Page 17 of Off the Pitch

“Oh,” said Jordan quietly. “I didn’t know that was a thing.”

“It is,” said Hugo with a gentle smile. “I like everybody. I believe the term is pansexual.”

I turned to stare at him, eyes wide and jaw on the floor. The way he’d just so casually said it, like it was no big deal. I couldn’t believe it. “But you’ve got a wife,” was all I could say.

“Ex-wife,” Hugo muttered. I winced, having forgotten the very messy divorce he’d recently gone through. “And anyway, that doesn’t make a difference. Who you date doesn’t change who you are.”

“But… but you play football.”

Hugo smiled at me. “True, but being pan doesn’t change that either. Times are changing, and football needs to change too.”

I sat back in my seat, leaving the other three to chatter on as my brain tried to process the conversation I’d just been a part of. Would it be possible for me to be out and play football? I’d never considered that before. There weren’t any Premier League players who were openly gay. I’d heard of a few in the lower leagues and maybe a couple in the US. Still, even with Hugo’s assurance that times were changing, I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to be the first openly gay player.

There was too much at stake for me to risk it.

The match was tougher than I’d anticipated. The combination of it being an away match and our opposition’s previous loss when they’d played us in London made them fierce adversaries. It wasn’t a pretty game. At least two of their players tried to rile up Jordan, trying to provoke him into doing something stupid. Jordan had a famously hot temper and didn’t always think about the consequences of his actions. Still, he’d worked hard on trying to control his anger after one too many lectures from Trossero about it.

I did my best to play cleanly. I never liked getting in trouble with the referees. Even though I knew there was no actual punishment, I hated the idea that I’d disappointed people or let them down with my behavior. I just wanted to score goals and help us win the game.

The first half went smoothly, and I got an assist for setting up Hugo—it was an easy shot and he pocketed it with his customary casualness.

During the second half, things got rougher. We scored again, and then they did, and the tension mounted. One of our midfielders, Micah, passed me the ball, and I took off down the pitch. I knew I was fast, and I knew I had control. The ball was mine, and there was nobody between me and the goal. Behind me, I could hear someone trying to catch up, but I wasn’t thinking about them. I was thinking about their goalkeeper and my feet and how I wanted to set up the shot. I knew I could score this. One more goal and the game was ours.

I didn’t expect to end up flat on the floor.

I wasn’t even sure how it happened; all I could see was the lights of the stadium and hints of dark sky beyond. I ran a mental checklist of my body, but nothing seemed to be hurting, except for a slightly sore shoulder where I’d landed awkwardly.

“Christian, you okay?” Hugo’s face appeared above mine, concern wrinkling his eyebrows.

“Think so,” I said, pulling myself into a sitting position and looking around. The referee was having stern words with some of the players from the other team, who were all gesticulating wildly. Then the referee pulled out a yellow card for one of them and indicated a penalty. As I looked around, I realised I’d been bought down inside the box, and now I was going to have the chance to shoot directly at goal—just me and their goalkeeper.

Hugo was holding out the ball, almost expectantly. “Are you taking it?”

“Please.”

It took a minute or two to get everyone into position. I stood on the spot marked by the referee. Team behind me, goal in front, ball at my feet.

I wasn’t nervous. I never was when it came to taking penalties. I know they’re supposed to be tough, and some strikers hardly ever take them, but I very rarely missed. I wasn’t being arrogant. It was a fact.

The goalkeeper waved his hands, shifting in place, trying to throw me off or anticipate my movements.

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment.

Three, two, one…

As my foot connected you could hear the silence. A second later you could hear the cheers erupting from the visiting fans as the ball buried itself in the back of the net.

Three goals to one. The game was ours, barring any stupidity.

Lucas pulled me off a few minutes later, substituting me for fresher legs.

“Great job,” he said patting me on the shoulder as I jogged off the pitch. I grabbed a hoodie from his assistant Alex and took a seat on the bench. The rest of the game passed quickly, but for once I wasn’t really focusing on my teammates.

Instead I was thinking about David.

I wondered whether he’d been watching the match or following a live report while he worked, although maybe that wouldn’t be very conducive to getting work done.

I didn’t need to wonder, though. When I got back to the changing room and pulled my phone out of my bag, there were a stream of messages that he’d obviously sent during the match. I bit back a smile as I read them, my heart racing as I found the two he’d sent after I’d scored.

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