Page 2 of Brat on the Ball

But it had left its scars. Scars that were still under the surface if I scratched hard enough. The years I’d missed out representing my country. My father’s rejection, and the horrible mixture of feelings I’d had watching Rhys Prince’s rise to fame as a proudly, openly gay player.

“You with me, George?” Dr Ramoray waved his hand in front of my face

“Yeah, sorry…I’ll think about it. And sorry for interrupting your lecture.”

“You didn’t need this lecture anyway,” Dr Ramoray smiled. “You should teach this one.”

I laughed. “Thanks, Doc.”

He smiled and turned back to his desk, obviously a dismissal.

The woman I’d been playing Hangman with was out in the hallway waiting for me.

“So…George Reynolds, right?” she held up her phone to show me she’d been Googling.

“Glad you didn’t let that journalism degree go to waste,” I shot back. “What does it matter?”

“Woah, no need to get defensive,” she said. “I was just interested to see what got you so heated in there. I thought you were going to throw a book at Dr Ramoray for a second.”

“Eh, I’ve said what I need to say,” I said.

“I thought you might be that gay English footballer at first,” she said.

“Soccer? Do I look like a soccer player?” I gestured down at myself. The shirt I was wearing wasn’t exactly skintight, but it was enough to show I was carrying more pounds than a soccer player ever would.

“Guess not…soccer, though? Bit American.”

“Rugby is football, and soccer is football. So is American football. I’d rather differentiate between them with their proper names.”

“Very high and mighty of you,” she said. “I’m Elsie, by the way. Elsie Rowland.”

“Reynolds and Rowland, Private Detective Agency!” I whispered. Elsie just gave me a funny look. “OK, perhaps that could do with some work.”

“What did Ramoray want you in there for, anyway?” Elsie asked. I explained to her the conversation we’d had, and she nodded. “Smart. I can see why he thinks you’d have an expertise in the subject. But you’ll never get a first just focusing on yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know why he thinks it would be OK…if you were to write an essay on celebrities being forcibly outed, you’d need some kind of test case to compare your own experience to. Like is it more damaging to be outed as an actor, football—sorry, soccer player, rugby player? Is toxic masculinity more prevalent in one sport or another?”

“Can I keep you?” I asked.

Elsie laughed. “You couldn’t afford me. But if you want to go for a coffee to discuss our thesis’, let me know. I’ve AirDropped you my number.”

I looked down at my phone. I’d received her contact as ‘Elsie’ followed by a kissing emoji. “You know I’m gay, right?”

Elsie held up her phone. “Duh. I like prettier boys, anyway.”

“Me too,” I said. As Elsie walked away, I thought I might have made my first new friend in a long time.

* * *

The gym at the Millennium Stadium was top of the line, but I liked the old-fashioned stuff. As I pummelled the two ropes into the ground one by one, sweat poured down my face and soaked my front. My arms were in agony, my heart was pounding. I felt alive. But I’d been missing one too many Cardiff Old Navy training sessions, and the exercise felt like a punishment.

“Working hard or hardly working?” asked a familiar voice. I looked up at Finn Roberts — really looked up, as at six and a half feet tall he towered over even most rugby players — as he stood over me with a clipboard. He was wearing a shirt, jeans and brown leather shoes.

“What’s all this pretentious shit?” I asked him. “You’re a player-coach, you should exercise with the rest of us.”

“And you should learn to keep your fucking mouth shut when you know you were studying when I ran my drills earlier.” Finn scribbled something on his clipboard. “You’re almost caught up. Just sprint circuits on the treadmill and I’ll consider you done.”

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