chapter Thirteen
“All right, lads, game face on. Come on, come on. Stop flirting.” Head coach, Jim Alonso, fired insults and launched sponges across the changing room.
The lads all grumbled and flung items of clothing and equipment back at him. It was raucous—the usual pre-match banter from twelve men, regardless of their so-called professional status. Jay sat quietly, adjusting the laces on his Nike Mercurial football boots. It was a nervous habit, and a way to avoid getting involved in any of the boisterous tomfoolery. He was in enough trouble as it was.
He’d been ushered into the changing room by Alonso, even though he’d been heading straight for the away team benches on pitch side after the bus drop at the Red Bull stadium earlier. Being ordered in here meant only one thing, and Jay’s stomach churned in anxious anticipation.
Sergio Amadori stormed in and all the lads instantly shut up. Sergio had that aura. Grown men cowered in his presence. Being the manager of an English Premier League football club, he demanded attention and respect. The moment managers lost admiration from their team of top-flight football players, their reign ceased. The tougher the manager, the harder the team effort. Sergio was as tough as they came and it made Jay shift uncomfortably in his seat with the fear of what was to happen next.
The team huddled on individual stools running along the locker room, their numbered shirts on display behind them. Jay sat beneath the number nine. Where he should be. Where he’d wanted to be. He locked onto Sergio’s gaze, sucking in a fearful breath. Sergio flung a branded zip-up jacket at him.
“Bench.” Sergio’s voice boomed off the deep blue wash walls. “Now.”
Tame. So he wouldn’t get to walk out of the tunnel with the rest of the team and other subs, which would mean any chance of his studs getting on the pitch were well and truly thwarted. What could I have expected? Jay stood, slipped into the jacket and zipped it up. He brushed shoulders with Sergio on reaching the door and faced the manager who had given him his second chance not more than a few months ago.
“Sorry, Gaffer.” Jay bowed his head. “Won’t happen again.”
“Bench.” Sergio turned his back on him and Jay could only hope that wasn’t forever.
Clapping his hands, Sergio started the usual warm-up speech to Jay’s teammates, adding a few insulting remarks, and Jay left the changing room. He emerged through the tunnel into the main arena, and his heart thumped with the overwhelming adrenaline. The stadium was packed, fans from both sides chanting their team’s name. The noise deafening, it pounded through Jay’s body to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Swallowing down the regret and shame that he wouldn’t get to touch the luscious grass on an international stage, he headed toward the away team’s bench where the travelling staff were already seated. He was being made an example of, he knew that. The subs usually drifted out after the rest of the team. Him, having to climb the few steps to his seat before match kick-off, was a tactic by Sergio to prove that players can’t get too big for their own boots. Not that Jay ever was. He’d just been desperate.
A burst of song from the West Ham travelling fans reverberated around the stadium and Jay did his best to not let the sorrow get to him. I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles sung by the couple of hundred dedicated claret and blue replica-kitted men took Jay back to his childhood. It reminded him of why he’d loved football, why he’d done nothing but play football for most of his life, what all the struggles he’d endured had all been for. The claps of hands and booms of feet on concrete ended the rendition, aligning with the beats of Jay’s heart.
He hung his head, breathing in the atmosphere and settling into the blue sponge seat behind the away team management. That was when he noticed something awry on the pitch, something uncommon in his career of both a spectator and a player. A mini-stage constructed on the centre circle had twenty or so men plugging in various equipment and leads, followed by a drum kit, a microphone stand and two propped-up guitars.
Jay tapped one of the coaches sat in front. “This like the Super Bowl or something?”
“They always have some performance for international games.” Timpson held up a match programme. “Today, we got Broadway. Americans are all about the spectacle.
Jay nodded, settling back in the seat. I’ll have to tell Tom that when I get back home.
His mind drifted. That gleaming red and black electric guitar propped up next to the microphone sent a surge of familiarity through him, as though he’d seen it before. This morning, propped up next to the bed he hadn’t slept in. Jay’s hands shook, so he folded his arms, closed his eyes and inhaled a few deep breaths.
* * * *
“Seriously, dude, I think I might throw up.” Martin, bent over double, clutched his stomach.
“Breathe. You’re too pale.” Seb rubbed Martin’s back, attempting to keep his voice calm, but the hint of annoyance seeped out anyway. The last thing he needed was to babysit his stage-frightened band mates. He had enough apprehension of his own.
“I mean there’s gotta be, what, ten thousand people in there?” Martin swallowed, slapping his palm on the glass window looking in on the VIP entrance of the Red Bull Arena.
“Twenty-five thousand actually.” The cigarette between Noah’s lips waggled up and down. Catching Seb’s glare, he shrugged.
“We’re all good.” Seb rubbed soothing circles up Martin’s back. “You’re good. You know the song. I’m the one fucking singing. Just pluck your strings at the right time and you’ll be fine. We did all right at rehearsal, didn’t we?”
“Yeah, but that was in some closed-off theatre, with only your mum watching. We’ve never played more than a couple of hundred in some shitty dive in England. This is real. This is nuts!” Martin swiped a hand over his lips. “Shit. I just threw up in my mouth.”
Seb grimaced. “Look. Calm down. Sylvia said we were good enough. She would never have agreed to this if we weren’t. Yes, we’ve been on a hiatus. We’re a bit rusty. I’ve added new lyrics. But it’s a tune you know. We can rock this. We can rock the fucking world. It’s all about confidence.”
“Fake it ‘til you make it, dude.” Noah flicked his cigarette to the ground and stamped on the butt.
“We don’t need to fake it.” Seb pointed a warning finger at Noah. “We are good. No, we’re not just good. We, as a band, are fucking awesome. We know this. We’ve always known this. Now, it’s our chance to prove it. This is our moment, guys. Ours. If we can’t do this, then we might as well forget it all. But we can, and we will. And, you know fucking what? We’ll be the best damn fucking band that stage has ever seen.”
“They seen any others?” Noah raised his eyebrow with little care or worry.
“Then that makes my point even more poignant, does it not, Noah?”
Noah shrugged. Martin took a deep breath and stood to his full height. Seb tapped him on the back one last time and glanced around the arena entrance. The straggling supporters drifted in, decked out in either Red Bull or West Ham replica shirts. Seb might have had the fighting talk for the others, but he couldn’t shake his own fear. Although his mother had agreed to the swap over after having heard them out during rehearsal at her theatre, the Red Bull entertainment managers still might not allow Sylvia to bring her own band in. Especially with the heightened security in light of recent events.
Holding out a demanding hand to Noah, Seb found his fingers shook. He scrunched them into a balled fist, covering up the evidence that he didn’t feel as confident as his words sounded. “Cigarette.”
Noah threw a pack over. Seb flipped open the top and tucked his lips around one of the stray ends. Noah struck his lighter and Seb sucked through the flame, inhaling an elongated drag. Calm your shit, Saunders.
“Seb? Sebastian? Seriously?”
Seb twisted on his heel, marginally preventing the eye roll. Rich waved off his accompanying group and jogged over.
“All right, mate?” Rich’s retro West Ham replica shirt clung to his thick upper body and remnants of an afternoon’s session boozing wafted from his breath. “You got a ticket, then?”
“No.” Seb blew a puff of smoke to the side. “We’re performing. This is my band. Martin, Noah, this is Rich.”
“Performing? Like, singing? On the pitch?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.” Rich stepped back. “That’s…brave.”
Seb tugged fiercely on the cigarette, his fingers trembling. Grabbing Seb’s arm, Rich angled his head away from the others and Seb stumbled after him, through will or force he wasn’t sure.
“You think that’s wise?”
Seb shrugged, chucking the cigarette end to the ground. Forming words was hard through the knot of anxiety in his stomach but, also, because he wasn’t sure of the correct answer anymore. The plan had seemed perfect a few hours ago. But now he was here, the fear and uncertainty attacked Seb’s inner confidence.
“You think he’ll thank you for it?” Rich asked. “Declaring your love for him in front of a stadium full of football fans? Outing him to his team?”
“I’m not outing him. No one else will know what I’m singing about. Or to whom.”
“I feel, as the only disinterested party here…”
Seb arched an eyebrow.
“That you should reconsider. I just don’t think this is the place. You think I go declaring my sexuality to the fanbase? Fuck no! And I’m not a player.”
“I’m not outing him!” Seb scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m just letting him know I’m here.”
Rich sighed. “He knows you’re here, mate. He’s choosing the career. And, if I may say it, self preservation along with it.”
“You don’t even know him. Or me. Or us. Why the fuck do you care?”
“Honestly?” Rich widened his eyes. “The bloke’s a good player. I been watching his stuff on YouTube. He’s the best striker we’ve had since Di Canio. I wouldn’t want to see him lose his shit.”
The glass doors smacked open, preventing Seb from forming a response. Sylvia, dark locks billowing in the breeze, slinked out along with two security guards on either side of her. “We’re up, darlings!”
She waved frantic hands and ushered a groaning Martin and a bouncing Noah through into the stadium.
“Well, if you’re seriously crazy enough to do this, then all I can say is good, fucking, luck.” Rich slapped Seb on the shoulder. “And if it goes tits up, well, you got my number, right?”
“Come on, Saunders!” Noah poked his head back out the door. “Martin’s gonna yak all over the stage if you don’t get him to calm his shit.”
Gulping down his fresh set of apprehensive nerves, Seb nodded and jogged in after Noah.
* * * *
Jay opened his eyes. The crowd’s boisterous roars had dissipated and the fans had all taken their seats. The Tannoy system kicked into life with the announcer urging everyone to put their hands together for the opening act of the day’s game. “Sylvia Ricci.”
Clapping exploded around the arena. Three blokes rushed out from the retractable tunnel, heads down, and a glamorous female bounced out from behind, waving and blowing air kisses to the stands. Jay shielded his eyes from the glaring sun and squinted. The figures were relatively far away, so he couldn’t make out any distinguishing features to tell if the band was a famous one or not. Not that he’d know. Pop culture had taken a back seat in his life for quite some time. But it’d still be something to brag about to his brother.
Then his heart skipped a beat. The front man leapt onto the stage, wrapping a guitar strap over his shoulder. That unruly dark hair on top of a slender body poured into black drainpipe jeans and a ruffled, fraying vest was unmistakable. As were the distinct tattoos covering most of the man’s forearms, and especially the one displayed on the inside of the man’s wrist, evident when he curled his fingers around the microphone.
A high-pitched shrill of a microphone loop gathering feedback resonated around the stadium, preventing Jay from leaping up from his seat. He darted his gaze along the rows of West Ham staff, his heart hammering on overdrive. Whistles and cheers from the fans pierced his eardrums until the raucous noise petered out, allowing the woman clutching a hand-held microphone to speak. She smiled, her glamorous face now plastered on all the large screen monitors located at each end of the stadium.
Jay dug his bitten-down fingernails into the flesh of his arm.
“Good evening Red Bulls!” the woman hollered, her husky voice bellowing around the area. “A big welcome to the away fans from England!”
Roars of the West Ham nickname Irons cascaded down from the stands. Jay swallowed, shifting in his seat, and urged Seb to look up.
“I was going to be singing for you tonight.” Sylvia ruffled her dark hair, then waved a hand toward the band. “Instead, I’m letting you all into a secret. You guys are the first to hear a new band. Fronted by my very own talented son, Sebastian Saunders!”
That moment was the one Seb chose to raise his head, inhale a deep breath and pluck the strings on his guitar. The unaccompanied introduction of Seb’s playing echoed around the hushed stadium, and he stepped forward to the microphone, opened his mouth and the soft, gravel tone of his voice kept Jay tipped on the edge of his seat.
His voice exploded around the stadium and his accompanying guitar solo thundered through his chest. Seb daren’t look anywhere but forward, which was futile if he had planned to avoid Jay whilst he performed for him, and him alone. He could make out the blond from the vast twenty-five thousand seated crowd. At least Jay was far enough away that he couldn’t read the thoughts through his gaze. All he knew was that those eyes never faltered from Seb, centre stage and standing tall.
The old-school country sound that Seb had created, influenced by past legends such as Janis Joplin, Johnny Cash and Elvis, who had all produced heart wrenching love ballads in line with a dark, rocking undertone, captivated the entire arena. Seb had been more than a little anxious that this song wouldn’t be well received by a stadium filled with football fans, home or away, but there hadn’t been one heckle or retreat to leave. Seb held them all under his spell, awestruck and obedient. But regardless that this was his moment, this was the band’s time, their break through, Seb only cared for one man among the many.
“I know you want it…you crave it. Why can’t we have it?” Seb licked his lips, reaching the end of his blues-like solo section. He caught Martin’s gaze beside him, nodded and Martin and Noah crashed into the song. Their bass and drums thumped in tune with Seb’s heart and elevated the piece to the Drops atypical and distinctive rock sound. “Lost toys…broken love...”
For all of Martin’s previous fear, his punching bass line kept Seb grounded and enabled Seb to keep playing, keep singing. Noah’s thrashing drum licks burst into the song, demanding to be heard and to be listened to. Seb reached down into the pit of his stomach, to the person he wanted to be, and claimed the stage as its owner and master, despite it being his first time in front of a huge crowd of non-fans. Give them time.
He sang, he dug deep, and he bellowed out the lyrics that entangled in his soul. Those words came from his gut, from his self-assured brilliance and his unbridled yearning to have something better, be someone better and fix his broken spirit. He told that crowd, more specifically the man in the shadows that he would always seek out, in no uncertain terms, that he was there. That he would always be there, and he would wait. Forever if I have to.
Whilst his fingertips raged over Wendy’s strings, he darted his gaze to the side for a brief moment. Sylvia stood, in front of a microphone, ready to take over should this have all ended in some B-grade rock wannabe meltdown. Her lips parted and she smiled, stepping away. Pride, awe and absolute trust filtered over her brightened features and she swayed her hips to the ballad. At least Seb had caught her attention.
“Welcome back, stranger…I’m a disaster…Please ease my troubled…”
The cymbals crashed, the bass thrummed and Seb prepared for the finish, the climax. He kept his gaze on the stands, his chords ricocheting through the arena speakers, and suddenly all instruments paused, allowing for Seb’s final moment. He curled a hand around the microphone and drew in a deep breath. Then his voice, and his voice only, resonated around the stadium in perfected ease and clarity. “Soul.”
Sweat trickled his forehead, along his cheek and he wiped it away with the leather band wrapped around his wrist. Stepping back, he inhaled the roar from the crowd. Only one remained seated. Only one didn’t react. And that said it all.