella.” Bryan scaled Seb’s legs and crashed down onto the plastic seat beside him, the waft of hot meat pie sickening Seb’s stomach.
Grimacing, Seb tugged the ends of his denim jacket to wrap around himself. “It’s fucking freezing.”
“Mate, you came to a football match. In that.” Bryan ripped open the plastic packet and bit into the sloppy pastry, meat juices trailing down his chin. He waved the pie over Seb’s choice of clothing—the usual ensemble of tight ripped jeans, thin T-shirt and black denim jacket. “Ain’t you never been to a match before?”
“Yes.” Seb rubbed his hands together and blew on them to get the feeling back in his fingertips. “Once. And I was in the VIP seats. Which is where I thought we would be today. I’ll bet they have Champers on ice up there.” Seb nodded in the general direction of the West Dr Marten’s stand that housed the WAGs in the VIP suites and beyond to the board rooms, the offices, and the dressing rooms where Jay was no doubt going through his match-day ritual.
“To experience real football atmos, you gotta be in the terraces. Bobby Moore stand is where it’s at. We’re behind goal line for a start. You wanna be here when Jay slams that ball to the back of that net, dunt’ya?”
Seb shrugged. He would, but he’d also like a glass of Champers and to be warm when he saw it. Sighing, he nodded. No, this was right. To be here amongst the—
Seb jolted at the sudden roar of ‘Irons, Irons, Irons’ coming from the nine thousand spectators surrounding him. And his eardrums split when Bryan joined in, spitting crumbs all over those in the seats below. The noise was more deafening than a Drops festival gig. At least Seb could be assured that the years playing rock at full decibels hadn’t destroyed his hearing.
Seb sat back and tried to enjoy his first ever stint of being a football spectator. The fans the opposite end of the stadium attempted to drown out the home crowd with their own chanting renditions, but failed miserably when West Ham belted theirs out harder. Seb winced. Not an in-tune voice among the lot of them. Zoning into the lyrics, he did chuckle at the creative use of words to describe each team.
“Can feel that in your gut, right?” Bryan nudged Seb’s knee with his own. “We been doin’ this for fucking years. It don’t get old. Right, Dad?” He turned to a zoned out John Ruttman beside him.
John nodded, steely blue eyes focussed out front and jiggled his knees. Ever the stance of a man who was either cold, or bricking it. Seb couldn’t blame him. At least Seb’s unsuitable attire for a freezing eight p.m. kick-off mid-March in London could mask the reason behind his own quivering.
“’E’s nervous.” Bryan leaned in to whisper in Seb’s ear. “’E’s always nervous before one of Jay’s games, but, well, this one’s different, ain’t it?”
Seb nodded, understanding all too well. Jay’s first match back after injury had come a full seven months after injury. Which had felt like a lifetime. For Jay, for Seb, and evidently for the club who had relied on Jay’s goal scoring to keep them afloat in the Premier League. But, apparently, six months was standard recovery period. If only Seb had known that a few months back. Still, he was here now. And since the whole almost-proposal on the packed-out bridge back in November at prime commuter time, Jay had faced the whole injury, and their relationship, head on. No holds barred. He’d been a machine.
“He’s on form.” Seb rubbed his hands together, staving off the cold but also the sudden judders. “He’s been working out daily, runs morning and night, extra physio sessions. The club wouldn’t have given him the all-clear if they didn’t think he was ready for a starting line-up. Right?” He checked for anything in John or Bryan’s face to suggest the contrary. They knew more about all this stuff than Seb did. Seb only relied on what Jay had told him over the past few months.
“Sure.” Bryan nodded.
“It ain’t just his fitness I’m worried about.” John stared ahead to the pitch laid out in front of them in its perfectly luscious green rectangle.
Seb wringed his twitching hands in his lap. “Honestly, John, I’ve never seen Jay more ready to face it. Head on. He’s got this.”
John slowly met his gaze and, after a brief pause, he smiled. “Yeah. I seen it. Couldn’t be more proud of him. Both of ya. The way you’ve handled the obsession around the both of ya, ’specially since bridgegate—”
Seb bellowed out a laugh, cutting John off. “Bridgegate?”
“Bab’s aint over it, y’know.” John peered back out to the pitch, chest rising. “Tellin’ the world first before her. It’s a no-no.”
“Right.” Seb winced. “Not even us buying you a house down the road got her over it, no? Using the equity from the sale of my father’s house to bring you closer to us, and still your son’s most romantic gesture is considered a scandal?”
“It’s a bleedin’ scandal it’s in the media.” John tutted.
“That I agree with. But, it does help drum up free promotion for Ruttman Records.” Seb grinned. The Drops were now completely independent, having turned down the deal with Sony. Seb could never have walked away from his band mates for a contract, regardless of how much money the label threw at him. And, by fuck, had Kenneth tried—even claiming he’d find Seb session musicians with awards galore behind them. Instead, with the money left over from the Kensington house sale, Seb set up his own record label. Saunders already had its own name in a business venture and Seb had high hopes that he’d, one day, become a Ruttman himself. Not just an honorary one.
“And cheers for Lily’s trust fund, by the way.” Bryan nudged Seb’s knee. “Was generous.”
Seb smiled, and nodded, accepting the thank you. After Will had sold the Kensington mansion, Seb had been offered half the equity. Seb hadn’t wanted to take it, claiming it felt wrong somehow. He didn’t need, nor want, the money. But Will Saunders hadn’t ever lost a deal, and so a Christmas present had been received in the form a seven-figure cheque stuck inside a card with the simple message, you earned this. Between the house for Jay’s parents, a trust fund for Lily, a little spread between Martin and Noah, and another lot to Ann to spend on the baby, the rest had gone into the record label. It had also inadvertently got them a cleaner, to Jay’s utter dismay. Seb was just glad that Barbara, claiming she was no charity case, often brought a lasagne along with their ironing.
Seb had also set a little aside for a potential wedding, should one ever happen.
Things were rather rosy. Grand. Beautiful. No loose ends. Except this one. Jay’s return to the premier league, to football, and, as fate would have it, to the man who had caused Jay’s injury. All of that filled Seb with apprehensive tension. Regardless of how much Jay had convinced him he was ready, he was a different man to the one who’d been knocked down, and that he wasn’t going to let it get to him, the team, and the two of them.
Seb now fully understood the things Jay faced being out and open. Not all the media response to ‘bridgegate’ had been positive. But Jay had come to accept that whatever he did, he couldn’t please everyone. So he’d been pleasing himself, and Seb, by actually answering to media interviews and allowing Seb to respond in his true fashion.
It had done wonders for him. For his public persona, for his self-esteem and, not to mention to anyone else, but for their bedroom antics.
Seb smiled into his lap as he remembered the latest Ruttman reply to the press’s ask of whether he feared there would be a backlash on the pitch at tonight’s game. Jay had smiled to the camera and said, “I’m counting on it.” The cheeky glint in Jay’s eye had been unmistakable.
Seb was snapped from his mental musings when Bryan and John launched from their seats and threw up their arms, both belting out the words to West Ham’s official song. Out of tune.
“Get up, fella. Sing!” Bryan tugged Seb up by his jacket.
After a shake of his head, Seb held his arms high and joined in with the last line, “Pretty bubbles in the air…” The stadium thrummed with fierce claps. “West Ham!”
Bryan twisted his neck and curled his lips in a snarl at Seb.
“What?” Seb clapped along with the rhythmic chanting.
“I said sing. Not fucking harmonise.”
* * * *
Jay blew out a lungful of air into the hostile dressing room. He’d completed his match-day ritual and now awaited the team talk from Sergio among all the other players kitted out and ready for the game ahead. The hostility had come from his return, he knew that much at least. And from his press conference earlier where Jay had no longer stuck to the standard media-trained responses he once would have. New him. No longer gagged, or suffocated by the need to be what everyone expected—quiet, reserved, unretaliating.
The team were clearly on edge. Except this time, Jay didn’t let that affect him. He shook his shoulders out for the arrival of their manager and squad coaches. Sergio was met with a lumbering silence and not the raucous banter that he would have normally stopped dead by his brusque entrance. The men all clambered to their bench seats and sat with professional obedience. They listened through the tactics, the game-play, the wheres, hows and whens that Coach Alonso rattled through, and nodded with accustomed compliance. Sergio eyed each player with suspicion. Settling his gaze on Jay, he snapped the lid on his marker pen and the tap echoed through the room.
“We are a team.” Sergio gave a curt nod. “Each and every one of you is here because I chose you to be. Because you are my team, my choice.” He slapped his chest, hard. “My belief in you all should be what brings you together. Whether you like your fellow man, whether you agree with his choices, whether you cannot stand the smell of his cologne, you are his teammate and will treat him as such. Any wavering to that will be preyed on by those out there.” He pointed the tip of his pen at the closed dressing room door. “And that has been evidenced recently. You will not allow that to happen again. Or pay the price. Is that clear?”
The team nodded, some mumbling their agreements to their studs. Jay drifted his gaze to the team, many refusing to make eye contact, then back to his manager.
“If a man is targeted, you stop it,” Sergio continued, obviously not feeling like his team weren’t cottoning on to his motivating methods. “We stand united. We are West Ham United. We do not let anyone off lightly. Not this time. Not on my watch. Ruttman!”
Jay snapped to, eyes wide. “Gaffer?”
“Welcome back. The pitch is yours. The team is yours. We are all behind you. Know that.”
“Yes, Gaffer.” Pride bubbled in his chest.
“Make us proud. Make your family proud. Make the nation fall to their knees for you.”
A few player sniggers were stopped by Sergio’s glare. Including Jay’s own one. Slip of the foreign tongue, Jay hoped.
“Gaffer?” Jay found his voice.
“Yes?”
Jay stood and cleared his throat. “I’ve had iron in my blood since birth. My whole family are West Ham supporters. I’m an east Londoner. I’m a footballer. I’m a goal scorer. I ain’t here to make a mockery out of anyone, least of all West Ham. I’m here ’cause I deserve to be. Like all of us do.” He shrugged, but stood firm, tall. Proud. “That’s all. Ain’t no-one gonna make me think I don’t deserve to be on that pitch. Knock me down, I’ll get up. Break my leg, it’ll heal. I’m tough. And I’m back. To show that I mean business. The moment Sergio put me in this team I became a role model and I take that fucking seriously. I think you lot should too.”
He breathed in deeply and held Sergio’s gaze. Sergio nodded. Once. And a smile crept up on his lips. The first clap came from Davies and he jumped to his feet for a standing ovation that was promptly followed by the entire back eight. Bruno stood and stalked toward Jay from his bench the opposite side of the horseshoe. Slapping a hand on Jay’s shoulder, he nodded and ruffled Jay’s hair.
“We’re all with you. Let’s prove that to the fucking nation!” He tapped Jay’s cheek and heckled out a wailing yell.
Muscles flexed as the tribal roar bounded through the walls and the team clamped studs onto the linoleum floor out to the tunnel. Sergio squeezed Jay’s arm.
“I think you might have changed the West Ham motto. You are the academy of football. The future. Remember that when you’re out there.”
“Cheers, Gaffer.”
At this point, whether they won or lost, Jay felt like he was on top. He’d made a small triumph at least. He’d faced it. He’d spoken up. He wasn’t burying anything anymore. And if Chelsea came at him, so be it. He had a team behind him. And a fiancé in the stands. That was enough to put the fire back in his gut.
Standing in line, Jay peered over to the blues. Three men back, the man stood. Alejandro Romero. Jay caught his eye. Perhaps it was the camaraderie from his team, the euphoria at being back, or the voices that still swam around in his head that made him do what he did next.
He scooted out of line, headed to the opposition team and held out his hand to Alejandro.
“All water under Stamford Bridge.” Jay urged Alejandro to take his hand. Not because a camera had zoomed into their personal space, but because he wanted this over.
Alejandro glanced down, his lips unfurling. He darted his gaze to the camera, then back to Jay. He had no choice, so when he took Jay’s hand with one firm shake, Jay knew it wasn’t heartfelt.
“If ever you wanna talk.” Jay winked. “I been there.” Why he felt the need to say that, he’d never know. The look on Alejandro’s face made it worth the while and Jay stifled a chuckle before returning to his position in the line and meeting with Bruno’s furrowed brow.
“You just put a target on your knee.” Bruno shook his head.
“Bring it the fuck on.”
Bruno snorted, then rolled his shoulders as he followed the officials out onto the pitch.
The boom from the crowd rumbled in Jay’s gut and he sucked it in like a drug. The singing rang in his ears along with the drone from the boisterous chants, the piercing cheers and rhythmic roars. He was back. Where he fucking belonged.
The line-up, the set positions and the kick-off whistle happened in a daze and Jay was off. He chased the ball, he collided with the brutish back four, he slide tackled, and enjoyed every counting-down second of it. He threw himself into the game—the real him, the true him. The one who knew the man he loved was in those stands watching his every move. This game was for Seb.
When the tackle came, and Jay knew that it would, Jay was ready for it. Alejandro had waited long enough, trailing it out until the seventy-fifth minute and a nil-nil score sheet. Perhaps it was desperation, perhaps it was pure hatred. Perhaps it was something deeper-rooted, like Riley’s attack had been. There had been snarls of disapproval, yells of slurs unreached by official ears, a few trips along the way, but none of that had put Jay off his game. Because he had accepted it. Nothing could get to him if he knew it was coming and he had his team’s backing. Both teams. His West Ham brothers, and his family. His and Seb’s family. A unit. United.
Jay bounced at the halfway point as Davies slammed his shoulder into the Chelsea defender, expertly winning the ball. He passed almost immediately to Carlton, who set off at pace and sailed the ball across to Bruno. Captain used his bulk to guard off the oncoming blues and sprinted pitch left, rounding the ball toward Jay. A brief look up, and Jay set off for his middle position ready to receive the overhead pass.
Alejandro came at him, but this time Jay saw him. He expected it. And as he leapt up to receive the ball, Jay dropped his shoulder, flicking his forearm out to prevent the man getting any closer. But Alejandro didn’t jump with him. He wasn’t going for the ball, nor for Jay’s weakened knee, or any part of Jay’s anatomy. Instead, he grabbed the bottom of Jay’s shirt that had drifted out from his elastic shorts and yanked. Hard. So much so that the impact not only had Jay flopping to the ground on his back, it also ripped the entire side stitching of his jersey, revealing his re-honed and perfected abs to all those in the Bobby Moore stand.
Jay leapt up, eyes narrowed and spat on the grass, the glob missing Alejandro’s bright yellow studs by mere millimetres. Jay wasn’t staying down this time. He was facing it out. Whatever came. The referee’s whistle shrilled around the roaring stadium as the entire West Ham team pelted up to the penalty spot. Bruno and Davies took turns in yelling obscenities at Alejandro’s face whilst shoving him in the chest. Alejandro, hands in the air, shook his head and said his excuses in his mother tongue. A couple of the other players started in on the ref, wailing their disgruntled messages until they were as red in the face as their claret kit. A few others sidled away, getting into their own scraps with Chelsea players.
It was like a mass brawl on the pitch. One that Jay zoned out of and instead focused on the linesman. He smiled when he noted the official held his arm out wide, his flag pointing to the left. Home side. Jay’s point. Penalty. Thank you, Alejandro.
Sorting out the players on the pitch took a fair few minutes and Jay waited anxiously, ball tucked under his arm ready for the instruction. The referee, whistle tucked between his lips, made mad hand gestures to each of the players to settle down. Many did, moving away. Chelsea surrounded the middle-man for a while, before they realised they had no case. Alejandro had let them down with that blatant attack. Again.
Sergio called Jay off the pitch to the sideline, replacing Jay’s shirt with a new one. The only words the gaffer said was, “Follow it though.” Jay nodded, then jogged back to the goal line.
The referee had called Alejandro over. Jay couldn’t hear what was being said as the deafening roars from the stands drowned it all out. He took the moment to peer up behind the goal to the terraces. The Bobby Moore stand. Ten rows up, left of the steps. The Ruttman seats—the three spaces that had belonged to his dad, Bryan and him for as long as Jay could remember, handed down from his grandfather. He hadn’t been lying about iron being in the blood. His great-great-grandfather had worked at the original Thames Ironworks that had formed the team back in 1900. Now someone else occupied that third seat. Or, more accurately, was standing, biting his thumbnail with a brow so furrowed his forehead looked dehydrated. Jay winked.
Another whistle shriek and Jay whipped around to witness the red card struck in the air and Alejandro trailing off the pitch to boos and cheers. The referee indicated for Jay to step forward and take the penalty shot. Jay inhaled deeply, clutching the ball, then walked, slowly, to penalty point. He dropped the ball. All his team stood behind him, blues dotted between the claret, and the anticipation was felt in every sharp palpable breath.
Jay took five steps back. He locked eyes with the goalkeeper. The all-in green keeper jumped on the spot, punching each glove and making himself big, intimidating. Jay didn’t even take a breath. He lurched forward, full speed, full throttle. The keeper leapt, wrong side, and the ball shunted to the back of the goal, shaking the net that barely contained his three-point win.
The spectator stands erupted in roars. Jay ran forward, hands clenched, biceps bulging, pounding his fists in the air. He stopped at the sideline where the spectator stands jumped in waves of excited cheers that rattled the plastic seats. Jay grabbed the badge on his shirt and screamed to the crowd, searching for Seb. Locking onto his gaze, he smiled. There he was. Watching. Cheering. Supporting. Like all good fiancés should.
Keeping his head high, he laughed as he was leapt on from behind by his entire team, each one cheering into his ear. The roaming camera zoomed in on his face, and Jay took that as his moment. His comeback. Struggling to free himself from his team horde, he kissed the guitar on his ring finger, then held it up to the stands for each and every spectator.
The other lads stepped back, allowing Jay his moment. He blew another kiss to the stands. This time to Seb. To show himself.
To finally be himself.