by C F White
“I’m pregnant.” Ann announced. “It took this time. I’m carrying your fucking baby!”
Jay could hear Ann. He understood what she was saying, but it hadn’t quite smacked him in the face yet. It was as though he wasn’t quite there. As though he was in a dream—that moment right before waking where it was hard to distinguish between reality and fiction. Was this for real? They’d tried and failed so many times, Jay had all but lost hope. Could this be it? Could this really be it?
“You can hug me if you like,” Ann said, snapping him out of his trance.
Jay peeked at Seb. His eyes welled, and he hadn’t said anything for a while. He was clearly as dumbstruck and finding this all too much to take as Jay was. Eventually, they both leapt at Ann, crushing her between their bodies. Jay found Seb’s hand behind her back and grabbed it to squeeze it as hard as he was his best friend. Ann sniffled into their shoulders and Jay wasn’t too wrapped up in the moment to know she was wiping her nose on him. He’d let her off though. He’d let her off every, single thing.
Seb scrambled away first, pushing Jay off. “Give her room,” he sniffled. “We don’t want to squash the little guy.”
Ann laughed. Jay was reluctant to let her go. This girl—this woman—had meant so much to him since they’d been kids, kicking a ball against a wall. They’d been friends. They’d been lovers. They’d practically been brother and sister. And now she was sacrificing her body for him—for him and Seb. The last two failed attempts had meant she’d been close to quitting. Jay had accepted that. So had Seb. It had been her idea for the one last go using dual donors—a donated egg and their sperm.
“Thank you,” Jay whispered the sentiment and he half choked it out.
Ann smiled and gave a curt nod, tears trailing her cheeks. “You too, Squirt.”
Seb batted Jay off her. “Give her room. She’s precious goods now.”
“She was always precious.” Jay stepped away and swiped a hand under his nose. “You come here.” He gestured to Seb and he launched into his embrace, holding on, gripping him and those tight arms around him told Jay everything he needed to know. “I love you too. So fucking much.”
“Tut, tut, Champ.” Seb leaned away. “Watch the language. We have a baby on the way.” He couldn’t even get through that without grinning.
Jay gazed deep into those chocolate brown doe eyes and saw his future within them. It was happening. Everything they’d talked about like it was a song lyric and not their reality was actually happening.
“I’ll go.” Ann snaked around them both, grabbing her phone from the charger and headed toward the hallway where she stopped. “I’ll get a scan date in as soon as poss.”
“And tell Noah he’s not allowed to touch you for nine months.” Seb pointed a warning finger at her before looping his arm back around Jay. “You belong to us now.”
“He’ll moan.”
“He’ll like the compensation.”
“I’m not doing this for your money, however much you keep illegally throwing at me.”
“We know, Ann,” Jay said. “But it’s the only thing we can do, so let us, yeah?”
She waved him off, then left the house, shunning the kitchen into a strange silence.
“A legal wedding. A baby on the way. What next?” Jay squeezed Seb in closer and kissed the tip of his head. “They say these things come in threes.”
“I can only assume that the Drops’ Rock‘n’Goals Musical will win a Tony Award.”
Jay laughed. Not because he thought that wasn’t a possibility but that it was more likely now than ever. He’d never thought his own life, dramatized or not, would be played out in a West End musical. When Seb had first mentioned it and started scripting it with a writer he’d met on the circuit, Jay had assumed it wouldn’t get past the first hurdle. But it had. With the backing of a production team and an eight-week run at Piccadilly’s Art House Theatre. It was typical of Seb to achieve everything he put his heart and soul into.
And that included marrying him and starting the family he’d always wanted because he’d never really had one himself.
“I could be called up for England.” Jay laughed at the absurdity.
Seb furrowed his brow. “Could you?”
“Nah. They won’t take an out gay player to somewhere hostile. Tony says it’s impossible for them to handle. Political wise.”
“Sorry, Champ.” Seb stroked a hand through his hair.
“It is what it is. Means I can concentrate on this. On you. On marrying you and starting a family.” Jay held his breath, then after a moment of stillness, he said, “Hear that?”
“No.” Seb glanced around the deathly silent kitchen.
“Quiet. Peace and quiet.” Jay smiled. “Nine months’ time, we won’t hear that again.”
Seb kissed him and Jay knew what he’d say next would bring poetry to this moment. That he’d create a lyric from his arsenal of many worthy of the poignancy of this time in their history. That Seb, the man he loved, the man many loved, the man who’d waited patiently for the right time in Jay’s career for this to happen would mark the occasion with emotional eloquence.
“Bring it the fuck on.”
Chapter Four
The Treble
Jay’s West Ham pre-season intensive training session the following month felt lighter than usual. Or maybe it was the spring in his step and the easy air floating around him. The other lads hadn’t noticed, or more hadn’t said anything. There was too much of a buzz in the changing rooms as it was. There was a suit on the side of the pitch. World Cup Qualifiers were on the horizon and one of the few born and bred English players were in the scouting line up.
Probably Davies. He had the mean streak England needed.
But then Tony—Jay’s agent—flitted up beside the two men and ushered Jay away from penalty training. Jay swallowed the sudden jolt to his pulse. That couldn’t mean anything. He’d come to terms with not being able to play for his country. Maybe they were going to ask him about Davies. Or any of the other players. Get his opinion on them. Jay had been leaning more toward coaching recently with the view to edging in that route when his playing days were over. So maybe this was just a tea and chin wag about the new signings?
“Shit, Rutters.” Santiago held the ball under his arm and slapped Jay on the back. “Congratulations.”
“It ain’t what you think.” Jay had to tell himself that because, right then, he was having a hard time controlling his adrenaline rush. “Got told ages ago it ain’t gonna happen.” He jogged off the pitch on shaky legs, opposing his statement, and slapped his hand into Tony’s outstretched one. “All right, Tone?”
“Yeah. All good. Can we talk?” Tony was suited, which meant he’d come from schmoozing someone else for something else. He wasn’t only Jay’s agent. So the whistle and flute was a clear indicator that he’d been servicing one of the other lads. That’s what Jay was assuming anyway. Because he could not get his hopes up about this.
“Yeah, lemme shower first,” Jay said, thinking that might give him time to get himself together.
Tony slapped him on the back. “I’ll meet you in the boardroom.” With that he walked off, hands either side of the two suited men’s shoulders as he steered them through the training pitches and out to the car park.
Jay tried not to allow the sinking in his gut to manifest in his outward stride. He shouldn’t be disappointed. Wouldn’t be disappointed. Not again. Year on year, he was reminded of why, no matter his goal scoring record, he wouldn’t be picked for England. If he’d been called up this time, they would have told him there and then, given him his training schedule and worked out the finer details with West Ham. The FA suits clambering back into their car meant that wasn’t happening. The boardroom was another chance for Tony to wangle more money for him from the club.
He showered, telling himself he’d gotten over it years ago. He had other stuff to look forward to now. More important stuff. He had a kid on the way—except, he coul
dn’t tell anyone that. After all the near misses, he knew the importance of keeping shdum until they couldn’t hide it anymore. But he had a wedding to plan. After six years of waiting.
He’d be waiting forever to be called up for England.
So he meandered to the boardroom after he was changed, spring once again in his strides. Tony already had a coffee in front of him and a chilled bottle of water ready and waiting for Jay. Diamond.
“I’m gonna assume you know why I’m here,” Tony said, stroking down his navy silk tie.
“I know why you’re not here.”
Tony sipped from his coffee, arching an eyebrow “Really?”
“Get to the point.” Jay sat, twisting the cap off the water, and guzzled it down.
“I had a meeting with the FA. They wanted to watch you before making their decision.”
“About what?” Jay wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“National squad, Jay.”
Jay fell back in the seat, his pulse racing. He searched Tony for a moment, checking for a hint of his cheeky banter. There wasn’t any. His smile widening, he shook his head in disbelief.
“I thought it’d be Davies,” Jay said. “They need a defender. Not a striker.”
“Philcott injured himself yesterday.”
“He did?”
Philcott was England’s main centre forward. The reason why Jay knew he wouldn’t have been in the line-up for selection. Jay wasn’t a player you could move to the back. He was a striker, through and through. But if Philcott was injured…
“Metatarsal.” Tony chuckled. “Imagine losing your slot on the national squad ‘cause you stubbed your bleedin’ toe? Didn’t even happen at training. He’d been playing in the garden with his kid. No studs. Kid stamped on his foot.”
Jay snorted. “Twat.”
“Yeah. So, it means an opening.” There was something in Tony’s voice. Something that said this wasn’t as simple as it sounded. And probably the reason why he was here at all. Agents didn’t normally get involved with national duties. It wasn’t their jurisdiction. Players were called up, handed their schedule, and they’d need a fucking good reason not to represent their country if they were playing club level.
“There’s a catch,” Jay said and knew that there always would be for him.
Tony sat forward, hands clasped together on the table top. “It’s come at an awkward time. Wouldn’t you say?”
“For who?”
“I’m gonna be diplomatic here—“
“Don’t bother. Spit it out. It’s why I hire you. To get around the bullshit.”
Tony heaved in a heady breath. “All right.” He straightened. “There’s a concern.”
“About?”
“You’re…openly gay status.”
“I’ve been out for seven years. It ain’t a secret.”
“Obviously, they know you’re gay. That’s not the concern.”
“What is?”
Tony guzzled his coffee for several agonising moments then, clamping the cardboard cup on the surface, he sat forward. “Are you and Seb planning on getting married?”
Jay knew there’d be something. There always was, and his chest tightened at the thought there could be a problem with the one thing he’d been waiting to happen for six fucking years.
“What’s that gotta do with whether I can play for England or not?” he asked, folding his arms.
“Quite a bit.” Tony scrubbed a hand across his forehead as though he hated having to be the one to do this. To trample on Jay’s dreams. He should hate it. He shouldn’t have to even do it. That wasn’t why he received a percentage of Jay’s wages. He was meant to make his life easier. More bearable. Take this shit away from him. Not spit it across a boardroom table to slap him right between the eyes. “The qualifiers take place in a few hostile nations, Jay.”
“Hostile?”
“As in your out status might cause unrest in the stands when playing there. The FA are working with FIFA to assure that tolerance is acquired by all countries competing. And they were satisfied that it wouldn’t be too much of an issue.” Tony paused, for dramatic effect perhaps.
“Were satisfied?”
Tony winced. “Until our government made it possible for you to get married slap bang in the middle of qualifiers. Perhaps it might be unwise for you to take up that opportunity.”
“Which opportunity?”
“To have a gay wedding splashed all over the news just before you fly out to play for your country in a nation that are, well, a bit against that sort of thing.”
Jay heaved in a vexed breath, giving him a moment to digest what had been said. It had been a while since he’d had to deal with any of that crap. The Premier League had accepted him. And whilst there were always vocal fans, accidental slurs in changing rooms and media backlash, Jay had managed to forge a solid career without too much unrest for six years. He was heading for retirement. He had maybe four, five years left at top-flight level. Then the plan was to move into coaching or managing. Stay within football, and the club who had supported him, for as long as he could.
“Are you sayin’,” he asked, voice low and desperate to keep calm. “That if I marry the man I’ve been engaged to for six years, now that I’m finally allowed to, then I can kiss goodbye to having an England cap to my career?”
Tony’s nostril flared around his exhalation. “If you want to represent your national side, if that’s a career goal of yours, then I’d highly recommend that you postpone any matrimony until after Brazil twenty-fourteen.”
Jay hung his head. He closed his eyes. His body tensed. The anger, the annoyance, the contempt that he’d yet again been asked to do something that none of the others would simply because of who he slept with made his gut wrench and blood boil.
“And this comes from the FA?” he asked between gritted teeth.
“Jay, mate, I know this seems unfair—”
“Unfair?” Jay spat back. “It’s a fucking joke. It’s bollocks. What does it matter if I get married now or later? I’m still out. I’m still gay. I still fuck a man. But I’ll get to call that man my husband.” He stood, his body coiled but broken of its ability to spring back.
“Please, Jay, sit down. I get it. I do. But this isn’t because any of them think you shouldn’t be married, it’s just not the right time. Think about it. It’ll be all over the papers whether you want it to or not. Even if you do it in private, it’ll get leaked. Everything always does. Then it’ll be everywhere and FIFA can’t guarantee that won’t ignite an already sparking flame.”
Jay gave himself a moment to glare out of the window and watch those still out on the training pitches. Most of his team were out there—running drills, practicing tackles and shots at goal. All of them were oblivious. None of them would have to sacrifice as much as he always did. How was any of that fair? Equal? Inclusive? It wasn’t and Jay couldn’t stomach it.
He dropped his gaze to his lap and inhaled, slow and sluggish. But this was England. This was his national side. This was the dream he’d thought had been out of his reach. And here was Tony dangling that carrot in front of him and Jay so wanted to take a bite. He’d been given a chance. A possibility to have everything he’d ever wanted since he’d first slipped his feet into a pair of football studs under the flickering lights of the poky Christmas tree in Plaistow.
How could he turn this down?
So, knowing it was going to eat him alive if he didn’t, he sat. “When’s the first training date?”
Tony smiled, albeit a solemn one. One that said he knew what Jay was facing and he understood that it hadn’t been an easy decision.
“They want you at camp tomorrow morning. I’ve booked the train for you as its quicker.” He pushed over an envelope, tucked inside was a first-class high-speed train ticket from London to Staffordshire. “Means you can go in the morning. Have the evening to, well, y’know, break it to the boyfriend.”
Jay dropped the tickets to his lap. “Tomorrow?”
He bit his lip. “Shit. How long for?”
“Few days.”
“Fuck!”
Tony leaned forward, hand splayed on the table and tapped. “Seb will understand,” he said.
Jay stared down at the envelope. “I ain’t so sure about that.”
And he wasn’t. Not only was he going to be away for the launch night of Seb’s first musical, but he also had to tell him he couldn’t marry him.
The repercussions of that could be dangerous.
* * * *
Slapping down a bundle of goodies beside the boxes cluttering the floor, Seb flapped out his cramping fingers. The Ruttman Record office was doubling up as a production house for the staff and crew of the Rock’n’Goals musical. With Seb being a control freak over everything he created, he was helping prepare for the opening press night. He wasn’t averse to doing the menial tasks, regardless of his status of Executive Producer. He’d pretty much taken over the role of Director too. Not to mention writing the score alongside his occasional bestselling album and performing all over the globe from time to time.
His work ethic was a family trait.
One he might have to now reconsider. He did not want to turn into his father. Nor his mother for that matter. He’d wanted children so he could be the doting, and present, parent he’d never had.
“You haven’t stopped smiling all fucking day and it’s getting right on my tits,” Martin said, sliding the last remaining programme into a plastic press pack.
Seb grinned. “I know,” he said, but dropped his smile when he laid eyes on Martin.
He looked worn out and Seb was about to offer him the space in the main office for a kip, but Martin perched on the edge of his desk and said, “Are you not going to tell me why?”
Seb peeked over at the others who were part of the production team, happily stuffing envelopes of the delivered glossy programmes and merchandise ready to sway the press into favourable reviews. It was a good job they were all there, as Seb might have blurted out what was making him look like the cat who’d got the cream. But he’d agreed with Jay and Ann to keep the news of the baby quiet for as long as possible. Of course, Noah would know but he’d been sworn to secrecy until they couldn’t keep Ann inside any longer. With the failed attempts before, none of them wanted to tempt fate.
