Home Goal and My Goal: Two Gay Footballers Stories

by H J Perry

  Jason was going to meet Scott, he couldn’t back out, he didn’t want to back out and with luck, no one would recognize him.

  At the bar, Jason was served by a friendly lady with an Australian accent. No sign of Scott. A slight nagging fear surfaced, perhaps Scott didn't really work here, and this was a setup, a practical joke. How ridiculous, what would be the point in that, when Scott didn't even know him.

  Then his eyes were drawn to a man emerging from a door behind the bar. Not noticing Jason, Scott took an order and served drinks. Jason watched him work.

  Scott was tall and slender. He oozed friendly confidence, smiling at the customers. Even though it was toward the end of the shift and nearing 11 p.m., he looked lively and awake. This time was late for Jason. Most nights he’d be asleep by this time and up early. Jason knew nothing about Scott. Did he work in a bar full-time? Was he normally awake in the early hours and not getting out of bed until midday? Perhaps he lived a totally different lifestyle to the one Jason was familiar with.

  Why was Jason even wondering about the lifestyle of this bar worker? It wasn’t as if he ever met up with casual hookups, like this, more than once. He watched and felt a surge of warm desire flow through his body. With this guy, Scott, there was an attraction that Jason had not experienced before. A combination of perfect posture and elegant movements made Scott fascinating to watch in action. Scott wasn’t overly camp or feminine, but he was unlike any of the straight guys, and Jason knew a lot of straight guys. There was something about sexy Scott that said this guy was unmistakably gay. Jason couldn’t understand how he didn’t see it when they were at the nightclub. He wanted Scott then but assumed Scott was with that girl he always danced with. Jason wanted to be that girl.

  When he noticed Jason, Scott’s face lit up with a smile, his hand shot up in the air to wave. He looked adorable, cute and very gay. No footballer would ever wave like that, and they wouldn’t smile quite like that either.

  After handing his customer some change, Scott gracefully walked from his end of the bar to where Jason was standing.

  “Hi, sweetie. I’ll be on your side of the bar in about ten minutes.”

  “I’ll still be here for you.”

  It didn’t matter how obviously gay, out and proud Scott appeared. But it might matter if Jason spent more than just one night with this guy.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  January 2012

  Scott

  Outside of Scott’s serving segment, the brown-eyed stranger with the short dark hair and a familiar face took up a position at the far end of the bar shortly before eleven. Scott had thought the guy would turn out to be a no-show. It took a while to be sure that was the same man. Seeing him out of the usual context of the night club and wearing a warm outdoor jacket, Scott had to look several times to make sure it was Jason.

  Jason looked uncomfortable, out of place. He didn’t fit in here, in the same way that he looked out of place among his VIP friends. One of those guys that never quite fitted in. Perhaps he’d only just realized most of the clientele were gay. It wasn’t the first time Scott suspected the guy might be some way into the closet, but surely not that far. He must have been to gay bars before.

  Without a customer needing something for just a few seconds, Scott had seized the moment to say hello; he just had to get through the last few minutes of his shift.

  When Scott was ready to go off duty, it seemed everybody surged to the bar to order a drink. The shift manager asked Scott if he could do another hour or just thirty minutes, but Scott declined.

  “I can’t keep my date waiting.” Not at all sure that it was a date, but he didn’t need to tell the manager everything.

  Ten minutes later Scott squeezed between the crowds to get alongside Jason. “Can I get you a drink?” Jason asked as Scott appeared beside him.

  “That would be great,” said Scott, “but here? Or do you want to go someplace else?”

  “Here is fine.”

  Scott was unsure that that was true. Here was noisy and crowded but everywhere worth going to would be just as busy on a Saturday night, and here was also queer.

  “How long have you been working here?”

  With the clarity of mind of someone who had just finished work, Scott suspected Jason had had a few drinks before this one. Unlike at the nightclub, tonight Jason appeared to have been drinking. He wasn’t falling off his stool; Scott would have served him another drink if he was in his section, but he appeared a little uncoordinated. He was not falling over drunk but had slightly slurred speech.

  “Ever since my first year at uni. This is a part-time job to keep me in pencils and calculator batteries. Let’s go someplace else and get coffee.”

  Somewhere else for a coffee meant one of two places. The very popular Mediterranean deli that stayed open for twenty-four hours at the weekends offered ambiance, great music, mood lighting and outdoor seating, even at this time of year. It was always busy. Alternatively, there was never a problem getting a seat at the remarkably quiet and atmosphere-less cafe at the other end of the street. It guaranteed no music and no chairs outside. Best not to eat there but how wrong can you go with a main brand can of soft drink or a cup of tea. Scott never drank coffee at night.

  Jason didn’t appear keen on the busier option but very relaxed when they settled at a corner table in the empty cafe.

  “What are you studying at uni?”

  “You’d never guess. And when I tell people they often don’t believe me.”

  “Don’t make me guess. Something creative? Artistic, perhaps outrageous? Is it drama? Is it not journalism? God, don’t let it be journalism. You said pencils. Are you an artist?”

  “No, not at all.” Scott laughed. “You don’t like journalists, then. Well, I’m doing nothing like any of what you mentioned. When you look at me do you see mad scientist?”

  “No. I don’t see that.”

  Scott nodded.

  “No way are you what I expect a science student to look like.”

  “So what do they look like?” asked Scott, amused, even though he’d had this reaction before.

  “They look like the guys out of The Big Bang Theory, of course. You are altogether more gorgeous. Boy band material perhaps. Are you doing a music degree?”

  Scott felt himself blushing. Jason’s gushing compliments flowed out easily and naturally as if he was unaware of what he said.

  “Honestly, I’m studying combined mathematics and physics; they’re practically the same subject, anyway.”

  “You’re right. I’d never have guessed. Sounds complicated. I don’t associate maths and science with good looks and dancing.”

  “Liz is a physicist. That’s my dance partner at the club. And you can blame my parents for my dancing. They’re professional dancers, so I was brought up dancing.”

  “What, how interesting.” Jason’s eyes widened; he seemed genuinely interested.

  “I know I don’t look it, camping it up in a gay bar, but at school, I was the nerd. And when I went home it was all ballroom dancing, glitzy frocks, feather boas and guys in makeup.

  “Really?” Jason was leaning forward, listening intently.

  “My parents are professional dancers. Ballroom and Latin American. They own a dance school here in Birmingham where they teach. That's where I learned the art of glamor and camp. Otherwise, I’d be just the dull numbers nerd. What do you do?”

  The sudden question clearly snapped Jason out of the comfortable place he’d been in.

  “You’d never guess. In fact, I think you should have a go.” Jason was like a blank sheet, looking at him now gave away even less than in the night-club. His short hair was immaculate, gelled into position. His dress sense was inconspicuous, smart, casual and yet stunning. Jason was fashion model material.

  “Are you a spy? A secret agent?”

  Jason chuckled and, as if it wasn’t worth answering, he shook his head.

  His inconspicuous clothes hung over his body as if made for
him. Either they were very well made, or he had the perfect body for them or both.

  “I haven’t a clue. You’re in the VIP section, but you never look like you fit in with those people, so I guess you know them from work rather than as friends.”

  “That’s true, to some extent, although I’ve made friends at work.”

  “So are you an accountant or a solicitor?” Scott asked with concern that suggesting such dull sounding occupations might cause offense.

  “Are you kidding? Are those your best guesses.”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “I’m an interpreter,” Jason almost whispered. As if he was confirming that he was indeed a spy, and he wanted to be sure no one else heard.

  “I’m impressed. I’m a scientist; I only need to be fluent in English. What languages do you speak?”

  “English, Français, y Español.”

  “How did you get into that?”

  “My mom is Spanish, so I was brought up bilingual, and we traveled a lot as kids, so it just happened by chance. I wanted to leave school at sixteen, but dad insisted I take A levels. I think he’d spent a load of money on private education; my older brothers were at university, and he wanted me to have the same opportunity. So A level French and Spanish were the easiest options as I was already fluent in both.”

  “Ah, the joys of private education.”

  “Sorry, I don’t normally mention it. I’ve been out drinking earlier, and it’s loosened my tongue. I’m not usually a drinker.”

  “Me neither, been there too. To private school I mean. Not the drinking. Well, I don’t drink much either. But what I mean is I don’t tell people about the paid for education. I’m blabbing like a fool. Sorry.” Scott waved his hands to fan his flustered face.

  “Don’t be.”

  “Was it a bit of Dutch courage that finally gave you the courage to contact me?”

  It was Jason’s turn to blush. “Yes. It’s true.”

  “But I’m so not scary. Unlike those dudes you were with at that club. Who are they?”

  “You do not recognize any of them?” Jason asked.

  “No, should I? Are they famous?”

  “Only if you’re a football fan.”

  “That, I’m not. So how do you know the footballers?”

  “I interpret for the team, French, and Spanish. I can communicate, albeit badly, in Italian and Portuguese.”

  “Is the work with the foreign players when they are here?”

  “I travel a lot with the team.”

  “Sounds like a good job. Interesting travel.”

  The men talked about languages, travel and their school days for over an hour, holding on to their empty cups long after they’d finished their drinks. The idiosyncrasies of their lives going through the paid for, independent education system, meant they had many unique experiences they shared with only one in ten people.

  “Where do you live?” asked Jason, an abrupt change of conversation.

  Many nights Scott went home with a guy after a conversation briefer than this, with a guy he knew even less well than Jason and this is how that going home ritual began. Jason was different, bright, interesting and altogether too desirable to simply take home to bed for a one-night stand. He was the sort of guy Scott wanted to get to know better.

  “I’m living in a shared student house.” Not quite the answer to the question.

  “Are any of them into football?”

  “That’s a strange question.”

  “Is it? Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. Yes, I have a couple of lesbian housemates. They’re into football. One of them plays for some women’s team, on an amateur basis.”

  “And we’re not talking about the woman you were with at the club? The birthday girl?”

  “No. That’s Liz. She’s not into sports either, but she is another housemate.”

  “Do you just live with girls?”

  “No. There’s Josh too. Another gay bloke.”

  “So it’s a lesbian and gay student household then?”

  “LGB, actually. Do you share?” Scott asked.

  “No, I live alone.”

  The conversation was moving rapidly in the direction of going back to Jason’s place and, just this once, Scott didn’t want to rush in that direction.

  “Have you never been in a student’s shared house? If you had, you wouldn’t be eager to go there for coffee.” Scott started blabbing again.

  “I wouldn't be going because of the house or even the coffee. But because of the company.”

  Scott would want to do a clear up first. And change the sheets and make sure there were no science experiments growing in the kitchen. And it just wasn’t going to happen that quickly with this guy because it wasn’t often Scott met a man he’d want to meet a second time but Jason was such a man.

  They stood up and left the cafe together.

  Once outside, Scott turned to face Jason. “I’d love to invite you back to my place or to accept an offer to go home with you if you were thinking of saying that. But not tonight. I’d rather get to know you better. Would you like to meet up again sometime?”

  They were already close, but Jason stepped even closer. They were not quite touching, but Scott could smell a hint of subtle cologne and feel the man’s warm breath on his face.

  “I travel a lot for work, so I’m often away a couple of nights a week, but I’m also available at unusual hours too. Perhaps we could do lunch or meet up on afternoon if you are free in the next few days.”

  “Definitely, let’s sort it by phone.” Scott was definitely available soon; he’d make sure of that.

  CHAPTER NINE

  January 2012

  Jason

  “Have you guys heard this?” Eric, the team captain, sat in front of his locker gazing at his phone. Without glancing up to see if he had anyone’s attention, he said, “Joey Barton’s on TV later this week talking about gay footballers.”

  Uproar broke out as half the men wanted to make the first, loudest or funniest comment.

  From where he was sitting, holding his phone and reading his Twitter feed, Jason feared what he might see if he were to focus on his teammates. As if making eye contact when this topic of conversation was in flow could reveal his secret.

  “What gay footballers. There are none.” The thick Mediterranean accent put across one point of view more clearly than the others.

  “You better record it, Davide, see if he mentions you.”

  “Fuck off. Chris. It’s you English that has all the homos.”

  “I’ve seen you giving out some seriously gay kisses on the pitch,” Chris, the center forward replied. “Fuck it; I’m on the receiving end of many of them.”

  “I’m Italian, not gay!” Davide looked exasperated by the suggestion.

  “So it wasn’t you who grabbed my arse last match?”

  “Why would I have any interest in your butt when so many girls are lining up for a ride on the Italian stallion?” At this point, Davide strutted around the dressing room. “Who hasn’t seen me with one beautiful woman after another?”

  “Keep your panties on, David.” Chris used the Anglicized version of the striker’s name. “We’ve got the fucking message.”

  “Just don’t say I’m a fucking poof.” Davide’s protest appeared on the edge of erupting into anger at the most offensive insult; he moved toward Chris.

  Emmanuel stepped between them looking solemn. “No one should say this about any man. In Nigeria, for a man to go with a man is a serious crime, not a joke.” Although he was a God-fearing Christian, who attended church and prayed before every match as part of his ritual, most of the time the married Nigerian, Emmanuel, joined in the fun and banter, no differently to all the European players.

  Chris turned to the Captain. “What’s Barton talking about, he’s married isn’t he.”

  “It’s a documentary made by a relative of Justin Fashanu according to the BBC website,” said Eric.

  “Who
the fuck?”

  “What the fuck?”

  If anyone had heard of Fashanu, they weren’t admitting it.

  Except Jason.

  “He was the only professional player to come publicly out as gay in England, ever. Played at the top, for Nott’s Forest for a while.” Jason was aware he was attracting unwanted attention on the very subject he didn’t want to admit to knowing anything about, but he’d been brought up with the story. “My dad played alongside him the 1980s, and he committed suicide in the 90s. Justin Fashanu I mean, obviously, not my dad.”

  There was nothing funny to say about the death or suicide of a footballer. Not with tributes scheduled that very week as a result of another high-profile suicide prominent in all their minds, the shocking death of a retired footballer and respected manager. All eyes fixed on Jason and stayed there until Chris asked Eric about the TV program.

  “So when’s the gay documentary on; I might watch it. Barton’s always worth listening to.”

  “God, at my school the gay kids were never picked to play football. I didn’t think it’s possible. Playing football at our level if you kick the ball like a girl.”

  “But you’re not here for your ability to think are you, Ron. The best thing you can do is watch the show.” Eric stared hard at the young player. No one was going to challenge Eric, not just a superb team captain and elder statesman of the dressing room but a respected married man.

  “Say what you like about gay guys playing like girls, but I’d rather watch some sexy girls running about in shorts.”

  “Don’t get the wrong idea about this, guys, but Jase, are we still going shopping later?” Mark was new to the team but an experienced player who oozed confidence even in this new environment. The locker room was potentially a bear pit of big, alpha, personalities and testosterone-fueled competitiveness and yet strangely they usually gelled as a team.