Page 18 of Brat on the Ball

“Everything OK between you and the Scandi bastard?” I asked.

“It’s pronouncedBarstad,” Cory joked. “Anyway, have you seen the latest on Twitter? They’re wondering who the lucky lady is that left all those love bites on your neck. Latest odds-on favourite is that queen fromThrones of Blood, and I’m wondering if I should put a bet on it.”

“You know you shouldn’t,” I muttered.

“And why’s…” Cory tailed off as his phone beeped and he was distracted by it like a dog by a bone. “Oh. Don’t worry, you’re yesterday’s sports news.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” I said, secretly relieved that we’d moved on from the topic.

“Some rugby player has published a couple of blogs over the weekend, and they’re picking up a bit of flak from the press. One about player respect from the crowd, and another on outing sportspeople.”

“Someone isoutingsportspeople?” I asked, louder than I’d meant to.

Cory held up a finger as he read slowly. “Nope. Against, rather than for. Seems he was outed a little while back.The press have a…journalistic imperative and a coll-yeah, I was not good at English in school.”

He passed the phone over to me to read out loud. The blog was simple, in black and white, with no pictures or frills. “A collective responsibility to ensure that we do not cause undue stress or harm to those in sports. Neither should we expect those who are struggling with their identities or finally taking those few brave steps out into a scary world to act as role models. They are entitled to live the life that best suits them, free from the glare of media scrutiny.”

I felt myself choke up as I read the last few lines. “Wow,” I muttered. “That’s…nice. Seems like a nice guy, saying things like that.” I passed Cory’s phone back. “Got any plans for the rest of your day off?”

He smiled. “Just going out with a friend. How about you?”

“Clubbing, I think.” I hoisted my bag over my shoulder.

“Whereabouts?”

“Just…going out,” I said. “Which friend are you out with?”

“Just…a friend,” he said. “No one you’d know, really.”

So we were both keeping things close to our chests. Maybe his manager was pursuing a move in the summer. As I left the changing room, I bumped into Sven, who still hadn’t dressed except for his little skimpy Speedo.

“You look ridiculous,” I joked as we passed each other.

“What can I say? The ladies love a big Norwegian banana,” he grinned. I rolled my eyes.

I had been anticipating this night all week. I took my mystery man’s hoodie from the boot of my car and walked towards the city centre. It was a good thirty-minute walk, but the breeze was bracing and it meant I didn’t have to deal with any threatening letters from the Council about parking over the limit.

I had a condom and a sachet of lube in my wallet. I didn’t know what I thought might happen, but I wanted to be prepared for anything. Though the thought of being fucked in a disabled bathroom at a seedy club wasn’t exactly the most romantic or appealing thing in the world. Still, with him, anything seemed appealing.

The sun was setting as I got into town, but it still didn’t feel late enough. I grabbed a coffee from a local chain and sat outside for a second, pulling the hoodie over my head when it got too cold to keep sitting outside. I watched Cardiff go by on a Saturday night, as the crowds got rowdier and louder. A couple of teenagers, drunk and obviously on their first night out, spotted me even though I was wearing the hood and asked for a picture, so I took the hood down and smiled until they had left, then pulled the hood back up over my head.

When I stood up from my table, I pulled the drawstrings tight and looked around to make sure no one was following me. I was terrified of someone seeing, but my heart was pounding out of my chest for all sorts of reasons. Fear. Anticipation. It was exhilarating.

Only when I took my place in the line for the club did I take my hood off. I’d done enough on the dance floor in this place that hadn’t come out in the wider world. I had no reason to fear that people would out me here. I pulled the hoodie off as I reached the door, and the bouncer smiled at me knowingly.

“Am I allowed the t-shirt and jeans, or do I have to go in naked again?” I asked.

She snorted. “Much as I’m sure you’d get more attention with the t-shirt off, I’ll let you keep it on. Just put the hoodie in the cloakroom.”

I did, and then headed into the club. I was early enough that the press of bodies on the dance floor wasn’t insane, and there was no queue for a barstool. I ordered my glass of wine and a pint of lager…and waited.

I knew I was early and just had to be patient. I could wait for my rough-and-ready man. I could. Really.

I’d finished my first glass of wine and was on to my second when I started to wonder what was keeping him. A guy dressed entirely in leather that was so tight I had no idea how he’d squeezed into it flirted with me, and I gently turned him down. I spotted the twink from the week before, who stood and chatted for a while before being spirited away by two men in pup masks. It was only once I had reached the bottom of the second glass that I really doubted that my man would show up.

I looked over the rest of the room. People came here to pull, right? And I knew I wasn’t a bad looker. There was a reason my twat of a manager had tried convincing me to take up a deal to pose for a calendar. But no matter how much I looked over the crowd of bodies, I couldn’t find someone I trusted to treat me like he did. I felt safe with my mystery man, even without knowing his name. And he’d let me down.

I left his pint on the bar and headed out through the dance floor. I collected my hoodie, but as I passed the bouncer on my way out, she put a hand on my arm. “He left this for you,” she said, passing a folded-up scrap of paper to me. “It’s a note.”

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