Page 2 of Pitch Prince

Now twenty four years of age, I had relentlessly pushed and improved. And it was starting to get noticed in the right places, and I knew I had a chance of making the Wales squad for the Autumn Internationals, and the Six Nations. But now that would be tough, if not impossible. I was definitely missing out on the Autumn Internationals as they were less than two months away.

I let the tears fall openly in front of Mum. She had been there for me, always.

“You’ll get there, love,” she said. “The team will support you.”

I couldn’t help but feel like I had completely missed out. And that I might never reach my dream. I wanted to be the first openly gay player in the very top flight of rugby union. I wanted to prove the school-yard bullies and the older bastards who still thought I was too weak, that me being gay made me too feminine to play such a rough sport.

It was so difficult, knowing I was on the cusp. Of national team glory. Even if I could just get one minute of International play for the country I’d grown up in, the country that had raised me. I would get better. I knew it. I’d prove them all wrong.

After I’d had just a little cry.

***

A few days later, I was situated back at Mum’s house and being waited on hand and foot no matter how much I told her not to bother. That I could do more things with my left hand for now and if I couldn’t then I’d have to learn.

But Mum wouldn’t have it. She’d always been an awesome single mum, never letting me go without if she could help it. But right now, at home with nothing to do, I was starting to go stir crazy when I couldn’t even cook for myself.

“Are you going to let me wipe my own arse?” I quipped as Mum put down a cup of tea in front of me, metal straw poking out like I somehow couldn’t pick up the mug with one hand.

“Don’t be so bloody sarcastic, I’m looking out for you.”

“Sorry Mum.” Something familiar caught my eye on the sports channel so I reached over to turn the volume up a little bit. On the screen was Callum Anderson, legend in rugby and all around dreamboat. He was a big, rough guy I’d had the luxury of playing against in club rugby, and it was my dream to play against him in the national red shirt of Wales. They called Callum Anderson the Gentleman of Rugby in the news because he was always so gracious with his opponents, so at odds with the image his body and stern face projected.

That and he was completely, utterly…

“God, that man could do whatever he wanted to me, no questions asked,” Mum said, just as entranced as I was with the man on the TV, muddied and ruffled from scrummaging.

“That’s gross, Mum.”

“Don’t pretend you disagree with me, Rhys. I know you had posters of him on the wall when you were a kid.”

“Because he was myidol.” Mum didn’t need to know that I still had a poster of him inside the cupboard in my bedroom.

The truth was, my love for Callum Anderson was twofold. Yes, he was incrediblyfuckinghot but also incrediblyfuckingstraightandmarriedanddevoted. But my admiration for him was mostly in that he was a story I wanted to emulate. A solid starting back for his team, Edinburgh Thistle, but never extraordinary. Until a couple of stellar performances at just the right time, when he was twenty-five, had catapulted him into the national team and rugby stardom.

Now, at thirty-three, Callum wore the captain’s armband for the Scottish team and was admired worldwide by rugby fans and by players alike. Like me, he hadn’t been the eighteen year old prodigy of rugby we all wanted to be. But through hard work, determination and stubbornness, he had pushed through. And that’s what I wanted to do too.

I looked down at my arm, encased in plaster and signed with rude drawings made by immature teammates, and scowled at it. I would get better. I would play for Wales.

2

Chapter Two - Callum

The kids were running around the kitchen islands like loons as my mother in law tapped one manicured hand against the marble. I couldn’t stop looking at her nails as theytap-tap-tapped. If I asked her to stop she’d only take offence. So I kept my mouth shut and let her carry on with it. Much as it pissed me off. I hadn’t long gotten home from training and Elizabeth had been looking after the kids all day.

“Can we go on the Xbox, dad?” asked Logan. I ruffled his strawberry blonde hair, the same colour and wild texture of my own.

“Have you done your homework?” I asked. They both nodded enthusiastically. “Go on then.”

“Yay!” both Logan and Olivia ran into the living room. Leaving me alone with Elizabeth. She stared me down.

“Logan is far too soft, Callum.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, biting before I could stop myself.

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair with a smirk. She seemed to take a special kind of pleasure in making people pissed off.

“What I mean is he’s dressed in pink and he has painted nails. He’s going to get bullied in school.”

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