Page 19 of Brat on the Ball

“I can see that,” I said sharply. “Why not give it to me on the way in?”

“He asked me to give it to you as you left,” she said. “I think he wanted you to have your chance to have some fun with someone else, if that’s what you were looking for.”

“Thank you,” I huffed. I definitely hadn’t ended up having fun with anyone else.

I walked halfway down the alley before opening up the note. In scratchy handwriting, there was a mobile number. And underneath…

Sorry, work stuff came up. Let me make it up to you?

-G

I smiled.G. I finally knew something about my mystery man.

Chapter Eleven - George

I was muddy and gross from sliding across the pitch at Edinburgh’s stadium, but I felt so fuckingalive. I was pretty sure I had a cut above my eyebrow that was stinging like hell, and I was limping from a low tackle that had knocked my kneecaps together. But I’d supported the team to a tight victory against Edinburgh. I hadn’t scored a try, or converted any kicks. That was fine. I was a packhorse, supporting the rest of the team to glory.

I clapped Rhys Prince on the back as we walked parallel through the tunnel. He was a fellow Welshman, and one of a weird amount of openly gay players that had come out in the last couple of years. We had played opposite one another today, but would play together for Wales when the Six Nations rolled around. He was part of a new breed of rugby players, a prettier breed that was as appealing to the papers as soccer players were. But he wasn’t afraid of getting down and dirty with the rest of us, as evidenced by the mud covering his face and the stud-marks from where he’d had his legs stamped on.

“You coming out with us later?” he asked me, seconds before we diverged into our separate changing rooms.

I nodded. Finn had made it clear I had no choice but to go out with his little contingent.

The team was in good spirits as we entered the changing room, and Pete was all smiles. Finn bounded in behind us with his little clipboard, as he’d sat the game out to focus on coaching from the sidelines.

“Well done lads,” said Pete. “I know you’d all like to go out and sample the best of what Edinburgh has to offer…so that’s all I’ve got to say. Get changed. Reynolds, Stratham, I need you for media rounds.”

I grunted in response. Great. But I knew what it meant. I needed to tart myself up pretty enough for the camera. I jumped in the open shower block and did my best to clean every speck of mud from me, which wasn’t always easy after a rough game. It goteverywhere.

Finn wolf-whistled from the doorway. “Look out, lads, Georgie’s love bites still haven’t faded, and he’s on the prowl for more!”

“Look out boys, the fully dressed homo is watching us all in the showers,” I retorted. He hadn’t played, but sat on the sidelines and helped management make all the calls for the game.

“Wow. I thought we were rid of homophobia in these changing rooms,” said Finn. “Consider me very disappointed.”

“Fuck off,” I said. Next to me, a couple of the lads laughed.

“Still coming out tonight?” Finn asked.

“If you’re lucky. Go on, piss off. I’m sure you’re needed in front of a camera somewhere,” I said.

Finn gave a quick nod and then was gone. I finished showering and got dressed in my media suit. It would be good enough for a night out too. I joined Andy Stratham, our captain, outside in the hall and we walked toward the media room together.

Rhys Prince was waiting for us outside the door, primped to perfection and lookinggorgeousin a slim-cut navy suit that made his eyes sparkle. I’d had a crush on him when I came back to the Wales camp, but he’d been secretly dating Callum Anderson, a Scottish rugby legend. All those smiles I’d sent his way had been for nothing. As we drew closer, I noticed the pin in his lapel. Two flowers crossed, a thistle and a daffodil.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As I’ll ever be,” I replied. Though I was studying journalism, I never enjoyed stepping into the circus that was the media room. Journalists were always looking for blood after a match, and would do everything they could to fetch the juiciest soundbites.

The din was immediate when we stepped in, and we all took our places at the top table, under the light with about forty microphones pointed in our direction. Pete Grainger was already waiting at one end of the table, and Edinburgh’s manager was at the other.

The questions were mostly run of the mill, and directed far more at the two captains than at me. I wondered why I’d even been called into the media briefing. I hadn’t scored any spectacular tries or created any big upsets.

Then, as one journalist spoke my name and uttered their question, the penny dropped. “Your blogs recently caused quite a stir. Do you hate the media for outing you years ago?”

I steeled myself before answering. I didn’t want to make an enemy of the newspapers. They could make me public enemy number one if they wanted to. “I think that the media needs to be careful about how it breaks stories. I don’t want any young sportspeople who want to live their lives thinking that they need to become some kind of role model just because of their identity. And I think our media is far too quick to kick people down who are just trying to get by.”

The journalist nodded, and another spoke. “You also wrote about the differences in sports fans. Do you think that football fans are all hooligans?”

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