Chapter five
As soon as his studs sank into the mud, Jay remembered why he did this. Why he took all the shit. If football came without the media attention, that would suit him fine. Playing the game was what he lived for and, even at this moment—centre circle, holding the ball with the toe of his boot—Jay felt at home. And it gave him his purpose.
The stadium, filled to the brim with home and away supporters, burst out the accompanying home-game song from the twenty thousand season ticket holders in the stands. I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles always gave Jay the tingles, as well as the motivation he needed. But as he awaited the kick-off, Jay did what he’d learned never to do. He listened to the away side.
The gyrating boom of Irons faded to allow the visiting fans to make their mark on the game. Jay hung his head, and desperately willed the whistle to blow so he could drown out the chants along with rhythmic clapping from the minority blues fans. The words Rutters, Rear and Regular just about making themselves heard. Out the corner of his eye, Jay noted the fluorescent-jacket-wearing security trailing over to the away side stands. They obviously expected trouble to break out. The home fans weren’t going to take the attempt to get their team’s striker off his game lightly.
The match hadn’t even started and the unrest in the thirty-five-thousand seater stadium was palpable. Could this really be all because of me? The whistle shrilled and, switching his swirling thoughts off, Jay tapped the ball over to Bruno. Chelsea were unrelenting, as they always were. Their attacking game play trumped West Ham’s lacking defence system. Keeping the ball away from their half was the main state of West Ham’s play. And whilst not a particularly great game to watch, it kept them from conceding and tumbling down the league at this point in the second half of the season.
Twenty minutes in, and Jay got his chance. A sloppy pass from Chelsea’s central midfielder at the halfway line landed right at Jay’s feet. Dribbling the ball, he pelted away and sprinted, eyes on the prize ahead. He had a clear run, what with all the Chelsea players on the attack the other end of the pitch. Jay pounded the grass, and the fire in his heart fuelled the skill of his studs as he expertly guided the ball toward goal. With one peek up at the keeper, who had drifted out of the box to close him off, Jay stuttered on his boots to swerve around him rather than take the shot from there. As he dropped his left shoulder, faking the direction, he was ready to leap to his right and tap the ball with the outside of his foot, but a hard shunt to his back sent him flying. He landed on all fours at the penalty line, white powder spraying into his face as he skimmed the wet grass and collapsed onto his chest. Having used all his body weight to barge into Jay’s back, elbow first, Chelsea’s defender hurdled over him, his studs missing Jay’s head by mere inches.
The crowd roared and the cheers from the minority away fans did their best to be heard over the disgruntled heckles at the illegal tackle from the home crowd. A brief peek to his right, and Jay met with Alejandro Romero, the blue’s giant killer fallback, bending down beside him.
“You wanna play a man’s game, you take the hits like a man.” Alejandro spat on the grass beside Jay’s ear. “Poof.” He then straightened and offered out a hand with a smile plastered on for the referee who hurtled toward them, blasting his whistle that out-shrilled the most vocal of fans.
Having forced his mind to close off, Jay had evidently lost his ability to rationalise, and he ignored the hand to twist onto his back, then rammed his studs into Alejandro’s shin. Lucky for him, the bloke had his pads on. Unlucky for Jay, Alejandro fell to the floor, clutching his leg and declared foul play. Jay sprang up and loomed over Alejandro, utterly incensed.
“Get up!” His face burned with the force of the words. “You want me to show you who’s a fucking man? Get the fuck up!”
The referee finally approached and tapped Jay’s chest, urging him away. Bruno bounded over, shoving Jay farther while the referee and the first aiders rushed over to tend to Alejandro.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with him!” Jay yelled, waving a frustrated hand and caring less that all the cameras in the stadium would be on him. Live game, broadcast on Sky Sports One. Jay didn’t care. “Get the fuck up!” He forced to get past Bruno, but his captain pushed him away, keeping Jay grounded to the spot.
“Calm it, Jay.”
“That was an intentional attack, Skip!” Jay scraped away his sweating hair, trying to get a hold on the anger that seeped from his every orifice. Not only had that been a deliberate foul, it was premeditated, and from behind with no attempt at closing in on the ball. It had been about Jay. And from the man’s words, Jay now knew why he’d been the target of such a calculated bad tackle. He shook with the rage that boiled through him.
“Yeah, and the ref’ll square it. But you just kicked him, Rutts, when the bloke was helping you up.” Bruno wiped his mouth as he spoke in an attempt for any closing-in cameras not to pick up his words.
Jay turned away, unable to look upon the scene of first aiders and the opposition players all rallying around Alejandro on the floor. With one tap to his shoulder, Bruno set off to have a word with the ref. Jay couldn’t even face the stands with their continued whistling and chants ringing in his ears. He’d lost it. Again. His temper had overruled his couple of years of calm and now threatened his clean record. Hanging his head, he peeked over to the sideline. Sergio, hands on hips, glared back from the edge of the manager’s box, the other coaches either side speaking double into his ear, no doubt replanning the next few games.
Jay edged away, wanting the match to restart but the screech of the referee’s whistle and demanding wave of the man’s hand forced Jay back to the scene. Aided by the physios, Alejandro stood and shook himself out. What a fucking performance! Jay clenched his hands into tight balls, fingernails digging into his palms. The ref ushered them both over and away from the other players.
No words spoken, the referee reached into his pocket. Out came the yellow card and he held it in the air in front of Alejandro—booked for the tackle. The defender didn’t respond and just spat on the floor. Then came the other card. The ref held it high, his whistle clutched between his lips, and Jay glanced up to his first ever red card.
The stadium erupted. Boos bellowed from the home fans and rivalled the roars of delight from the away crowd. If there had been unrest among the rivals before this, it had just tripled and Jay felt it all the way to his sinking gut. Jay twisted from the ref and walked slowly off the pitch, willing his jelly legs to get him to the safety of the tunnel. The continued chants from the crowd banged through his temple and as he stepped over the pitch line, he met with Sergio’s gaze. Sergio marched back to his seat and sat, whispering into the ear of the second head coach, Alonzo, seated beside him. He made no additional eye contact and Jay marched through the tunnel back into the dressing room.
He stripped off his shirt and slapped it to the floor, then with a sudden burst of rage he could no longer contain, rammed his fist into the separating wooden border.
“Oi, oi, none a’ that.”
Jay twisted, shaking out his hand. Coach Alonzo stood in front of him, clutching a bottle of water that he passed over to Jay. Sitting, Jay swigged and poured the rest over his head, allowing the droplets to slide through his hair and slap to the floor.
“We’ll ask for it to be looked at.” Jim placed a hand on Jay’s shoulder.
“Don’t bother.”
Jim stood, narrowing his eyes. “You sayin’ you weren’t provoked?”
Jay looked up, the water sliding down his face and he licked the droplets from his top lip. “Don’t matter. I did it.”
“Three match ban.”
Jay ripped the knots from his bootlaces.
“Gaffer says you wait it out here until the crowds gone. He’ll wanna word.”
The doors clanged as Jim left. Growling, Jay chucked his boot across the room and the studs ricocheted off the wall to crash down onto the plastic mat below.
* * * *
Seb held his hand over the strings on his guitar and stared up the flat-screen TV mounted to the living room wall. He winced. Setting the light-tan Silvertone Harmony to the floor, he stood to watch the replay. Slow motion, different angle, it still looked painful.
“No doubt about that,” the commentator’s voice sounded over the roar from the crowds and boomed out of the speakers dotted around the room for optimum listening. “The ref won’t let that go without a punishment. Romero was helping him up. No need for that.”
Seb scraped two hands through his hair as the television cut from the replay to the live match. Jay’s entire face filled the thirty-two inches of flat screen High Definition with his previous displayed anger diminishing to defeat as the ref waved the red card to him. Seb’s heart hammered. The camera zoomed in on Jay’s face as he walked off the pitch, and Seb witnessed the anguish behind those baby blues he knew so well, usually filled with desire and passion. Unable to listen to the commentary anymore, or watch the Chelsea player’s sly wink to his teammate captured by a roaming camera, he switched the screen off and sank down onto the sofa.
This was bad. A year being a footballer’s boyfriend and Seb had learned that a loss could affect the mood Jay returned home in. He’d gotten used to how to handle him. Mostly, he gave him space and time. When Jay was ready to move on, probably having relived the match in his head several times, then Jay would seek him out for way to forget the loss and Seb only too happy to oblige. A win and Seb was quids in from the moment Jay walked through the door. Jay hadn’t ever been sent off the pitch, nor had Seb ever seen that sheer anger in Jay’s face before. Well, once. New York.
Tapping his hands on his knees, Seb didn’t know what to do. Perhaps him even being at home when Jay returned could be the wrong thing. But then coming in to an empty house could set him off more. After a while of indecisiveness, Seb picked up his mobile and rammed in the dial.
“You saw?” the female voice sighed down the phone.
“Tell me what to do.” Seb wasn’t too proud to go to Jay’s best friend for relationship advice. She’d survived a few years of being a footballer’s girlfriend, after all.
“I think this one’s out of my jurisdiction.”
“Come on, should I piss off for a bit? Or will he want me here? What did you used to do?”
“It’s been a long time since I had to deal with all that crap from Jay.”
“Please, Ann. Was he ever sent off when you were with him?”
“Yeah, couple of times. For a gentle giant, Jay can sure let rip on the pitch, right?”
Seb bowed his head, scratching his temple. “I’ve never seen him like that. Well, I have, but not over a football game.”
“It’s not just a game, Seb. Surely you’ve learned that much.”
“Yeah. I know. So help me.”
Ann sighed. “I think the tip is, don’t let him wallow too long.”
“Right.”
“The last red card he had, well, that was the day his life changed. And mine. It’s probably a good idea to be mindful of that.”
“Shit.” Seb bounced his knee, realising he was way out of his depth dealing with this. “Can you come around?”
Ann laughed and it stabbed Seb in the chest. “No, chicken. This one’s all yours. Think of it like getting your Scout badge.”
“I never made it as a Scout.”
“Don’t doubt it, mate. Anyway, I gotta go. I’m late.”
“Off anywhere nice?”
“Just meeting a friend.”
Seb nodded. “Somewhere good?” Perhaps he could turn up with Jay as a distraction method?
“Cocktails at Dirty Martinis.”
Seb bit his lip, nodding. “Enjoy, Ann. Be careful.”
“It’s just a friend.”
“Yeah. But still.”
“I ain’t a fucking damsel in distress, Seb. I can handle my fucking self. You worry about your boyfriend.” With that, she hung up.
Seb threw his phone on the cushion beside him and jiggled his legs. After what seemed like ages of silence, he decided to shut off his mind the only way he knew how. He remotely turned on the stereo system and blasted out the multitude of tunes he had stored. Cranking the volume up loud, he got himself a few drinks from the fridge.
After a few tunes to drown out his thumping heart, and downing the leftover wine, an idea hit him. He leapt up from the sofa and skidded on his socks to the cupboard under the stairs. The tool box that Jay’s dad had left from his last visit had been pushed to the back, unused. Seb rummaged through and found what he thought—hoped—he needed and bounded up the stairs. The framed photo perched on the chest of drawers in their bedroom was always knocked off every time either of them needed the essentials such as underwear. Right, time to make a difference.
He slid his fingers over the images and smiled, then stomped over to Jay’s gym and gazed around at the four bare walls, well, except for the pride of place plasma screen that Jay faced when running laps on the treadmill. Maybe this’ll be a better motivator. He settled the picture frame on the floor against the wall and shrugged.
“Thank you, Dad, for not teaching me essential DIY skills. How the fuck do I do this?” He sighed. He was going into this blind. And he might as well have been as he banged away at the nail and the plaster flaked off in chunks to scatter down to the cream carpet. “Bollocks.”
He dropped the nail twice, and bent it, but persevered to hammer the message home. With one last thump, the hammer slipped off the head of the nail and he banged his thumb into the wall instead.
“Shitting, fucking, bollocks!” He jumped in the air, flapping out his hand.
“What ya doin’?”
Seb spun, eyes wide. Jay stood at the doorway, arching an eyebrow beneath his baseball cap.
“Hanging your fucking picture.” So much for making this a romantic gesture.
Stepping in closer, Jay scraped off his cap and spun it across to land on the treadmill.
“You okay?” Seb kept his voice low. If Jay didn’t want to answer, he could pretend he hadn’t heard it.
Seb knew the drill for these conversations. Jay never liked talking about his games. He kept his football life separate for a reason. Which suited Seb, as even after a year of pretending to be interested, he hadn’t learned the first thing about the rules, especially the offside one. But he was fairly sure that kicking a player in the shin was considered a no-no.
“Fine,” was all Jay muttered. The fact he had spoken at all gave Seb an in.
“What did he say to you?”
Jay hung his head. “Ain’t important.” He crouched and picked up the frame. He looked at it once, sighed, then hung it on the bent hook next to the plasma screen.
“Yes, it is. This is exactly the sort of shit you should be challenging.” Seb nodded to the picture. “You need to show those arseholes that they can’t get to you, that you don’t care.”
“Exactly. And I do that by taking the punishment and getting back on the pitch without whining like a bitch about it.”
“Baby—”
“I’m too riled to talk.”
“Fine.” Seb threw the hammer to the floor.
“Why hang it there.”
Seb shrugged. “As much as I hate that Yank, what he’s done there is genius. You need to remember why you keep going, how far you’ve come and why you did all this in the first place. Perhaps I shouldn’t have got my DIY groove on whilst half cut.” He held up his red and swollen thumb.
Jay grabbed Seb’s wrist and checked over his thumb. Then, without warning, Jay slid the pounding digit into his warm mouth. Seb inhaled, holding Jay’s gaze and his heart hammered, without the use of the discarded tool. Jay could make his heart triple with one look from those piercing baby blues and, as he twirled his tongue around Seb’s pounding thumb, Seb’s spine prickled and the blood rushed through his trembling body to his sparking groin.
Jay sucked Seb’s thumb out from his mouth. “Thank you,” he whispered the sentiment.
“You’re welcome.” Seb tilted his neck, amplifying the wide-eyed puppy-dog look to drastic levels. “Now if you’d like to thank me properly, I believe I may have also banged my dick whilst I was hanging that picture.”
Jay snorted a laugh. But behind those dancing blue eyes was something more familiar and Seb tingled with the anticipation. Jay pushed Seb up against the wall, flicking open Seb’s button fly and lowered seductively to his knees. Seb let out a deep hum and glided his fingers through the locks of Jay’s chair.
“God, I fucking love it when you get on your knees for me.” Seb bashed his head against the wall and knocked the picture off from the inadequate nail.
It crashed to the floor, but Seb couldn’t have cared less that he’d failed spectacularly at his first DIY stint, because his raging cock was now engulfed in his boyfriend’s hot mouth and it was doing things to Seb that he failed to find words for.
And I’m meant to be a lyricist… Oh, God, fuck, yeah!