Page 3 of Brat on the Ball

“For fuck’s sake, I’m a tank. I don’tdocardio.”

“And I squeal like a bitch when I bottom. Oh, sorry, there’s me thinking we were sharing irrelevant information.”

“Seriously?” I crossed over to the treadmill and turned it on to a slow walk. Finn sidled over and turned it up to a jog and then put the incline up to something resembling Everest. “You…bottom? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Sorry, Nathan said we weren’t allowed to start an OnlyFans. And last time anyone filmed me having sex, I definitely didn’t make OnlyFans kinda money,” said Finn. He grinned, but I knew the pain that had come before the smile. Someone had outed him, just like me, but dialled up to a hundred. “Anyway, speaking of Nathan…I have a hot date tonight and I might just get laid. Both ways, if I’m lucky.”

“Gross…” I breathed. Finn laughed and walked away. I looked around after a minute. He was gone, and there was no one else in the gym. I could stop the treadmill and pretend I’d finished my circuit…but I was too pro for that, tempting as it was. I ran the 5km that the whole team had been prescribed and wrote my time on the whiteboard when I was done. Rhys Prince had moved to Edinburgh midway through the previous season, but still held the record on Garrett’s Hill Run Challenge. Someone had scribbled out Garrett’s name and replaced it with Finn’s.

The sweat was pouring off me, and I grabbed a towel from the basket by the door to the changing rooms as I passed by.

The changing rooms felt eerie and empty as the lights flickered on at my presence. I was used to training with the squad, having the camaraderie of lads who had nothing in common with me but the game. But I’d been focusing on what life might look like after rugby and my university course had demanded more from me. Finn and Coach had given me permission to take a couple of hours a week of daytime study, so long as I made up for my training in the evening. And I was exhausted.

I pulled the shirt over my head and dropped my shorts, somehow feeling even more exposed than I could when everyone was there. I grabbed my shower gel from my lonely sports bag and stepped under the shower water. It was freezing cold, but that was exactly how I liked it after a workout. It felt like all the tension from the day drained out of my body as the water cascaded over my muscles and rinsed away the sweat and grime.

It wasn’t enough to get rid of the other tension I had pent up though, and I’d been denying myself for weeks. I desperately needed a release. And I knew just where to get it.

Chapter Two - Ollie

The changing rooms were packed with lads, and we all laughed as Cory Tyler whipped the back of Perrie Nomad’s ankles with a spare towel. “You twat!” shouted Perrie, yanking aside Cory’s towel and throwing it to the other side of the room. I averted my eyes and sprayed my deodorant. We trained in Cardiff’s specially built athletics centre just down the road from Cardiff City Stadium.

I pulled on my boxers and a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. “Hot date?” asked Cory, sidling up to me and throwing an arm around my shoulder.

“Nope, just out with John again,” I said.

“Your agent? Are you looking for a nicer contract?” his voice had dropped to a whisper.

“Nah, you know I’m happy here. He’s just got some sponsorships lined up for me.” The lie slipped off my tongue as easily as it had every time I mentioned my recent flurry of meetings with my agent to anyone. It was easier to pretend John wasn’t actively shopping me out to teams in the Premier League.

“Are you off out tonight?” I asked him. We had a two-week gap between games so for once we had a Saturday off.

“Yeah, gonna see if any bird will have me,” Cory said, thrusting his hips and almost dropping his towel again. “You?”

“Call them birds and you won’t be getting any fucking action,” I said. I stuffed my training kit into my bag. “If John lets me go before midnight, I might see you out.” I hauled the bag over my shoulder and nudged him to the side. “See you later, mate. Have a good weekend.”

“And you,” he said. I pushed through the rest of the lads, my heart beating in my throat as I thought of the conversation I was going to have with John tonight.

Outside the training centre in the car park, I pressed my key to unlock my car. There were twenty-odd identical blue hatchbacks in the car park, a gift from the company that sponsored our shirts. They were nice, top of the range from what they were. But I was making enough money to buy myself an Aston Martin if I wanted to. Instead I was driving a souped-up version of what most urban mums were driving their kids round in because I was contractually obliged to.

I drove straight from the stadium to the centre of Cardiff and parked up next to the old museum. I texted the team’s shared assistant to ask her to pay for an all night pass for me and she replied with a thumbs up. I walked through the park in front of the museum. “Hey, mate!” a kid shouted. “Are you…are you really Ollie Gunnerson?”

I pasted on a smile and turned to look at the kid. Him and a couple of friends must have been playing football, as they all stood a few feet away, starstruck with a ball laying forgotten between them. “That’s me,” I said. “Want a selfie?”

They all rushed forward and one of the kids fumbled with his phone. They must have been about eleven at the oldest, just old enough to come out to town by themselves. I smiled for the picture.

“My Dad hates Cardiff,” said one of the kids. “He’s a Swansea fan.”

“Get the picture printed on a t-shirt for him then,” I suggested and the kids laughed. “Do any of you want to be footballers when you grow up?” To my surprise, not one of the kids said they would. I remembered when everyone wanted to be a footballer.

“I want to be an accountant,” said one. “More stable income for a longer time, you know?”

I picked my jaw up off the floor before replying. “Yeah…that’s, uh, sensible. Well done, kid.”

I left the kids behind and picked up the pace toward Queen Street, shaking my head as I did. Kids wanting to beaccountants.That would have been un-fucking heard of when I was that age…fourteen years ago. Maybe I was getting old.

It took me ten minutes to walk to the Ivy to meet John, so many people stopped me to ask me for a selfie. It hadn’t been so frequent when I started playing for Cardiff, but I was a player for Wales too and we’d been doing better than ever on the international stage.

The maitre’d smiled as I walked in and led me over to the private corner booth where my agent was waiting. John was a middle aged fat man who somehow did a fantastic job of getting sportswear deals and high-price transfers for his young, athletic stars. He smiled at me as I sat, and as usual there wasn’t much behind that smile. John was practised in the art of acting and bullshitting, but not so much that I couldn’t tell when he was.

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