Crossing the Touchline

by Jay Hogan

  The Blue Jays, “Promise Me,” 2003. And yes, I want… to both questions. Sunday’s good.

  Good? Who the hell was I kidding? Try freaking terrifying. When I’d first agreed, I’d literally groaned and thrown my phone across the couch, wishing I could claw my answer back through the ether. Jake had watched from the chair opposite, thinking I’d lost my mind, and maybe I had.

  When I even thought about the two of us meeting, swarms of butterflies took flight in my chest and panic gripped my throat. Ugh. Was I doing the right thing? I thought so, I hoped so. He’d made a fucking appointment. That meant something. He was taking it seriously. He was asking for my help, which meant he was planning with me in mind, with us in mind. It was all I’d really asked for. But if I didn’t hear what I needed to on Sunday—that we had a future we could actively work towards, that we could plan his imminent coming out—then I was done and dusted. I wasn’t interested in a friendship—too damn hard on my heart. I’d even thought of a change in scenery. Different city, new hospital.

  The possibility of salvaging a friendship with Reuben had been something I’d discussed with my mother. Yes, I’d talked it over with her. Cue the previous comment about intervention and passport—ergo, no choice, and I’d been so fucked-up after agreeing to meet Reuben that Jake had given up on my caffeine-guzzling freak show and phoned her himself.

  To be honest, she’d been pretty damn good, doing little more than listen while I spilled my lovesick guts all over her breakfast bar. Then she’d sent me to the bathroom with a kiss and instructions to use her stuff to fix my ugly makeup runs. What more could a son ask for?

  The lecture I expected never eventuated, and I received way less advice than I’d secretly hoped for. I didn’t even need to give her an answer to the friendship thing. When she saw my expression, she knew and hugged me hard. How the fuck did mothers do that telepathy shit? She said I needed to decide if the risk outweighed the potential heartache, and then go with the answer.

  Would I regret not taking the risk? Of course I damn well would. I’d kick myself to hell and back if I threw away even the smallest chance of having Reuben Taylor in my life—and in my bed—long-term. So, Sunday it was.

  Now all I had to do was try not to throw up all over myself multiple times before I even got there.

  AT HOME I watched the six-thirty sports and all its debates about the final Bledisloe test the next day. With a sense of burgeoning panic, I eventually turned it off and busied myself changing the sheets on my bed and tidying my room, and when that was done, spring cleaning the whole damn house.

  In the midst of this mammoth failure in distraction, Mathew, who’d managed to land a bench position for the All Blacks owing to illness in the incumbent jersey, texted me from a prematch function with the Wallabies to warn me off any contact with Reuben that might distract him from the game. Dick.

  I fired back a less-than-polite Fuck off, that then elicited a phone call that I also ended abruptly. I loved my brother, but he could be a proverbial arse at times.

  When Mathew had heard—through our mother, God bless her—that Reuben and I weren’t together anymore, he’d been a rock. Calling in and sharing a beer, and a few tears, and offering to slice the guy’s hamstrings if I gave the word. He’d also ventured, with a sly grin, that it might be for the best, as Reuben couldn’t afford to be distracted by so much fabulousness at this stage in his career anyway. I’d good-naturedly slapped him up the back of the head. Fucking rugby players. Show them an All Black jersey, and I suspect every one of them would choose it over a solution to world poverty, any damn day of the week.

  In the middle of me cleaning the oven, Jake and Trent arrived home way too early from a supposed night clubbing at Downtown G. They feigned being over the noise and the crowds, but the way Trent was holding his jacket and Jake was avoiding any eye contact spoke volumes to a less innocent intent. They disappeared into Jake’s bedroom, and seconds later loud strains of the Black Eyed Peas blasted through the apartment. I’d give them an hour before banging on the door. At least someone was getting their rocks off. And yes, I really, really didn’t need to be going there.

  THE AFTERNOON on the day of the final Bledisloe test found me at work, filling in for one of my nurses who was down with the flu. Sure, I could’ve used a ring-in to cover, but the last thing I wanted was to spend my day mooching around, counting down the hours. I felt like a convicted man waiting to be sentenced, having already convinced myself Reuben’s and my “talk” tomorrow would only prove another disappointment. Being at work at least meant I had something to occupy my ridiculous thoughts.

  Deliberately ignoring my brother’s warning—the fucker was way out of line on this—I fired off a single text wishing Reuben luck and was kind of surprised and stupidly pleased to get a “Thanks” in reply. That said, I had no intention of watching the game. I didn’t need the heartache involved in watching that gorgeous body run around in an AB jersey, slamming into other men, and looking good enough to fucking eat. Torture wasn’t my kink. I would, however, wear his favourite emerald green eyeliner for good luck, with a sexy pair of briefs he’d given me to match. Yeah, I clearly had that not-getting-my-hopes-up thing down pat.

  Reuben

  GAME DAYS were just one big nerve smash. Bad enough as a Blues player, let alone a damn All Black and… holy fuck… it was doing my head in.

  The team always stayed together the night before a match, so I had company to keep my mind from freaking out completely, and to figuratively hold my hand. There were enough players backslapping me and wishing me luck to indicate there were more than a few concerns about my form, but I tried not to let it get to me.

  The text from Cam came as I was on my knees in the dining room bathroom, delivering my breakfast to the toilet whilst realising I’d only have to replace it, churning gut or not. Being undernourished for the game was a shoo-in for disaster.

  It put a smile on my face to know he was thinking of me, but as much as I wanted to call, I just couldn’t, deciding to just text a thank-you instead. There was so much unanswered between us, hearing his voice would likely just mess with me even more—and no one, especially me, needed that today. I headed back to the dining room, wondering if yoghurt or toast would be the better choice over eggs this time around. Answer: it was a crap shoot either way.

  The game didn’t start till seven thirty, so we filled in the time with a light workout, a game-plan review, cards, Netflix, and bullshit conversation. There was the prematch meal, another test of my constitution, but one I got the better of this time. Then suddenly it was time to head to Eden Park. My father texted as I joined the line to board the bus.

  Keep your head in the game and watch for David Fowler on the wing. Don’t disappoint me. I gave Sonja the extra ticket.

  Son of a bitch. I fired back an immediate reply. Enjoy the company. She’s not coming to the aftermatch. I’ll inform the manager she’s not to be on the list.

  Radio silence ensued; no surprise there. I sent Sonja a text to explain. She replied she’d figured as much and wasn’t even coming to the game. She really didn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of all this.

  Not having Cam’s level-headed guidance and support on tap had woken me up big time. Even the thrill of achieving my dream as a starting All Black today faded against the fact I couldn’t share it with him. Don’t get me wrong, I was still stoked about selection, but if I couldn’t have him beside me—what was the fucking point? I was unbalanced, which was making my form waver, and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess why. It wasn’t that Cam kept me stable—that would’ve been too easy, right? No, the fucker damn well made me play better, that was the kicker.

  I’d had this epiphany after listening to one of the married players wax lyrical about his wife’s influence on his game, and it hit home like a shoe to the balls. My recent “unexpected” spike in form, and success, was likely less to do with a sudden surge in my ability, and more to do with having someone who cared about me
, who I opened my heart to. I was happy, or I had been, and that just made every damn thing better, including my rugby.

  Talking it out with Georgie a couple of days before helped as well. She didn’t pull any punches in condemning my lunacy and my misplaced martyrdom, accusing me of having a messiah complex of all things. I laughed in her face, but thinking about it later, yeah, maybe it wasn’t so silly after all. Not to mention she had some choice names to call me about what I’d put Cam through, and I deserved every one of them. I could only hope he’d forgive me after how badly I’d treated him, but I guess I’d know soon enough.

  On the bus, I slid into the seat next to Jacob Kilmer, breathed deep, and tried to let it go. I could do this. A newcomer to the reserve bench, Kilmer spent the entire drive to Eden Park prattling on about how stoked he was to have been selected. It was a good reminder to be thankful for what I had achieved and to just fucking start enjoying it. A reminder that had a peculiarly Cam ring to it.

  An image of watching him over my shoulder as he made love to me suddenly sprang to mind, and I managed a smile for the first time. Yeah, I might not know how things were gonna work out between us, but for tonight at least, I was gonna use every great memory of us to spur my game and get me out of my fucked-up head.

  WITH TEN minutes to go before the on-field warm up, I grabbed my boots and spent some time studying them, a habit I’d gotten into before every game. As I held them, I reflected on our game plan and where those boots needed to be on the field. Then I laced them up, left one first, and taped my wrists for support, making sure the tape finished neatly at the edge of my wrist, not on top or underneath. Every player had their own routines and respected everyone else’s. Whatever gave you an edge.

  Nerves got to some players, and even some seniors regularly threw up before every test match, but I really, really didn’t want to be one of those—like, really. I’d had no problems with the last two games, but tonight? Fuck if my stomach wasn’t hurling abuse at me already with less than two minutes to go.

  I swallowed the first sour mouthful that burst onto my tongue, but had no luck with the second, having to break ranks from the dressing-room line-up and race to the toilet. This was done to the sniggers of more than a few of my teammates and the applause of everyone on my return. Fuckers. I paused to take a bow before rejoining the line and had no sooner taken my place than we got the nod to head on out. Holy shit. This was it.

  Get your game on, Reuben, I heard Cam’s voice in my ear. Fuck them up good, sweetheart.

  I’ll do my best, I answered silently, and ran out onto the field.

  Cam

  I AVOIDED the ER break room after kick-off time, ignoring the whoops, cheers, and groans of my staff as they rotated in and out of the room between patients. It was all I could do not to pull up a chair and join them, but I wasn’t sure I could avoid revealing my decidedly less-than-platonic interest in one of the key players.

  With Mathew on the bench, everyone expected me to be front row in case he got a chance to run on, but I claimed nerves and concerns about jinxing his chances. A few gave me the stink eye, not buying a scrap of my excuse, but with nothing to hang it on, there was little they could say.

  All except for Michael Oliver, who hounded my arse all damn night. Did I mention how irritating the guy was?

  “Come on, Cam.”

  The man in question had cornered me in the sluice room, where I’d been busy with a can of scourer and a cloth. The stainless-steel benches had been scrubbed to within an inch of their reflective lives, and the fact I’d managed to inflict first-degree chemical burns to my hands in the process was of small consequence, right?

  “You never miss one of Mathew’s games, and this is the freaking All Blacks we’re talking about. What’s with you?” Michael snatched the cloth and the scourer from my hands and put them out of reach.

  I crossed my arms and threw him a withering look. “Since when do you care about the damn rugby?”

  He leaned back against a gleaming bench and smirked. “Since my close friend is self-flagellating with cleaning products instead of watching his brother play for the All Blacks, and I can’t help but wonder why.”

  He reached over and took my reddened hands in his, wincing at their raw appearance. Then he lifted his gaze to pin me with a flat stare, hard enough to guilt me out… just a little.

  An epic sigh fell from my lips. “I can’t tell you anything.”

  He pulled me across to the sink and put both my hands under running water. “Wash,” he instructed sternly.

  I sighed. “Michael….”

  “Wash.”

  I washed my hands, feeling his gaze hot on my face.

  “He’s not out, obviously.”

  I turned to meet his eyes. I didn’t want to lie again, not to this man who’d had my back multiple times at work. “Who?”

  “The man who has you in such a stew that you can’t even watch the game. I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess it’s the All Black neophyte, right?”

  I stared at him like an idiot. “How did…?”

  He sighed. “It wasn’t hard… for someone who knows you. Not to mention he was at our wedding last year and I saw you two talking outside. Well, I’m here—we’re here—if you need us. You deserve to be happy, Cam. The world needs more beautiful, sassy men like you in it. You keep the rest of us honest.”

  He kissed my forehead chastely. “And no more scrubbing, Goldilocks, understand? Find a less painful way to quell those nerves.” He eyed me meaningfully. “They’re winning, by the way—not by a mile but they are winning. Mathew’s yet to get a run but there have been tries by Tipene Akurangi and….” He paused. “Reuben Taylor.”

  The door closed at his back and I was left clutching the sparkling bench top with the beginnings of a smile on my face. I’d underestimated Michael Oliver, and not for the first time.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Reuben

  I PARKED my screaming muscles on the ludicrously small chair beside my locker, sweat dripping from every square centimetre of skin, and shocked stupid by the brilliant game I’d seemingly squeezed out of nowhere. The roar of fifty thousand screaming fans was still ringing in my ears from the final whistle, and the official prize-giving was already a forgotten blur. Except the part where I won man of the freaking match. Holy fucking shit.

  I’d done a brief stint in front of the media for that little gem, but the coaches had taken pity on me after that, and following an obligatory few comments about how I was just one of the team and how honoured I felt, blah, blah, blah, I was allowed to sneak off to the change rooms relatively unmolested. And that’s when the whole shebang really hit me, and why I’d yet to move a muscle off the damn chair.

  Nothing in my body or brain was firing how it should. I was so damn shell-shocked by the experience, I could barely string a couple of words together. And when I was finally able to drag my attention from the floor to my fellow teammates busy eyeing me with amusement… and yeah, approval, I nearly burst out of my skin with pride.

  A pair of Predator boots stopped in front of mine, at the same time as a hand clapped me on the back. “Fucking A, Taylor. Where the fuck you been hiding that all week?”

  I locked eyes with Andrew Simons, who was wearing the same shit-eating grin I’d had plastered on my face since the final whistle. “Thanks, man. I’m just so damn glad I didn’t disappoint, you know? Not like you didn’t have a great game too, though. Fucking amazing tackle on McKenzie. He was a shoo-in for that try if you hadn’t brought him down.”

  Andrew shrugged. “Maybe, but it hardly compares to the two tries you brought home for us, you glory-grabbing bastard. And where the hell did you learn to offload like that? Johan’s still grinning from ear to ear. Not often a prop gets to score under the posts. We’re not gonna hear the end of it—you understand that, right?”

  I did. I laughed. “Fuck. And you don’t even have to share a room with him. Hey, I must qualify for a room upgrade now, though, right? Th
e guy’s snoring is intense to say the least.”

  Andrew snorted. “Fuck off. He’s gonna drive us all nuts with that try shit. If anything, you’ve earned yourself a longer sentence.” He roughed up my hair and moved on, doing his congratulatory rounds of the change room.

  Head coach Gary Knowles—hardly the most talkative of men—approached with a sly smile and a proffered hand. “Well done, son. You did us proud. We want to see more of that in the future.”

  Hell yes. I’d take that. It damn near constituted a sermon of praise from Knowlesy. Pride swelled in my chest and my hand automatically reached for my phone, but as desperate as I was to share my high with Cam, I was worried how awkward it might be for him since we hadn’t yet talked.

  I thought of calling my father instead. Didn’t. Fuck him. He hadn’t even bothered to contact me since the game ended. An incoming text buzzed in my hand and I glanced down. Cam. Yes! Just seeing his name damn near brought tears to my eyes. It had been his win as much as mine, and tomorrow I’d tell him exactly that. Every time things threatened to go pear-shaped on that field tonight, I thought of him and what he’d tell me. His sass to my ear. And it worked.

  Congrats! Two tries. Fucking brilliant. So proud of you. See you tomorrow.

  The lump in my throat threatened to choke me. Proud. Cam was fucking proud, of me. It was the only message I needed. His, the only opinion that truly mattered. Grinning like a loon, I wanted to see him so badly. I’d have given anything to walk out that dressing-room door and have him waiting. Fuck what anyone said. I was so done with the closet. Done with kowtowing to my bloody father, done with facilitating Craig’s appalling parenting. I’d fight for Cory to get what he needed, no question. But Cam and me? We were a done deal, and I wasn’t moving on without him at my side. Now all I had to do was convince him of that.