Page 14 of Pitch Prince

I stopped as I took in all of Callum Anderson, stood in a hoodie and jeans and holding a bouquet of daffodils. His face was crumpled into a sad frown and his sad green eyes looked big enough to drown in. His eyes drifted down my body, and suddenly I was much more self conscious of what I had just been doing than if it had been Finn at the door. He stepped in close, so close that I could feel the contrast between the warmth of his breath and the cold of the outside rolling off him.

Those eyes drifting downward might have been enough to revive my flagging erection if the next words out of his mouth hadn’t been, “I’m so, so sorry Rhys. I would never…I didn’t mean…I couldn’t hurt you.”

And then I realised he wasn’t looking at the half-tent in my pyjamas, but at the patchwork of purple that had started to blossom across my abs from the force of his hit. All my anger dissipated at the genuine sorrow in his expression.

One of his big hands reached out from behind the bouquet and brushed against my stomach, at the bruising. It wasn’t just the cold that made me shiver.

“Come in,” I choked out. “I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he was inside and the door closed behind him I ran into the bedroom to pull a dressing gown on over my exposed body. I’d never cared about anyone seeing my body before. A combination of grotty changing rooms with prison-style showers and having to grip every part known to man in order to tackle on the field meant I’d managed to lock therugby playerpart of my brain well away from mygay man who loves naked menpart. But being exposed in front of Callum had an altogether more intimate feel which I really couldn’t let my heart or dick encourage.

When I came back into the main open-plan part of my flat, Callum hadn’t moved. He was just stood by the door with those flowers in hand and that sad look on his face.

“Make yourself at home,” I said as earnestly as I could. “Beer?”

“No thanks.” Callum still hadn’t moved.

“Seriously man, you’re standing like a statue. Make yourself at home.”

I moved past him to the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. If beer wasn’t on the menu, then a good cuppa would have to do.

Finally, I sensed him moving behind me, and I let my shoulders sag in relief as I heard him relax on the sofa. “Milk? Sugar?” I asked.

“Yes please,” said Callum. When I was done with the cups of tea, I turned to face him. Callum was sat straight as a rod, still holding the bouquet of daffodils in his hands. He hadn’t taken his shoes off either.

“Bloody hell man, get over yourself.” Seeing him so cut up was enough to make me completely forget any anger I’d felt toward him. Honestly, it made me want to give him a hug. I put the cups of tea down on the coffee table in front of him and took the flowers from him. I didn’t have a vase, so I shoved them in a beer pint glass I had sitting next to the sink and filled it with water.

“Look, I’m really really…” Callum started again.

“Sorry? I know, and it’s fine.” I took my place on the sofa, leaning in a way that I hoped looked relaxed but made sure I was angled as far away as possible from him. It seemed I’d forgiven him way too easily, but I couldn’t let myself sit so close. I reasoned with myself that it was just because I’d had my cock in my hand that I wanted to jump on him. And that distance was doing me good.

“It was a really shitty thing to do, though,” said Callum. “I was so completely focused on you that every other rugby instinct just faded away.” He seemed to realise what he’d said, and his cold-blotched skin flushed an even deeper shade of red.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I replied. I flashed him my best grin and he flushed even deeper.Oh my God, I’m flirting with a straight man. I schooled my face into the best neutral expression I could manage as Callum started talking again.

“I want to be honest…as honest as I can with you, right now Rhys. I don’t want to excuse what I did, but I do want to make you understand.” He hesitated before carrying on. “Things…aren’t great with me right now. I’m facing the breakdown of my marriage, I’m trying to be a good Dad to my kids despite the fact that rugby takes me away for weeks at a time, and I miss them more intensely every single time I go away. I’m trying my best to be a good player too, and, I guess…I guess I fixated on you, a bit. I see a lot of my younger self in you. You’re proving yourself at the same rate I did, but you’re ten times the player I ever was. I was a little bit jealous of what you’ve started to carve out for yourself. So when I stood opposite you on that pitch, I saw you. I saw only you.”

My stomach did a flip at the words, even though he’d completely explained the context in which he was saying them. Still, other parts of the conversation stuck in my mind. We’d texted about rugby for weeks but never delved very deeply into our personal lives. “You and Sarah…your wife, I mean…you’re having troubles?”

“Hadtroubles, past tense,” said Callum. “We weren’t a perfect couple by any means, but the ending of it is my fault. I decided on the split.”

“Why?” I asked before I could stop myself.

“I…I wish I could tell you. It’s complicated.” Callum’s eyes dipped away from mine. Had the Gentleman of Rugby been cheating on his wife? Gambling away their whole life savings? I couldn’t imagine the man in front of me ever putting a toe out of line in his marriage. He was the quintessential honourable gentleman of sport in the UK. Everyone had their secrets. But I couldn’t fathom a cheater or a liar in those lovely eyes.

It was my turn to look away when he looked back at me. I’d fancied Callum Anderson since I had his posters on my wall as a kid. He had been a figure so far in the distance, unattainable brilliance. And when we’d had internet trouble and porn wouldn’t load on my phone, I’d seen the big gruff man on my wall and imagined where those hands might roam when he didn’t have them on the rugby ball.

I reached for my tea and took a long slurp until my mind had put itself back into the box. He might have been my childhood hero. He might have gotten even better with age, with laughter lines and traces of grey in his strawberry blonde stubble. But he was my friend now, and he had just spilled his heart out to me. “So, your kids,” I said. “You miss them?”

Callum dug out his phone from his pocket and showed it to me. There were two adorable kids on the screen, a taller girl in glasses and a little boy with ginger hair like his father and lipstick smeared around his lips. “Logan and Olivia,” he said. “No matter how many Six Nations Grand Slam trophies I have in the cupboard, they are my proudest achievement.”

“They look just like you,” I said.

“God, I hope not.”

“How do you cope with missing them?” I asked. “With the Six Nations, Lions and Autumn Internationals this year you must have way less time with them.”

Callum looked down at his cup of tea as if it held answers for him. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked, then sighed. “Of course you can. If you can’t, I’ve just told you about the breakdown of my marriage, and fucked that up too.” It was odd to hear just how quiet and pensive that thick, deep Scottish brogue of an accent could get. Even when he whispered, it was a rumble.

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