Chapter Fourteen
The hairs on the nape of his neck slowly lay flat and Jay fell back in his seat. His mouth dry, his heart hammering, he drowned out the deafening applause and whistles. He couldn’t react. He daren’t, the thoughts swirled in his mind trampling on his guarded reservations. There was no doubt that Seb’s performance had been for him and he could do nothing but wait.
It took next to no time for the band to be ushered off and the staging area to collapse. Not a blade of grass out of place as the groundsmen set to work checking the white lines ready to start the real reason why everyone was here. Why he was here. Timpson twisted, ripping Jay back to reality, and nodded in approval.
“Not bad for Broadway tosh, right?”
Jay could do nothing but return a brief smile. He could form no words, none that he could say right then to his team’s staff. He had to keep it all down, locked in his throat. As the starting teams bolted out onto the pitch and the rest of the substitutes joined him on the bench, Jay scrubbed a hand over his face and gave himself the usual stern talking to. Shut it off. Eyes on the ball. Even if it ain’t at my feet.
The whistle blew and the crowds roared for the game rather than what they’d just been an oblivious witness to. West Ham’s Bartlett kicked off to Bruno, and Jay clutched his cold and trembling hands together on his lap, watching helplessly from the sideline. If West Ham had thought this would be an easy game, the first few minutes proved them wrong. Red Bull were fast and West Ham wasted energy trying to press the opposition into a mistake.
The first goal came after fifteen minutes. Jay folded his arms, his knees bouncing. The few dedicated away fans bellowed their disgruntled cries from the stands and drowned out the cheers from the Red Bull half. The next attack bought a deep crossed ball from the left that sailed over Bartlett’s head. He missed and it landed onto the chest of Red Bull’s wing back. Jay fiercely shook his head, avoiding tutting his disapproval aloud as he watched the ball pass effortlessly between red shirts to find its way back in their penalty square. Not a defending West Ham player managed to get close to it, but a blinding save from Parker thwarted a two-nil deficit before half time. Sergio gesticulated in furious anger from the sidelines, his face red, and he barked orders to the team, some in English, much of it in Spanish. Jay’s urge to get onto the pitch and prove his worth became unbearable, along with the fire in his gut that Seb had put there last night, wanting to burst free and show the crowds who he was. A fucking football player!
Jay trudged into the half time talk in a sombre mood along with the rest of his team and the continued expletives from the manager rang in his ears. Jay had to stand at the sides to hear it, Sergio still not laying any gaze his way. Grabbing Bartlett before his return to the tunnel, Jay leaned in to his ear. “You need to time your runs better.”
“Fuck do you know, Rutters?”
“I’m watching. You go out too slow. What the fuck are you waiting for? Having a chin wag with that defender who’s attached to your shoulder?”
Bartlett snorted. “Only one of us here wants a man on him.”
Jay recoiled, swallowing, and Bartlett shoved him to get back out to the pitch. Muttering under his breath, Jay passed Sergio at the bench and attempted a smile, but Sergio folded his arms and glanced away.
The second half started with an instant second goal for the home team, Red Bull getting the better of West Ham’s poor defence. It could be blamed on the heat. August in New York was hitting the high thirties and a bunch of mostly English born and bred lads were used to far lower temperatures and humidity. The team appeared sluggish, and the away fans were making their thoughts known via rhythmic chants, many singing for Rutters to be let on the pitch.
After seventy minutes of painful watching, Sergio couldn’t ignore where the game was heading, or the calls coming from the travelling fans that demanded a change, if not a win, for their hefty ticket price. He paced up and down pitch side, scrubbing a hand through his greying hair and bellowing orders to the team. Then, he stopped and met Jay’s gaze. Jay sucked in a breath. Could it be? After a hefty sigh, Sergio flapped a disgruntled hand, beckoning Jay down from the subs bench. Shit, this is real. I’m getting on.
Leaping from his seat, Jay’s heart thumped and he unzipped his jacket. Get into the zone. Block it all out. Reaching pitch side, he swigged from the bottle of water passed to him from Timpson and joined Sergio at the sideline.
“Do not let me down, Rutters.” He clamped a hand on Jay’s shoulder. “Time to prove yourself.”
Nodding, Jay bounced on the spot, twisting his hips and releasing the tension in his muscles. This was his time now. His breakthrough.
Bartlett spat on the ground as his number ten shone from the sign held up by the fourth official. The referee paused the game and Bartlett ran off the pitch, his irked expression only spurring Jay on more.
“What the fuck! You’re replacing me with that faggot!”
Jay recoiled at the brash words, but Sergio’s stoic response kept him grounded.
“I’ll bet he’ll do a better job in fifteen minutes than you did in seventy-five!” Sergio clipped Bartlett’s ear as the centre-forward stormed off toward the tunnel. “You want to prove him wrong?”
“Yeah.” Jay sniffed. “Real fucking bad.”
“Then you have fifteen minutes to do it.”
Ordinarily, Jay would consider that an impossibility. Like he was being set up to fail. But the fire in his gut erupted to fuel his blinding self-belief. He’d scored in less time and with far less determination. For seventy minutes Jay had been focused ahead, attempting to quash the spiralling reactions to Seb being here, to the song Seb had performed, for him, by watching the opposition and studying their flaws. He knew Red Bull’s game play, and now he intended to use it to his advantage.
“I expect miracles, Ruttman. Nothing less from you now.”
Jay rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck from side to side. He could do this. He had to do this. For his team. For the manager who had taken a chance on him. For Seb, who’d risked public humiliation for him. But mostly, he had to do it for himself.
“Yes, Gaffer.”
Sergio leaned into his ear. “Bend your runs. Keep them guessing. And tell Bruno to move to left wing.”
Nodding, Jay sprinted onto the pitch and sought out Bruno to pass on the orders. As the match restarted, the fans roared for the arrival of the new signing finally getting his boots onto the grass. The bellowed chanting of his name from the stands burst through Jay’s reservations and it didn’t take long for his feet to find the ball, either. After a sliding tackle on Red Ball’s central defender, Jay flicked the ball to a waiting Bruno, then leapt up and sprinted toward his mark—the penalty area where he waited for the return. His defender followed him in, but Jay shouldered him off and leapt up to find the ball curling toward him from above. His forehead met the leather and he gave it everything he had, his temple whacking the ball toward the goal. The net shook as the ball slammed in.
Jay threw his arms in the air, sliding onto his knees in the grass and his delighted yell louder than any of the cheering fans. Three, possibly four or five, of his team leapt on his back and screamed into his ear, veins bursting through each neck with the force of their celebratory tribal roar. Two minutes was all it had taken for the rookie to score. But the game wasn’t finished, and neither was Jay. Back on it, Rutters. Show ‘em what you got. Show Seb who you are, like he did for you.
Cottoning on to Jay being the one to watch, Red Bull pressured him at every pass, every run and thwarted a further few chances. Eighty-three minutes in and Jay got onto a long pass from Bruno, beating the off side trap. He sprinted, his legs on overdrive and pushing the ball into the space in front of him. On reaching the penalty line, a defender’s boot curled around him and he went down, landing onto the grass chest-first. He thumped the mud, then leapt up and shoved the bloke behind him. “What the fuck!”
The shrill of the referee’s whistle brought Jay back to earth, as did the pull of his shirt from Bruno.
“Calm your shit.” Bruno slapped his chest and Jay nodded, checking the clock that counted down the minutes to the end of the match.
The referee held up a yellow card to the Red Bull defender, then turned and ushered Jay to him.
“I’m letting that slide. But one more, and you’ll be cautioned too.”
Spitting onto the grass, Jay nodded. He needed to keep his cool, but he’d never been more determined to prove a point. And he had another chance when a penalty was then awarded for the foul play. Drawing in a breath, Jay set the ball on the penalty spot and refused to look at the goalkeeper. He could sense his agitated bouncing, anyway. Psychology already won. The goalkeeper would never have seen Jay take a shot, wouldn’t know his penalty tactics. But Jay had practised this moment every day of his life since he had learned to kick a ball. Zoning out, self-concentration and seeing the victory in his mind’s eye before it became the reality. Drive the ball to the back of the net.
Jay’s tightened chest alleviated, and he took three steps backwards in a straight line. Eyes on the ball. The whistle blew. Jay waited, then stuttered his feet, feinting the move and confusing the goalkeeper as to which way he was planning on taking the shot. With a sharp sprint, Jay curved to his left and blasted the ball hard with his instep. The goalkeeper launched himself the wrong way and the ball rocketed into the top right hand corner. As the goalkeeper leapt up, Jay winked.
Two-all. Five minutes left. And Jay had one more point to prove.
* * * *
Seb watched his mother in awe. She had a distinct presence in any room, even one that she should technically be out of place in, like the VIP lounge of the Red Bull arena, surrounded by football moguls. But somehow she’d found a way to fit, to shine and to belong. Her smile radiated her darkened features, and the deep smooth tone of her laughter turned heads and dragged wide-eyed grins from those within earshot.
Seb stood against a tall round table, clutching a full bottle of beer he hadn’t been able to drink from yet and avoiding the press photography that his mother revelled in. They’d all been invited there by the Red Bull management after having watched the match from the executive box stands. Either the Drops’ performance had gone down well or Sylvia had more pull in the city than Seb’s father did. Oddly, after years of trying to get his band noticed, Seb wasn’t able to use the opportunity of this back room filled with New York media to his full advantage. He had to stay in the shadows. Martin and Noah were the band today. Propping up the bar and guzzling on the free drinks, glad handing any reporter who came their way. Seb had only one thing on his mind.
Sylvia, beside him, had a couple of photographs taken with one of the West Ham coaches and signed his programme. Spinning the tiny straw around in her lowball glass of vodka tonic and ice, she flicked her hair over her shoulder and ran her fingers along the emblem stitched onto the coach’s tracksuit jacket.
“You a football fan, then, love?” the coach asked.
Sylvia laughed. “I never was. But I think I now should be.” She shot a wink to Seb. “And I simply forgot how sexy the English accent could be!” Her brown doe eyes misted and she sighed. “Sebastian, here, had a mishmash of accents until he became all his father’s. He used to say a’right already in this terribly cutesy way.” She glanced off into the distance, melancholy in her eyes.
Seb silently applauded her performance. She really could bring out the hard-done-by-mother act so easily.
“He’s all grown up now. And into such a handsome young man, wouldn’t you say?”
The coach cleared his throat, gruffly. “Of course. Boys do grow up fast these days. Most these lads here today I’ve known since their academy days. Like my own brood.” He adjusted his NY Yankees baseball cap. “Your lad, though, he’s got some talent there himself, ain’t he? That why you brought him? Get him noticed?”
“Indeed.” Sylvia brushed her fingers through her long dark locks. “Why should I hog all the limelight, eh? Besides…” Sylvia leaned in closer to the coach, covering the side of her mouth with her hand to mimic a whisper. “He has a bit of a thing for one of your boys.”
Why she’d bothered to mimic whispering, Seb couldn’t fathom. The whole damn bar could hear what she’d just said. Seb rolled his eyes, and gulped down a third of the beer. The coach chuckled.
“‘Fraid none of our lads be swinging that way. But sure they’ll offer an autograph or two. Maybe even a phota.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will be satisfied with whatever is offered, so I thank you for allowing us to mingle with you all.”
“Pleasure’s all mine.”
Nausea waded through Seb as he caught on to the possibility he was watching a man flirt with his mother. He nearly did a Martin and threw up in his mouth. Luckily the double doors burst open to prevent such an atrocity of wasting the free beer.
“Speaking of the lads.” The coach waved his hand.
Several of the West Ham team, decked out in matching tracksuits, marched into the VIP bar to rounds of applause, handshakes and slaps on the back. Licking his dry lips, Seb scanned each one. Sylvia, eyes wide, nudged Seb’s shoulder. He had to bite his lip to prevent the need to scream at her. Getting the hint, or more likely sidetracked by the couple of players introduced to her by the coach, she pasted on her trademark glitter-ball smile, regaling the players with her charming persona.
Seb’s chest tightened ever more uncomfortably, but it was soon overridden by a flutter as Jay stepped into the VIP lounge last.
“Rutters!” Several of the players and staff all hollered the nickname in ritual chanting.
Jay stopped, smiled and laughed. Bowing his head only mildly masked his blushing cheeks beneath his baseball cap. Jay was the hero of the hour and he worked his way around the room, shaking hands and winded by the various congratulatory thumps on the back. Seb stood rooted to the spot. Now he was here, amongst this testosterone-fuelled straight-man’s game, he feared Jay’s reaction when he finally noticed Seb through the crowd. Jay might have been his last night, but here, among his team, he was Rutters—in the closet, door locked and the keys misplaced. How can I compete with all this?
Seb wiped his clammy hands down his jeans, coming to the conclusion that perhaps Rich had been right and this wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had. Maybe I should just sneak out.
But then Seb’s gaze found Jay’s across the bar, his clear blue sparkle shielded by the peak of his cap. Jay’s lips parted. Listening to some suited man singing his praises to a couple of NY reporters, Jay swigged from a bottle of mineral water passed to him by a roaming waitress. After a moment, Jay muttered his apologies and snaked through the throng toward Seb.
“Hi.” Seb cleared his throat, ridding it of the crackle.
“Hi.” Jay stood stiff, stoic, unreadable. Damn him.
“Well done. You won.” Seb tapped the table, almost bashing into his mother. Thankfully she was still in conversation with a group of others. “That called something special when you score three?”
“A hat trick.”
Seb nodded. The crisscross pattern of the blue and red carpet became a hypnotic sight for his bowed head. He had to shake himself out.
“I’m sorry. I know this is probably way over the line and shit. Me, turning up here.”
“I guess I turned up unannounced at your work.” A wry smile threatened Jay’s lips. “So I can’t be pissed off with you for showing up at mine. But the singing? That’s a step further.”
“Yeah, well, I couldn’t get a ticket for love nor money. The whole fucking city is either a Red Bull or a Hammer. Made me resort to desperate measures.” Seb angled his head toward his mother.
“Thought you didn’t talk to your mum?”
“I didn’t until a few hours ago.”
Jay nodded, his blue stare fixed on Seb. The silence dragged and Seb sucked in a nervous breath. Go for broke.
“Can we talk? Somewhere a bit less…” He glanced around the room at all the testosterone. “Crowded?”
The hesitation wreaked havoc on Seb. Eventually, Jay nodded and gestured for Seb to follow him. Head down and fiddling with his baseball cap, Jay led Seb through the bar, into the curving corridor and through to a VIP box. Sliding the glass doors open, he nudged Seb outside and jogged down the row of concrete-clad steps aligning the tiered seating, then stopped at the barriers separating them from the pitch.
Seb wrapped his fingers around the railing, breathing in. The only sound heard was his beating heart and the occasional burst of the sprinklers shooting over the grass.
“You’re pretty good, you know?” Seb laughed at himself. “Of course you know you’re good. I just mean that, I know fuck all about football and you had me admiring your skill.”
“Just my skill, huh?”
“I admire the rest of you in my own time. Safer for everyone that way.”
Jay’s laughter reverberated around the empty stadium and Seb delighted in the pleasure of that sound, until the silence hit them once more.
“Why did you leave?” Seb twisted, trying to get into Jay’s line of sight under the peak of his cap.
“It’s debatable who left.”
Those words hurt like a sucker punch to Seb’s gut and his chest tightened.
“You left this morning. Without a word. Just another fucking note.” Seb ripped off Jay’s cap, scrunching it into his hand and Jay’s blond locks fell into his widening blue eyes. “And I’ll say this right now, James Ruttman, you ever leave me another one of those fucking notes and I’ll have to shove it so far up your arse it’ll be a sheath to any future pleasure.”
Jay scraped back his hair. “Sorry. I just ain’t good with goodbye.”
“Why not?”
Jay sighed. “Is that what you want to talk about? Why I can’t say goodbye to you?”
“No…Actually, yes. No. No, wait, yes, I do.”
Jay arched an eyebrow. “Crystal that. You been drinking the free booze?”
“Hospitality has been rather…hospitable.”
Jay snorted.
“Look, all right, let me just…” Seb shifted. “I wanted to tell you something. I wanted to tell you this morning, but I woke up and you weren’t there and that kind of knocked me for six. I mean, I thought we had a good night. One of the best, actually. And I do understand why you needed to leave. Obviously.” Seb flapped a hand toward the pitch. “What I do not understand, is why you couldn’t wake me to let me know you had to go. And why your fucking phone doesn’t connect either.”
“Initiation bollocks.” Jay shrugged. “First international. The lads confiscate your phone so you can’t phone home. Ironic really.”
“I am not feeling the irony right about now.”
Jay scrubbed his fingers across his brow. “If this is all about me not waking you up, then I’m sorry. I promise, if there ever is a next time, then I will definitely wake you up before I go.” Jay paused. “Go.”
Seb pointed a warning finger. “Are you trying to piss me off with the amount of shitty song titles you can get into this conversation?”
Jay tried to hold in his laughter, his cheekbones protruding and eyes sparkling. Seb grabbed hold of one of the loose strings hanging down from Jay’s hooded sweatshirt and twirled it around his finger, meeting Jay’s gaze.
“I wanted to tell you, Champ, but you didn’t let me.”
“Tell me what?”
Seb inhaled a shaky breath, trepidation surging through his veins. Could he really admit it? Say it all? I have to.
“I’m in love with you, Jay. I think I have been since the day you crashed that arse into me.” Seb slapped the back of his hand to Jay’s chest. “I walked away from it. From you, before you had a chance to leave me. Because, in my experience, everyone buggers off in the end.”
Seb stepped back to take in the sight before him, his vulnerability seeping through his well-guarded exterior. He’d never really admitted any of that before, not even to himself. Claiming it was his career, his birthright, his ties to his family name that had kept him from having anything meaningful. When, really, it had always been the fear that yet another person he loved would walk away from him. “I should have told you that before. So this morning, I wanted to say that if you feel this too, and I am really hoping to fucking God that you do, then I’m yours. I’ll come home. With you.”
Jay didn’t blink. He didn’t breathe. And Seb feared he’d gone way too far. Not that he could take it all back now. The lyrics of the song he’d performed earlier in that stadium rung out in his mind. This was brutal, a cruel and bitter love destined to rip him apart.
Then, Jay curled his fist into the front of Seb’s vest, yanked him forward and kissed him. Seb melted into that kiss, deepening it by swiping his tongue along Jay’s warm lips. Seb forgot where he was. All he focused on was the man in front of him.
“Jay?”
Jay tore his lips away from Seb. One of his teammates stood at the top of the steps.
“Skipper.” Jay bowed his head, but didn’t let go of Seb’s top.
“Bus leaves in five, mate.”
Jay nodded. “Gimme a sec, yeah?”
“Sure thing, Ruts.” The man folded his arms. “You did say this wasn’t an issue though?”
“This ain’t an issue.”
“Tell me on the bus.” With that, the man stalked back inside the stadium.
Jay ripped his hand from Seb’s shirt and stepped away.
“Shit. I’m sorry, Jay. Is this going to cause trouble for you?”
“No. It shouldn’t. Bruno knows about me. And a little about you. He’s more concerned it’ll get out in the media before he can get the first interview in about being the most supportive and modern-day football captain. It’s all about headlines.”
Seb bit his bottom lip, undecided what that all meant. He’d been so far up his own arse he hadn’t really thought about the consequences for Jay. And what were they? That Jay had to hide who he was? Never be out? Seb had no idea what to make of that. But whatever it meant, he would be there. For Jay.
Jay stroked a thumb across Seb’s cheek. “It’s all right. I just gotta chip.” He tapped his pockets. “You got a pen?”
“No. I got a phone.”
“That doesn’t help. I need your address. I’ll get bussed back to the hotel, then grab a cab to yours. But I don’t know where you live. I jumped in a passing taxi this morning not knowing where the fuck I was.”
“Oh, I see. Get the cabbie to drop you at the Baynton. They’ll know the building. Ask the doorman for floor ten.”
Jay planted a chaste kiss to Seb’s lips. He scaled a couple of steps, but stopped, spun and leaped back to ground level. Grabbing Seb’s top, he tugged him forward, this time placing his lips to Seb’s ear.
“I love you, too. So bloody much.”