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“He doesn’t look much like a rugby player,” agreed Ryan. “He looks more like a...I dunno…a famous actor or something. He’s different to the people you and mum usually hang round with.”
“We were…we were best friends at school. The very best.” A lump came to my throat and I turned away. God, telling Ryan the absolute truth would be hard, but I could lay some groundwork. “We lost touch for far too long and were very fond of each other. I’m not going to let it happen again. So, we’ll be seeing a lot of him. Is that okay?”
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t mind. He seemed all right. He looks a lot younger than you are, though. Were you really in the same school year?”
My son earned himself five extra push-ups for that cheeky comment.
As much as I’d have liked to keep an eye on the slight figure swathed in several jumpers, a long dark coat, a fur-lined deerstalker, and skiing gloves, wandering aimlessly up and down the touch line, I had to concentrate. Coaching the Colts was hard work. I’d trained most of these lads since they were in primary school, and now some of the boys even towered over me. Half of them were hungover, some were lippy, and all of them had attitude. My own boy included. For another hour and a half, we scrimmaged, practised line outs, and played some seven-a-side. I refused to allow myself a second to think of anything else.
The coach’s perk was a private changing room, more of a grubby Portaloo cabin, to be honest, but at least I could shower, then dress in a clean club tracksuit and head for the carpark before any of the lads finished yakking and larking about. The dads and the other coaches had piled into the clubhouse for mugs of tea and bacon sandwiches. On Sundays when Ryan went back to his mum’s after rugby, I joined them for as long as possible, to avoid returning to an empty house. On those afternoons, I tended to work out my misery on the lawns and hedges, then collapse in a heap on the sofa. Today, however, I sneaked past everyone, to find Matt leaning casually against the Audi, still huddled in his layers.
“Warm enough?”
“Just about.” He eyed my sports attire with interest. “This brings back memories.”
I sucked my belly in. “Good ones?”
His lips quirked, dark eyes flicking across my tracksuit. “Why don’t you come over here, and I’ll show you?”
This time, my mature, forty-something heart experienced a run of what could have been atrial fibrillation. And possibly stopped beating altogether as Matt reached up on tiptoe, balanced himself with a gloved hand on my shoulder, and brushed his cool lips against my mouth.
“Hello, Dr Valentine. Thanks for inviting me to rugby training. You’ve only made me wait twenty-five years.”
He kissed me again, longer this time, with a slow sweep of his tongue across my lower lip before stepping back. An involuntary moan escaped me, and his dark eyes sparkled with mischief.
“You look like Scott of the Antarctic,
” I jabbered, too shocked to string anything sensible together. He smiled.
“You don’t want me catching a cold, do you? You know how tetchy I am when I’m feeling under par.”
That I did. Hurriedly, I glanced beyond him.
“Don’t worry. They’re all too busy chuntering about someone called Josh not being picked for last Saturday’s match against Andover, and that the other coach favours his son.”
Matt turned towards the car and I began breathing once more. “And anyway,” he murmured, “You’d be surprised how few people notice two men kissing, especially if you don’t make a fuss about it.”
“What did I do to deserve that?” My cheeks burned, and I brought my hand up to where his mouth had touched mine, contemplating diving in for another.
“Those tracksuit bottoms might have something to do with it.” He grinned at me naughtily. “I should take an interest in rugby more often.”
In retrospect, Ryan arriving to join us was probably a good thing, saving me from succumbing to an urgent desire to tackle my long-lost love to the ground and rip off some layers. That would give the club gossips food for discussion, for the remainder of this season and well into the next.
“Hi, Dad. Hi, Matt. Did you get me a bacon sandwich? I’m starving.”
No, because I was busy being kissed by another man.
“No, because we have boeuf bourguignon waiting at home. I just need to reheat it and prepare some mashed potatoes.”
Ryan slung his bag into the boot. Matt laughed. “Surely you meanpommes de terre purées?”
We talked rugby for most of the journey home. Amazingly, I managed to sound normal. My boy had played well in the seven-a-side and I heaped praise on him, which, as head coach, was awkward to do out on the field. Matt shed some outer layers of clothing. He switched his heated seat to full blast then twisted to look at Ryan.
“Is it nice having your dad as a coach?”.
Through the rear-view mirror, I spied my son giving his question some thought. With a bit of luck, he’d rave to Matt what a great all-round guy and father I was, and how lucky he felt having me in his life.
“Nah, not really. He’s a knob.”
