Chapter Twenty
“Don’t you ever just think ‘fuck it’ and pig out on grease, sugar, carbs and shit? ’Cause I can guarantee you, it tastes goooood.” Seb bumped shoulders with Jay, walking up the High Street to the local convenience shop.
Seb, Jay noticed, was practically bouncing, and Jay matched his jubilation. The past few days they’d pretty much spent every waking and sleeping moment together. Except for when Jay had training and Seb closed himself off to work on what he called his ‘web marketing.’ Apparently, building up an online presence was half the slog to getting his band noticed. But other than that, it had been utter bliss. Now approaching Jay’s first weekend off from matches, he planned to spend it snuggled up at home. Except they’d needed the essentials.
Jay pushed open the shop door, allowing Seb to walk through first. “Maybe, if you’re a really good boy, we can get some more of that Haagen-Dazs you an’ Ann scoffed the other day.”
“Are you serious?” Seb widened his eyes, the lights catching his twinkle.
“If just the thought of ice cream gives you that look.” Jay leant in to whisper in Seb’s ear. “Then I wanna find out what it’ll do to you if I let you eat it off me.”
Seb’s jaw dropped, and he let out a deep and wanton moan that sent a shiver down Jay’s spine. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
Smiling, Jay tapped Seb farther up the aisle and he moseyed on behind as he scanned over the magazines. The morning papers were bunched in their packs, facing down with the sports pages on display. Jay never read the reviews of any of his games—it wasn’t worth it. But something caught his eye, making him crane his neck to read the print upside down. The main article was a review of the two-one win against Tottenham and the picture of a ranting Spurs manager with the headline implying he was soon to be axed.
But it wasn’t the main article that had gripped him, it was the image in the corner. Barely a thumbnail, but recognisable. Him, in his West Ham kit, on the pitch, probably a shot from Saturday’s game. The caption underneath stated West Ham’s New Golden Boy in Gay Hook-Up Shocker! Jay’s heart rate elevated and the blood drained from his face. Holding his breath, he tore the paper free from its plastic ties.
“You want brown or white bread?” Seb held up a loaf, but Jay didn’t respond and scrabbled through the tabloid to get to the right page.
“You okay?” Seb curled a hand around his arm.
Jay shut his eyes. Then, with nothing further to add, he stormed out of the shop. He needed air. He needed to breathe again. Curling his hands around the railing of the metal barrier blocking the path from the road, Jay hacked up his liquid breakfast of tea into the gutter.
Seb drifted a hand up his back. “It’s okay. It’s nothing.”
“Nothin’?” Jay stood, wiping his mouth. “That’s us, Seb.” He pointed down at the newspaper Seb had scrunched in his hand. “Us. At the fucking club. Kissing. And what’s worse is they’re callin’ you a hook-up!”
“So…”
Jay tried to get a hold of his elevated breathing, but he found himself gasping for air. How could Seb not understand the severity of this situation?
“It doesn’t matter what they call it. No one reads this shit, anyway.” Seb chucked the paper into the nearest bin. “It’s tomorrow’s chip wrap, right?”
Jay glared, his nostrils flaring. “I need outta here.” He stormed off, rummaging in his pocket for his keys.
“Jay, wait!” Seb grabbed his arm and twisted Jay to face him.
When Seb didn’t say anything, Jay marched into the gated car park of his apartment building. Jumping into his car, he rammed on the baseball cap lying on the passenger seat and revved the engine. Seb rapped his knuckles on the glass. Jay didn’t look at him, but unlocked the passenger door and Seb got in.
“Champ?”
Jay screeched out of the opening gates and accelerated along the High Street. He didn’t stop, or talk, or take his eyes off the road until they joined the A13 motorway, heading out of the city toward Essex. Maybe it was the ingrained family compass that had Jay travelling toward his big brother.
“I get why you’re doing this.” Seb stared out of the passenger window, his fingers tapping his knees. “I mean, we rushed things. My fault entirely. I didn’t think things through enough. We didn’t risk assess each scenario. I got caught up in the moment. So, maybe we should just—”
“Just what?” Jay gripped the steering wheel.
“I know how important football is to you. I don’t want to be the one who ruins that. There’re places I can go.”
Jay heaved a deep breath. Checking the coast was clear, he pulled the car onto the hard shoulder and yanked up the handbrake.
“I shoulda known it was comin’.” He bowed his head, hiding his eyes beneath the peak of his cap. “Bruno warned me. Management warned me. They said if I ain’t careful, it’ll come out anyway. But if we were clever, then we can control it. They wanted me to be the face of their campaign. Kick It Out, y’know? But I put it off. I hid.” He picked at his thumb nail. “I’m too used to hiding. Looks like it’s about time I face it. For you.”
“No, Champ.” Seb slipped a hand on Jay’s knee. “You only need do it for you.”
Vibrations from Jay’s pocket interrupted any reply Jay might have had, and he fished it out to check the display. “Management. They’ll be calling me in for damage control.” He threw the phone onto the back seat and rammed the indicator down to pull the car back onto the dual carriageway. “I’ll drop you back home, then I’ll have to go to the club. Sort this shit out.”
Seb nodded, chewing his bottom lip.
“What I don’t get, is how anyone would know I was there. We’d be there. To tip off the press.”
* * * *
Seb thudded up the stairs back into the apartment after Jay had dropped him off, his heavy steps mimicking his thumping heart. Paradise truly doesn’t last forever. How could Seb have assumed otherwise? He should have stuck to his motto. Everyone buggers off in the end.
Letting himself into the apartment, he met with the eerily cold and vacant surroundings. So different to how it had been the past week filled with warmth, laughter, music and, most of all, love. Seb hadn’t even unpacked, and perhaps now that had been some convenient foresight. He fully expected Jay to come home and send him on his marching orders. Whether Jay wanted to or not, it might be an ultimatum given to him from his manager. Football, or Seb. Funny how things go full circle. It was now Jay’s turn to make the ultimate sacrifice for his career.
And Seb knew just who to blame for it all.
He unhooked the house phone nailed to the wall by the front door and tapped in the international mobile number he knew by heart.
“Stephen Coles.” That deep voice on answer made Seb’s blood boil.
“Was it you?”
“Sparky.” There was only a hint of surprise in Stephen’s response.
“Answer the fucking question, you piece of fucking shit.”
Stephen grunted, evident he was hefting himself up out of bed. Seb hadn’t bothered to check the time difference. It was probably four in the morning in New York. Not that Seb would have given one ounce of shit about that anyway.
“Was what me?”
“You tipped them off, right? Told them to follow us?”
“Sebastian, I fail to see how that would be of any interest to me.”
Seb slammed his palm to the wall. “Because you can’t bear not winning. The thought of me happy, with someone else, it kills you. Because you can’t get your fix, can you? There’s no one else for you to manipulate. There’s no one for you to fuck other than your wife!”
“You can believe what you want, Sebastian. The truth of it is, you gave everything up. Everything. Your father, your wealth, your birthright, me. For what?”
“For love.”
“How drastically romantic of you. And how is that working out?”
“You’re a worthless piece of shit.” Seb went to hang up.
“Sebastian?”
Seb didn’t know why he gave the man a second chance, but he slammed the phone back to his ear. “What?”
“Your father told me to pass on a message should you ever choose to get in touch.”
“Which is?”
“You have no shares in the business.”
“I know. I signed them over.”
“You have no rights to the house.”
“I know.”
“You have relinquished your contract and the funds attached to it. Your US bank account has been seized, and your signatory to the business account and your father’s credit card have been deleted.”
Seb sighed. “I know all this.”
“But you have another bank account.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t believe it’s of any significant worth. It was all your mother’s doing before she left. A UK savings account that your father maintained after her…absence.”
“Where is it?”
“I will have Natalie email the details to you. Your personal account is still the same, I assume?”
“The Drops one.”
“You’ll never give up on that dream, will you?”
“No.”
“Farewell, Sparky. I hope your life is everything you ever wanted.”
“Is yours?”
The click and whir indicated Stephen chose to hang up rather than answer.
With a heavy sigh, Seb hooked the phone back on the wall. Jay’s laptop sat open on the breakfast bar and Seb decided to set to work. At least getting his mind off Jay and onto his own career might help alleviate the gut-wrenching knot in his stomach. On launching up and going straight into the My Space account he’d been setting up, he nearly fell off the stool.
The tracks he’d uploaded had gone berserk. Followers were flooding to the band’s page in their droves. Shared. Reshared. Commented on. Especially the linked YouTube video of the Drops recent performance at the New York Red Bull arena. Seb scanned the comments attached, noticing that some were making links to the lead singer, Sebastian Saunders, and the recent leaked news story of West Ham United’s striker, Jay Ruttman, being outed as gay in the UK media.
Seb sucked in a harried breath. He should be ecstatic right then. The users of the new social media platform loved the band, loved his music. Loved him. The comments declaring that all top record labels should be keeping their beady eyes on this new UK indie rock outfit was everything Seb could have hoped for. It had practically blown up overnight. Of course, it would seem that way. No one knew of the five years’ hard slog Seb, Martin and Noah had been doing to get in front of anyone who would listen to their alternative take on punk rock. But the overwhelming dread that Seb had brought all this on Jay, threatening his football career, threatening everything he’d worked so hard for, threatening his livelihood, made Seb sick to his stomach.
All Seb had ever wanted was to be loved. Perhaps that had been his ultimate mission in starting the band in the first place—to make up for the lack of any affection, parental or otherwise, he sought the love from an audience of music fans. But then he’d met Jay. And Jay’s love now surpassed all others.
Slamming the laptop shut, Seb ran through everything in his mind. All this was his fault. All of it. Jay finally had everything he and his entire family had wished for—professional footballer, monetary wealth that none of them had ever achieved, owning his own property. He’d achieved it by having his head down, and the closet door shut. It had been Seb who had opened it for him. Way back in that first moment in the Underground bar at university, he’d persuaded Jay to step out. And right up to his declaration of love for him after Jay’s first game on an international stage. Seb had forced this on him. Jay wasn’t the average closeted bloke. He wasn’t hiding through shame, like Stephen. He wasn’t forcing himself to be straight. He was just hiding, not declaring. For survival in a sporting world that makes it damn near impossible for players to be anything other than butch, macho, and, most importantly, straight. And why? Seb had no idea, but he guessed the millions of fans were more important to the clubs than Jay’s happiness. Money. Everything is about money. Like his father had always said, everything falls back to money, who has the most and who has the least. If the fans wouldn’t be behind Jay coming out, then who has the bigger pull? Ticket sales for a premiership season, or Jay’s goal scoring?
Seb paced the apartment, growling. He had no idea what to do. Jay’s whole life would have been better without him. Easier, perhaps. And now with the band set to achieve at least its first major milestone, Seb would only bring more attention on Jay. If he bolted now, Jay could declare it was nothing. A one-night thing. He was drunk. Whatever he said, the PR at West Ham could do a spin on it. Perhaps even declare that Seb had forced him. Seb swallowed down the sick bubbling in his gut, but it launched back up his throat and he ran to the bathroom to throw up.
Slapping down the toilet seat, Seb crouched on the floor to get a handle on himself. His heart might break, but Jay’s dream would be shattered and Seb would never forgive himself for doing that to him. Hadn’t that been why his mother had left his father? Because he wouldn’t allow her the dreams she incessantly craved. So making the decision for them both, Seb hefted up from the floor and trudged into the bedroom. Their bedroom. For all of one week, Seb had been happy. Had felt love and affection like never before. But now, he had to get that all from the fans of his music and Jay would get it from the football crowds. Because they couldn’t have both.
He packed, quietly and sombrely. There wasn’t much to gather, anyway. But once his life’s worth had been shoved into his suitcase, he made his way downstairs to find the rest. All that was out was his acoustic guitar. Not worth a penny, really. Only sentimental value. Dumping his bags by the door, he fished out his phone and pressed Call.
“Wei.”
“Have you seen it?”
“I know, it’s fucking ridiculous, man. Blown up. We are killing this social media crap.”
“No, no, I meant the other thing.”
“What?”
Seb sighed. “I think I might need to come stay in your cesspit.” He almost broke down in tears, so he rambled to curtail it. “I mean, it’s okay. The band together in one space can only make us better, right? Lots of bands start out that way. Fuck, even Green Day lived in a hovel for a while, barely affording food, right?”
“Seb?”
“And maybe you can get a loan from your dad? We’d pay him right back on first gig, but I do need a guitar.”
“Sure thing, but Seb—”
“And I’ve been told there’s some money of mine in an account somewhere, maybe that’s enough for a guitar? A crappy one, but at least it’ll do. I’ll stay on your sofa, I totally won’t cramp your bachelor-pad style, and I’ll learn to cook, because I’m not sure I can live on takeaways from your father’s restaurant for long.”
“Sebastian!”
“What?”
“What the fuck is going on?”
“Jay was outed. It could mean the end of his career. So I’m leaving him.”
Pause. Suddenly, sharp claps pierced down the phone.
“Oh, bravo, Sebastian, bravo. I absolutely applaud you. Honestly, you are, like, my hero, right now.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Are you being stupid?”
“What? I’m leaving for him. So he doesn’t have to come out. He can play bloody football.”
“Christ, Seb. I was almost leaning toward pride for you this past week. Ditching your father’s money, finally getting Stephen out of your life, starting up on your own. Choosing love.”
“This is choosing love! I love him. Therefore, I’m setting him free to be who he wants to be.”
“And what if who he wants to be is with you? Are you not giving him a chance to make that choice? Are you, once again, going to make the dumbest fucking decision of your life?”
The blood drained from Seb’s face, and his lips trembled. Then the anger set in. “What was the other dumbest decision?”
“You’ve made many, Seb. Many. The first was signing that stupid fucking contract with your dad in the first place. We told you then not to.”
“I had to.”
“No, you thought you had to. We said we’d support you, whatever. We said we’d make it on our own. Then Stephen crooned in your fucking ear and your dick ruled that one.”
“Another one?”
“When you signed us up for that gig in Winchester. Shit. That was bad.”
Seb rubbed his pounding temple. “Okay, so they weren’t our target audience, but it was still exposure.”
“That got us nowhere except sleeping in a van overnight in a fucking field having been booed off the stage. They wanted cheesy pop and you gave them Fifty Fucking Reasons Why they shouldn’t like us!”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Seb let out a low exasperated huff. “Are we digressing, Martin?”
“Your dumbest was leaving in the first place.”
“I’ll agree to that one.”
“And now you’re back, what are you doing? Leaving again! Shit, Seb, do I have to be your goddamn fucking conscience for everything? I’m getting a little pissed off with always being the sensible, level-headed one here. I mean, I get that lead guitarists, front men and drummers are usually a band’s flaky rebels, but do we honestly have to reform to the norm? We are meant to be punk, for fuck’s sake. You know what punk means? Going against the status quo, and no, not the double denim. ’Cause I saw a picture of you rocking that look a few months back and, fuck me, Seb, you shouldn’t have. You should be against drainpipe jeans and a denim jacket when you’re under the age of thirty and still have all your hair.”
“Thanks—”
“I mean being different. Sticking two fingers up at the bourgeois hypocrisy and promoting freedom to be who you want to be! I cannot believe I am having to remind you of this!”
“Mart—”
“So bollocks to it, Sebastian. No, bollocks to you. Stand up for what you believe in. Stand up for what you want. That’s what your music says. That’s what you spout from your lyrics. For once, in your life, practise what you fucking well preach!”
“Calm the fu—”
“No, you cannot stay here. Fuck off.”
The heavy whirr from the speaker caught Sebastian off guard and he pulled the phone to check the screen. He hung up? The bastard! A couple of clicks and Seb put the phone back to his ear, tapping his fingernails on the wall in renewed frustration.
“Yo.”
“Tell Martin I hate him.”
“Yeah, he kinda hates you too.” Noah chuckled. “He’s in a right flap. You got fags?”
“I gave up.”
“Sure you did. Look, he’ll calm down. And I’m not really one that people seek advice from, but you know what? I’m gonna give it anyway. I’m kinda done with these depressive songs about losing love and all that bollocks. Please, for the love of God, don’t put yourself in a position to write more like that. Do a massive Fuck You to the footballing establishment or something. Yeah?”
“Can I stay with you guys?”
“Martin says no.”
“But he doesn’t really mean that.”
“He’s shaking his head in confirmation that, yes, he really does mean that.”
“I’m going to break his fucking neck.”
“You’d need a stepladder.”
Seb sighed. “Fine. I’ll stay here. But if he comes back and I have to hear him dump me, then Martin is picking me up. Okay?”
“Whatever, dude. Go write a song.”
Seb hung up and chucked his phone on the coffee table. That firm talking-to hadn’t changed his mind, apart from that he would at least wait until Jay came home. Not that he wanted to have to face Jay to be dumped. That would hurt more than just leaving. Even though the delivery had been harsh, Martin had a point. Seb was all about sticking his finger up at the establishment—the one he was brought up in. And what had he done? He’d left Jay for it. After everything they’d been through, Seb owed it to Jay to at least hear his decision out. So he grabbed his acoustic guitar, slid open the French doors to the wraparound balcony and settled down in one of the wooden patio chairs. One foot up on the railing, guitar in his lap, his fingers raged against the strings as a new melody burst from him, lyrics following soon after from his shaky voice.
The sun set behind the river, leaving dusk in its departure. Seb hadn’t realised he’d been outside for so long. It was only the key scratching in the lock and the door clanging open from inside the apartment that roused Seb from his zoned state of musical indulgence. Holding the strings over the sound hole to stop the echoed ting, Seb held his breath. He daren’t move. His shoulders stiffened and his heart thumped.
“I ain’t interested.” Jay’s voice wafted through the vacant surroundings and keys tinged onto the coffee table a short time after. “I said my piece. That’s it. I ain’t doin’ it.”
Seb sat up, slipping his guitar down beside him. Twisting in his seat, he laid eyes on Jay through the glass. He stood by the door, a frown on his pale and dishevelled face, speaking into his phone. His gaze roamed the bags by the door.
“Why would I? Seriously? It just, ain’t for me. Not anymore. Not if I have to live by certain rules.”
Shit. Seb stood. Was that Jay chucking it all in? For him? Why would he do that? Football was everything to him. Seb could not allow him to throw it all away. He should have left. Jay hung up the phone, staring vacantly across the apartment.
“Jay—”
“You off somewhere?” Jay nodded to the bags by the door.
Seb swallowed. “This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you to come out. I never wanted that. I made you go to that fucking place! I made you dance with me. I should have respected your wishes. I’ve ruined everything. I had no idea how much this would blow up. I mean, shit, it’s all over the band’s page! Thousands of fucking followers and they all know it was me singing to you. What an absolutely dumb fucking move. Martin was right. I’m a wanker. And you deserve better. You deserve to be in that team. You should be playing football. If I’m in the way of that, then I walk away from this. Not you. So, I packed. I can go stay at Martin and Noah’s.”
Seb hung his head, scraping his All-Stars on the wooden flooring. “I hope. If not, well, there’re other places I can go…And I have no problem with you saying I was some stalker that you couldn’t get rid of. Maybe you were really polite that night, indulging me in order to get me to back the fuck off. I don’t know, whatever. The PR guys can spin a yarn to help, right? And, well, I’ll just stay out of your way. Because…” Seb stepped forward, softening his voice. “Baby, you worked too hard to throw it away for a man who didn’t do the same for you all those months ago.”
Jay inhaled a deep breath, his chest rising. He scraped off his baseball cap and spun it across the room to land on the sofa.
“Shut up, you doughnut.”
“Wha—”
Jay stepped forward. Grabbing Seb’s neck, he yanked him forward for a mouth-watering kiss. Seb melted, his shoulders relaxing from their stiffness and he dug fingertips into Jay’s back.
“You talk too much,” Jay whispered, rubbing the tip of his nose along Seb’s.
“Yes. I do. You’re right. Bu—”
Jay cut him off with another kiss. “None of this is your fault.”
“You can’t walk away from football. Your career. Believe me, I know what happens to you when you do, and it isn’t pretty.”
“I ain’t.”
“But on the phone, you said—”
“That was Bruno. He’s on at me about some endorsement deal. Y’know, loada money if I wear a certain brand? I said no. And you wanna know why?”
“Why?”
“’Cause they told me I had to keep my sexuality, you, under wraps. Apparently, brands don’t want no gay boy endorsing their shit as it’s not mainstream. So I told them I ain’t interested.”
“But what about the club? What did they say?”
Jay scrubbed a hand over his face and stepped back. “They asked me what I wanted.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I wanted them to support me. I said I wanted to play football. For them. But I’ll only do it if they support me coming out. I’ll do the press conferences, I’ll be the face of the Kick It Out campaign. I want to talk to the youth team, tell ’em my story. Let them know that there is always someone out there to listen, to anything. And to accept.” Jay’s expression changed to one of remorse and he stepped closer to stroke a thumb along Seb’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I freaked out. I wasn’t prepared. How I reacted was wrong, ingrained bollocks from fear. But I don’t have it anymore. I have you.”
Seb’s heart stopped beating, his hands trembling. That meant more to Seb than anything ever could. Jay had done all this for him. No one had ever put so much on the line for him before. And Seb felt that all the way to his thawing core.
“Jay, baby, that’s…wait, what did they say?”
“They said fair enough. I’ll be on the box later. Talking about it. Sayin’ that it weren’t no hook-up. It was you. My boyfriend. And if anyone’s got a problem with that, then I’ll be on the pitch on Saturday to show ’em that I don’t.”
The grin erupting was quite possibly the biggest one Seb had ever had. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms fiercely around Jay and squeezed him close. Rubbing a hand up Seb’s back, Jay kissed his neck. “Thank you.”
“Thank me? For what?”
“For giving me the courage to be who I want to be.”
Seb smiled. “Well, that is the punk motto. I should know.” He winked.
Jay nudged his head back at the bags at the door. “They ain’t stayin’ there, right?”
“No, nope. I’ll unpack in a bit. Properly, this time.”
“Good, ’cause I got a delivery in a minute.”
Seb narrowed his eyes, just as the buzzer rang out around the apartment. Bounding over to the speaker, Jay clicked on the answer. “Yep, bring it up, mate.”
“You did an online shop whilst away? We could have ordered a takeaway.”
Jay chuckled, then opened the front door. After signing on the delivery man’s clipboard, Jay spun and held out a huge box to Seb. “For you.”
“Champ…” Seb’s mouth dropped open, noticing the labelling on the cardboard. “Is that?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know exactly what you wanted. I probably should’ve asked, but I wanted it to be a surprise. It looked like Wendy. And the bloke said it was the best he had available.”
Seb crouched to rip apart the box, revealing a leather guitar case. His heartbeat tripled and he wiped away the tears forming as he unclipped the fasteners. She was beautiful. Elegant wine-red paintwork covered the mahogany; perfect rosewood fret board, custom strings. A work of pure art. Just like his boyfriend.
“Baby…you absolute…arsehole! I told you I would get one myself.” He tugged the guitar from the foam inners, checked her over, then glanced up to Jay. “Not that I’m not grateful. It’s just… I don’t want anyone thinking that I only came back for your money. I’d’ve come back if you had nothing and was living in a cardboard box next to Tower Bridge.”
“I know. And aren’t we done bothering about what other people think?” Jay smiled. “And from what I’ve heard, you needed one quick smart. So, that’ll get you by until you can afford your own custom design.”
Seb leapt up, lunging at Jay once more and kissed him for everything he was worth. Jay was worth, not him. He wasn’t worth anything. Yet. Shit, this is really happening!
“So, you ready to show the world who you are now?” Jay swept back Seb’s hair.
“Baby, the world better watch out. ’Cause we are both gonna rock it off its axis. Just you wait.”
Jay smiled, then kissed him. “There’s one more gift over there.”
“Yeah?” Seb kissed along Jay’s neck, not wanting to let him go.
“Industrial-sized Haagen-Dazs.”
Seb pulled away to witness Jay’s sassy grin. “I’ll assume we don’t need spoons.”
“You’ll assume correct.”
Seb pushed Jay toward the stairs. Stumbling backwards, Jay grabbed Seb’s arse and kissed him the whole way. With one foot up on the step, Jay paused. “I love you.”
Seb smiled. “I am so in love with you.”