Page 45 of Off the Pitch

“You deserved that motherfucker,” Jordan spat as he was pulled away by Liam. The referee’s face was pinched and angry, and we all knew what he was going to do before he did it. Jordan was shown a red card and sent off the pitch, back to the dressing room. He and Liam had tried to argue it, but it was pointless. The ref hadn’t heard anything, and Jordan had probably broken the other guy’s nose. That was blatant violent conduct, which warranted an automatic red card and a three-match ban. Jordan stalked off the pitch to where Trossero waited on the touchline. I knew Trossero would hear Jordan out, but I doubted there was anything he could do either.

I shook my head, trying to get my brain re-engaged as the referee blew the whistle to restart the game. But I couldn’t focus. All I could hear was the slur playing over and over in my head. After another ten minutes, I was pulled off the pitch, and I was almost glad of it.

“Are you okay?” Trossero asked, face pinched with concern. I knew Jordan must have told him what had happened.

“I don’t know,” I said, because it was the truth. I should have been okay. I should have been able to brush it off and get on with my job, but I couldn’t. My heart was at war with my head. I wanted David; I wanted to be someone he could be proud of. But I also wanted to be a great footballer, just like I’d always been told I should be.

And now I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get to have both.

Chapter Nineteen

ANYONE HOME?

Greenwich Fail to Turn Up as West Ham Run Rampant

The Mirror

Christian

I moped around in the changing room for as long as possible after the match, taking more time in the shower than necessary. Trossero even came in at one point to check that I hadn’t tried to drown myself. He’d asked if I wanted to talk about it, and when I’d shaken my head, he’d asked if there was going to be someone at home when I got back.

It was almost as if he knew how much that one word had affected me, and a tiny part of me was suspicious that he might know I was gay. I pushed the thought away. Trossero would have said something if he knew. His concern was touching, though, and he gave me a hug before I got on the bus, telling me that everything was going to be okay.

I’d have been more suspicious if I wasn’t so exhausted and already lost in my own head.

The whole team was somber, and there was an undercurrent of unspoken anger on the bus. In the end we’d lost four-one, West Ham taking advantage of the fact that we only had ten men on the pitch. Hugo had pulled one back in the last five minutes, but it didn’t feel like it was worth much.

The ride back to the training ground was quiet, and soon I found myself sitting in the front seat of my car still deep in thought. I wanted to go home, wrap myself up in David, and forget about today. But another part of me wanted to stay here and avoid him because I was so worried that I’d disappointed him. After all, I was supposed to be a great player, and today I’d put in what was undoubtedly my worst performance of the season.

I knew everyone had off days, but I wasn’t supposed to.

My dad had always said that losing wasn’t an option, and that winning was the only thing that mattered. Even though I logically knew it wasn’t possible to win all the time, I still found losses painful, even after all these years.

It wasn’t just the loss, either. I could still feel the sting of my opponent’s cruelty burning unpleasantly under my skin, mixing with the heavy weight of my own inadequacy and sitting like a lead weight on my chest.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes and running my fingers through my hair. I couldn’t stay here. David had already messaged me telling me to drive safely and that he’d be waiting for me at home. It was time to face the music.

I was so lost in my own head that I was pulling into the driveway before I realised I’d even started the car. It was probably stupid of me to drive through London on a Saturday on autopilot, but I had made it home, so that was good enough.

The kitchen was warm as always, and Monika’s carefully written instructions were once again laid out on the counter. But the familiar comfort went straight through me, and all I felt was cold emptiness.

“Christian? Is that you?” David appeared around the kitchen door, his face lined with worry while I stood like an idiot on the doormat.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, planting a soft kiss on my forehead and wrapping me in his arms. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry,” I repeated, wishing I could apologize for everything at once instead of just lurking in the kitchen. The weight on my chest felt heavier than ever.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said firmly, stepping back and carefully sliding my kit bag off my shoulder before taking my hand and pulling me through the house. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”

I was sure I did, but I said nothing and let him lead me upstairs like a child, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other until we stopped.

I gasped. The bathroom was full of fragrant clouds of steam, the bath nearly full of brightly coloured water with little pink patches peering through towers of bubbles.

“So I might have gotten a bit carried away with the bath bombs and bubble bath.” David chuckled and turned off the taps before carefully removing his glasses. “But in my defence, I don’t have a bath at my house, so I wasn’t sure how much to use.” He turned to face me, giving me a soft smile. “Come on, get naked. It’s time for you to relax.”

He pulled his own shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor, and I gazed at the acres of dusky, tanned skin he’d exposed. I still couldn’t get used to how gorgeous he was, with his wide shoulders, muscled arms, and firm chest that I loved being held against. David caught me staring and winked, unbuttoning his jeans and sliding them and his boxers over his thighs. He kicked them off and toed off his socks. My eyes moved south, following the dark trail of hair on his stomach… damn, David was perfect all over. I wished I could look at him for hours, study his flawless body, and worship it with my own.

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