Touché.You know The Old Rec Pub in town?It’s a little out of the way, but at least we won’t get bombarded by people.
Kyle
Sure.See you there in an hour or so?
AJ
Great.First one there is the winner.
Kyle
Is everything a competition with you?
AJ
Of course.
Chapter 6
AJ
I dunno what has given me more adrenaline, scoring my first-ever cup goal in a 1-0 win or meeting Kyle after all this time.
I’m not at all surprised to see Kyle arriving at the exact same time as me.Once again, we seem to be similar, just like we were when we were younger.His blond hair is immaculately coiffed to the side and his green eyes are so striking, I’m almost rendered speechless.
What on earth is going on?I never lust after straight guys—especially fellow footballers.This is not the done thing.But seeing him in his tight, buttoned paisley shirt, dress slacks, and boat shoes is making me think some very un-football-like thoughts.Like, I wonder if his balls are as golden as his hair.Nope.Stop that.It’s inappropriate.
“Hey.You came,” he says.
“Not yet,” I say for no good reason.I splutter for different words, but none arrive.I’m malfunctioning, and he’s…wait, what is he doing?He’s laughing.
“Oh, really?”Is that a smirk?Oh, my god, he’s smirking.Wait.No.The thought that crosses my mind is absurd.Just because he dresses well does not mean he’s gay.I do wonder, though.I’m also dressed smartly, but I actually am gay.Not that dressing well automatically equals gay.This is a minefield, and I should—should—tread carefully.
We enter the pub and if I’m not mistaken, I see the same look of relief in his eyes as I feel in my whole body.It's not busy.It is, however, one of those pubs where if you’re not a local, you’re looked at like you are some being from outer space.Kyle leads the way up to the bar, ignoring the eyes on us.His stubborn ways coming in handy this time.
“What you drinking, AJ?”he asks, turning to me.
What I’d really like is a nice cuppa.But I don’t think this is the place or the time to be ordering that, so instead I say, “I’ll have a pink gin.”I watch his face for any sign of a reaction.Normally, if I’m out with the lads after a match, which is rare, and someone orders one of those, or something of similar ilk, they get terrorized for the rest of the evening.And Rockwell will normally lead the charge.He’s a dick.And not the good kind.
“Make that two,” he says.
Was this a code?Fuck, I’m so out of touch.Maybe he just likes pink gin.I scold myself for reducing him to a stereotype.But was there something in his eyes, a glint maybe?I pull my eyes away from him.Lusting after a straight guy has never steered me well.Yet, I’ve fallen for it at least half a dozen times.Despite dating two women, I classify myself as gay.It’s a stretch to call it dating anyway, as I was in school, and we held hands at the absolute most…once.
We find a table, and he’s wearing the same half scowl, half smirk he’s had since we were youngsters.He was always getting shit for “having a moody face,” and I’ve lost count of the number of times he clapped back, telling people, “It’s my resting bitch face—get over it, I’m fine.”
“So,” I say, trying to fill the silence, “congratulations on getting those two goals today.”
“Thank you.I got a bloody nose for my troubles, but it was worth it.”
“Shit.You all right?Looks like you didn’t mess your mug up too much.”And because I’m feeling brave, I say, “Good job.”
I look for any sign of a shift, but either he has an excellent poker face or I’m being too subtle.I implore myself to stop, but I have to know.
“Thanks.Nice one on your goal, too.Though, I don’t know how you would have coped if you got bashed in your nose.Hell, I’ve seen you pitch a fit when someone musses your perfect hair.”
“Hey, all I’m taking from that is you think I’m perfect.”
“Take it how you want,” he says, in his deadpan voice, his face still giving nothing away.He stretches his legs out under the table, and they reach mine.I have no idea if he’s man-spreading or reaching out, either way, the warmth of his contact is electric.
