Page 44 of Brat on the Ball

George cleared his throat in the corner. “Apologies. I seem to recall suggesting Wings as a nice place to get a drink, as Ollie wasn’t out when we first started talking.”

“And you’ve got witnesses to that, have you?” John asked.

“Sure. The bouncer knows us well, she’s lovely, and she’ll attest we’ve always met there. We’ve also been out with Finn Roberts of the Welsh national rugby team, and I’m sure he could give a statement too. All we ever did was dance, and drink, and talk.”

John growled. “Bullshit! I’m the one who suggested you go there in the first place, Ollie!”

“Check. Mate,” said George. He held up his phone, set to record. “Never trust a journalist. There are two potential stories here. Either Ollie met with me of his own accord, and nothing beyond innocent drinks occurred. Or you sent him to a kink club with the intention of using it to blackmail and extort him if he ever stepped out of line. Now which is it?”

John grabbed my arm. “You are stuck with me, boy. As long as you and I walk this planet, we have a contract. A contract which requires mutual consent to break. I will keep shopping you around to different football teams who offer the best money, and the second I sense you’re happy where you are we will move on to somewhere else. You will never get your shot at playing for Wales. You will always be just another mid-tier striker who never found a home. Understood?”

“No, I don’t think we are,” I said. “Tim?”

Tim smiled and slid my contract over the counter. “Give him hell.”

“Yesterday, I thought I’d check out my contract with you. On Tim’s advice, and with his help, we checked every page.”

“That contract is like iron,” John smirked.

“I thought so too! Now, I’m just an airhead footballer. But Tim has brains, he’s been in the business for years. And there are clauses for basically everything. What I can eat, drink, what sponsorship value I can take on, all the usual handcuffs in a contract like this. But we noticed something odd right toward the end, perhaps something you couldn’t have anticipated way back in my football academy days.”

I picked up the contract and read the passage Tim and I had highlighted the afternoon before. “Agent has a duty of care toward the player. They may not take up offers that they know could prove dangerous or materially damaging to the reputation of the player.That’s pretty obviously meant to stop you offering sponsorships to ridiculous companies, but…I think I have a reputation to uphold now. And threatening to send me to Saudi Arabia when you knew I was in the closet? Totally dangerous.”

John went a dangerous shade of red, then purple. He took a step closer to me, and for a second I thought he was going to hit me. And then George was there, in between us, shoving John back into a wall. John’s head hit the plasterboard with athunkand he left a little dent as he slumped down.

George picked up Tim’s mug of coffee and splashed it on the floor in front of John, used his phone to take a picture and then offered him a hand up.

“Oh, what an awful fall! Honestly, if you will spill liquids on a linoleum floor.” He pulled John up roughly and held him just for a second by the scruff of the neck. “Now piss off.”

John scarpered from the room, and George looked back at me. He smiled, but his eyes were wild.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Little bit,” he admitted. “Are you OK?”

I let out a shaky breath. “Surprisingly, yeah. I think I am. I have no manager, my life has been flipped upside down, and I don’t know if I’ll still be forced to go to a Middle Eastern club, but I’m OK. Iwillbe OK.”

“The owners have had a…significant change of heart,” said Tim. “Selling you is no longer as attractive a financial proposition as they might have thought.”

“So the other team doesn’t want me because I’m gay?” I asked.

“Quite the opposite. They’d still love to have you, sports-washing really is the new black. Any way to…what’s the word they use nowadays? Pinkwash, they will take it. To have a gay player would be an asset to them. But judging by the massive sales spike in Ollie Gunnerson shirts since we woke up this morning, I think you’re more of a financial asset than ever.”

“People are buyingmoreof my stuff now?” I asked. “And not just, like, to burn it? Or to make little voodoo dolls and stab them with Pride flags?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Tim. “But you shouldn’t care.”

“But…” I started. George took my hand and squeezed. I looked at him, and he gave me a little smile that lessened just a couple of the rough lines and angles of his face. And I knew what he was saying, without saying anything at all. He was here for me, and nothing else mattered.

“The genie is out of the bottle now,” said Tim. “Let’s just embrace it. Whatever that means.”

* * *

The flash of cameras was almost blinding, but we’d all had our coffees and woken up a little after the drama of the morning. And I was ready. I kept my face as smooth and worry free as possible, but I had George’s hand clutched in mine like it was a lifeline.

“I just want to give a brief statement,” I said, fumbling with the little folded up scrap of paper until George let go of my hand and rested his on the small of my back. I took a deep breath and unfolded the paper. “The blog, as published by George Reynolds, is true. I’m gay, and I make no apologies for that fact. We are also-“ I paused, knowing it defined something we’d struggled to define ourselves; “-in a relationship. I’d ask for privacy at this time, and I will be happy to arrange interviews in due course.”

The flashes went mad; the reporters started shouting out their questions, but I did as Tim and the Cardiff City Football PR team had suggested, and just gave a little wave. On impulse, I leaned in to kiss George on the cheek. He gave a little tug on my hand, and we walked back into the safety of the player car park.

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