Page 44 of Off the Pitch

For the first time, I was starting to ask myself whether it was possible to have everything I wanted openly and without worry? Could I be Christian King, footballing legend and gay man?

And, whispered a small voice in my head, would it be so terrible if I wasn’t the legend my father had dreamt I’d be? Wouldn’t it be better to just be happy?

By the time the team bus reached the stadium, I’d managed to force all thoughts of David and my future happiness into a box. I had a job to do before I could start having an internal crisis about what I wanted from life.

I let my mind go quiet as Trossero gave us a final pep talk, focusing on his words and his plan, letting his encouragement and belief lift me.

I could do this.

We could do this.

Except it turned out it was going to be a lot harder than we’d anticipated. That was the thing about football. All the statistics in the world could be in your favour, and it could pan out completely differently. That’s what made it so heartbreakingly beautiful.

West Ham came to play, and they came to play rough. Fifteen minutes in, a bad pass and some sloppy defending suddenly meant we were down one-nil. I could hear the crowd groaning as the ball hit the back of the net, the small contingent of opposition fans going crazy.

I took a deep breath. We could do this. We’d come back from worse in the past. It was only one goal. But five minutes later, one goal became two.

Frustration was bleeding out of everyone around me, but frustration alone wasn’t good enough. We needed action. Trossero was prowling up and down the touchline like an angry lion, gesturing wildly and shouting orders. Our defence dropped back, desperately plugging the gaps as the opposition midfield took them apart.

Hugo and I stalked across the pitch, desperately trying to get our feet on the ball, but every time we got near it, someone shut us down. I couldn’t move without being marked, and it made each movement harder because there was no room to break away from them.

Then just before half-time came a chance. A quick pass from Micah saw the ball at my feet. I took off down the pitch, outstripping the players around me, glad of those extra training sessions. But as I reached their end of the pitch, their defenders closed in around me like a pack of wolves, and what should have been a sure-fire shot glanced wide.

My knees hit the pitch. It was the closest we’d gotten all match, our first opportunity to pull something back and get back in the game. I should have scored.

The mood at half-time was one of grim despair. None of us were going to call it a day—that would have been stupid—but we’d made ourselves a mountain to climb. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it wouldn’t be impossible.

Nobody wanted to mention the fact that losing this match would mean our first home defeat of the season. Not that they needed to. That information hung heavy in the air around us.

But I wasn’t going to give up. We could do this. I hoped.

The whistle blew for the second half, and we were off, and for once we were in possession. Hugo bounced towards the goal, practically skipping in between defenders. I traced his movement, sticking close to the outside of the pitch, waiting and willing to offer my support. As their defenders closed in on him, he booted it towards me. But it was too fast and too wild for me to get my feet on quickly, especially because I was suddenly wearing a target, and I found myself at the end of the pitch with no room to maneuver.

I stopped, took a breath, and scanned for options. There weren’t many. Time for a little skill instead. With a quick one-two I nudged the ball forward, spinning it between my feet and around the defender in front of me, leaving him standing speechless behind me. I wanted to laugh, but that would be for later. Joy and adrenaline flooded my veins. This was what I was born to do.

There were options now. Hugo to my left was the best of them, and as my foot curled around the ball I felt someone tugging at my shirt, pulling me off target and sending the ball careening off.

“What the hell?” I gasped, spinning to confront my opponent who’d blatantly fouled me.

“Oops,” he smirked. “Better luck next time, pretty boy.”

I knew better than to engage, but something about his sneering face made my blood boil. “You fouled me.”

“You can’t prove that,” he leered. “Jog on, faggot.”

I reeled. My mind spinning as his words echoed in my head, my brain screamingHow did he know?My heart was pounding; my body flooded with fear and hurt and revulsion. My stomach turned, bile rising in my throat. I wanted to run, as far and as fast as I could so I could hide away and pretend this wasn’t real. But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t let him know he’d gotten to me because that would make everything a thousand times worse.

I knew it was stupid; it was just a word, a vile, hateful slur. It was just an attempt to get in my head, but the way he’d thrown it out so casually made me realise that no matter what I wanted, I’d never be accepted here. There were people who’d use my sexuality as a weapon against me, as casually as some others threw out racist language and behaviour. That was the reality of the game I loved. And I wasn’t sure if I was strong enough to stand against them on my own.

A thunderous voice from beside me snapped me from my head. “You what, mate? What the fuck did you just say?” Jordan’s voice echoed across the pitch, anger boiling through every syllable.

“Jordan,” I said, trying to put my hand out and calm the situation before it got worse. But it was too late for that. The teams were gathering, rage threatening to spill over, and I could see the referee hurrying towards us.

“Nah, mate,” Jordan said. “He doesn’t get to say those things to anyone.”

“Oh really, you think you’re going to stop me?” The guy from the opposing team leaned in closer to Jordan, whispering something I couldn’t hear. I didn’t need to, though. Suddenly, there was a loud crack and a cry. Then the guy reeled away clutching his nose, which was pouring blood.

Jordan had headbutted him.

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