by C F White
Jay baulked at that question. He swallowed. “To England? Or to the request?”
“Either.”
Jay held his gaze, hoping that would convey enough of an answer that he wouldn’t ever be brave enough to admit aloud.
“As suspected.” Seb scraped back his stool and stood. “This is worse than you cheating on me. This is you choosing eleven men over me!”
“That ain’t—”
Seb glared at him, so Jay shut up and allowed him the moment he needed to rant and rage and get it all out in the open, no matter how much he knew it would kill him to hear all the home truths Seb was no doubt going to launch with justified venom. Well, he did say he’d murder you.
“This is utter bullshit. This is beyond unfair. It’s fucking outright illegal, is what it is.” Seb paced the kitchen, then stopped and twisted to face him. “Is there a players union? Because that’s first port of call. Then Stonewall. Get them on side.” He flapped an irate hand and off he went pacing again. “They wouldn’t request this of any other player. Any straight player. Slam them with a discriminatory charge. That’ll show them unnecessary unrest.”
“That ain’t gonna solve the problem.”
“No? I’d say it would. It gives them a whole new fucking problem.”
“Exactly. And I won’t get to play for England.”
Seb paused. Jay hoped his drooped shoulders and widening eyes would show his remorse, his shame, how trapped he felt. But also how much he wanted this. Needed this. And needed Seb to understand why he had to do this. Seb’s sharp inhalation was all Jay needed. He knew. He knew what Jay was facing.
The impossible choice.
So Jay stood and made his way over to Seb. Sliding a hand around his neck, he drew him closer and swiped their foreheads together.
“Reverse the situation,” he said, voice barely a whisper. “What if Glastonbury said you can only headline if you wait ‘til next year to get married? What would you do?”
Jay poured all his honesty and conviction into that ask. They’d been here before. Exactly like this. Forehead to forehead. Shattered heart to shattered heart. Except, back then, in Martin’s student yard, it had been Seb pleading for forgiveness.
“I’d tell them to go fuck themselves and run my own goddamn festival as part of my wedding breakfast.” Seb’s delivery wasn’t as harsh as it could have been, and he closed his eyes as he breathed out a defeated, “This isn’t fair.”
“I know. But it is what it is.”
Seb gazed deep into Jay’s eyes, catching the hidden depth of that statement—the one Seb had used on him in Martin’s back yard.
“I get it,” Seb said, lids drifting to close and shutting himself off from Jay’s penetrating stare. “I do. But I hate it.”
“So do I.” Jay curled a finger under Seb’s chin and lifted his face to kiss him. He begged with that kiss. Pleaded. But, most of all, he apologised. “Please don’t think that I don’t. I want to marry you. I want nothing more than to marry you. And I hate that I’m being asked not to.” He stepped back, swiping a hand under his nose to stave of the sniffle. “But it’s only for a short time. It’s a delay. That’s all. Not forever.”
“Because football comes first.”
“No. You come first.” Jay grabbed Seb’s hands, holding one to his chest and he’d no doubt feel his rampant heartbeat through his shirt. “If you tell me you’d leave me unless I marry you now, then I’ll have no choice. I’ll commit player treason and marry you. I won’t get an international game under my belt. Nor an England cap to my career.” He kissed Seb’s knuckles. “Calling you my husband trumps all that.”
With a deep sigh, his shoulders deflating, Seb muttered a defeated, “You bastard.” Then hung his head, muttering the rest to the black tiles. “You know I would never make you choose between me and your first love.”
“And I thank you for it.”
“I hate you.” There was no malice in Seb’s words. He didn’t mean them. But Jay knew he deserved them.
“I know. Any consolation, I hate myself right now. But I love you. I do. So bloody much.”
“When do you start?” Seb peered up at him with hope still in those doe eyes.
Jay winced. “Tomorra. First thing. Need to leave here about six to get the train from Euston.”
Seb groaned, his body wilting. “And you return when?”
“Few days training camp.”
“Oh, baby.” Seb dropped his forehead onto Jay’s shoulder, eyes tight closed. “No!”
Jay wrapped his arms around him, drawing him closer. “I’m so sorry, babe. So fucking sorry.”
Seb was limp in Jay’s embrace. Defeated. Broken. Jay hated it. Hated it. And he cursed everyone and everything that had caused that deflation in his usual spirited boyfriend. He was about to chuck it all in, about to say he’d give it up, he’d call Tony and tell him it was a no go but Seb lifted his head and said,
“I’m going to bed.” He then slid away from Jay’s arms and scooted around him.
Jay grabbed his hand, desperate for this not to end there. “Don’t wanna open that, no?” He nodded to the Champagne. It was a foolish request and a clutch of straws, but he had to try.
“Save it.” Seb tugged his hand away.
“Shall I come up with you?”
“Give me a few minutes to sulk and plan your murder first.”
Jay nodded. “All right.”
When he reached the archway, Seb tapped the wall and, head bowed, he said, “I might need you to grovel for quite a long time over this.”
“I can do that.”
“I might not want sex before you bugger off either.”
“Fair enough.”
“But, also, I’m vulnerable enough that I might let you.”
“I’ll do what you need. Balls in your court.”
Seb’s disquieted snort spoke volumes, but not as much as his next words did, “The balls never been in my court, baby. It’s always at your feet.”
With that, Seb left and Jay blinked back stinging eyes with every foot stamp up the stairs and slam of their bedroom door after. Beaten, he glanced around for something to punch. He didn’t find anything. Nothing that wouldn’t cause harm to it or him. So he yanked open the freezer door, pulled open the top compartment and dug out a tub of Häagan Dazs.
Sat at the kitchen counter, he ate by himself.
chapter six
Perfect Rhythm
Seb awoke the next morning with arms and legs draped over him and he forgot, for a tiny moment, how thoroughly miserable he was.
It was nice to be coddled. It was always nice to be wrapped up in a strong embrace that gripped him as though he might fall away. Maybe he would. Maybe Jay thought he would. He certainly felt like plunging into the pits of despair. Maybe that’s why Jay hadn’t let go of him since he’d come to bed in the late hours of the night, him having already been faking sleep.
He was aware of how dramatic he was.
But, fuck, he was depressed.
It was his vulnerability that made him snuggle back against Jay’s spoon hold. Finding his hand, Seb clutched it to his chest. It was a mild gesture of forgiveness. Seb hadn’t completely gotten over Jay’s announcement but he also knew it wasn’t his fault. Not really. He’d always be bound by football and the demands that put upon him. He couldn’t be resentful about it. Seb had his own shackles. The fact it was he who owned the key to them didn’t mean they were any less restricting.
Jay hummed and breathed into Seb’s hair. His deep, rasping purr and sharp prod against Seb’s back suggested he was considering following through with their customary wake up. Usually Seb would be writhing back about now, allowing—no, encouraging—Jay’s blatant seduction attempts. This time, though, he was playing hard to get. Because, despite Seb’s rational thought process, Jay still had a fuck ton of grovelling to do.
So he didn’t move. He remained static. Unreachable. Emotionally, that was. Physically, he had one of England’s most wanted
and expensive left legs weaved in with his own and holding him in place. Entwining his fingers in with Jay’s, he kissed his knuckles. Jay squeezed, another sign that he was asking for permission. Or maybe tip toeing through their routine arousal. Even at six a.m., when Jay had to be up and out for training, Seb gave in to his lethargic demands regardless of how late Seb had stumbled into bed after a gig and half-cut. Seb wouldn’t ever be able to resist Jay. It was his downfall. His weakness. Jay was his addiction.
Especially when he was as pliable as he was. As gentle. As pleading with his solid bulk pressed up against him and begging for mercy. Seb couldn’t resist.
He was going to damn well try though. If only for the chase.
Jay kissed the back of his hair, trailing down to his shoulder blade and dipped forward to find his neck. Seb didn’t sink farther into the pillow to give him more access.
He. Did. Not.
Okay, he might have done a little. But for his own gratification and certainly not for Jay’s.
“Can I touch you?” Jay asked in that low, sweet plea that had Seb wanting to cry. He was being too nice. Too tender. Too mellow. Jay would get down on his knees and stay that way forever if Seb asked him to right then.
Seb felt wretched. Jay would act this way to pacify him just to have a taste of something he’d always wanted. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t even his fault. It was theirs. The worlds. Those outside forces that, once again, denied them the happiness that was granted so freely to others.
“Technically, you are touching me,” Seb said, muffling his face into the pillow to prevent the shivers that tap danced down his spine and erupted his skin in pimples.
“Not here I ain’t.” Jay freed his hand from Seb’s, ghosting his palm over Seb’s body, along the sharp curve of his hip and edged toward his morning erection.
Damn that reliable testosterone.
Jay brushed fingertips over the hardened flesh, teasing and tickling whilst crawling up Seb’s shaft. Then, without warning, he gripped and tugged down, exposing his cockhead to the morning air. Seb moaned, flinging his leg over Jay’s hip to allow him better range of movement. Jay kissed his cheek, sliding Seb’s cock up and down in his palm. He did it slow and gentle, with caution and care. And that had Seb rocking into him, groans escaping from the pit of his stomach, and relenting back against Jay’s chest. He was a body of flesh right then. Nothing more.
Jay sped up his strokes, nipping Seb’s shoulder blade then up his neck to settle warm lips on his ear. “Tell me how you want it,” he purred.
Instead of responding in words, Seb slipped his leg from over Jay’s and rolled forward, yanking open the bedside drawer. He slapped the lube on Jay’s hip. Jay had to let go of his dick to fiddle with the tube and Seb remained facing away, allowing Jay the moment to lather himself. He wriggled back, gliding a firm hand down Seb’s back to the dip of his buttocks. Seb closed his eyes as Jay worked the liquid into him too.
God, he wanted this. He was so needy for this.
His eyes stung for it.
“Ready?” Jay asked, holding his dick at Seb’s backside.
Seb peered over his shoulder. “Make it good.”
Jay smiled. “For you?” He kissed him. “Always.” He then eased the blunt tip of his hot, throbbing cock inside Seb as cautious as he had been all morning.
Seb groaned through the burn as Jay forced himself further inside him. As his balls met Seb’s arse, he stopped. Paused. They both inhaled, Seb filled. Jay completed him as though he was his missing piece. Jay gripped his hip, his other arm sliding underneath him to draw him to his chest. Six years of early wake ups like this meant they had an easy rhythm. Seb might have band mates who were harmonious with him musically, but it was Jay who was synchronised with his body.
He thrust in, eased out, then slammed back inside and Seb called out for more each time.
“Touch me,” Seb demanded. He wanted Jay to do everything. To grovel at his most feral. He wanted him to prove how sorry he was.
Jay did as commanded. He gripped Seb’s cock matching each hip thrusts with each stroke. He snuggled his face into Seb’s neck, his laboured breaths and vibrating grunts rippling in Seb’s stomach.
“I love you,” Jay ground out. “I fucking love you.”
Seb wrapped his hand around Jay’s, urging him faster. “Show me how much.”
Their fingers entwined, and Jay gripped both his cock and Seb’s hand to slide up and down, his palm ghosting flesh, his fingertips gliding over the slit. Seb moaned, purred, spluttered at the intensity of Jay inside him and caressing his dick like it was his precious.
“That’s it, baby.” Seb peered over his shoulder, capturing Jay into a kiss. “That’s it. Right there. Good. So fucking good.”
Jay kissed him, his tongue lapping up Seb’s praise as though he’d been starved of it. He plunged harder and deeper, pumping Seb in unison. Seb hardened. Everywhere. Every muscle, every nerve ending, every part of him coiling and preparing to explode.
“You ready?” Jay rumbled into his ear.
“Yeah.” Seb writhed, gripping Jay’s hand to speed him up. “You?”
Jay replied with fierce thrusts and rapid strokes. Almost in perfect union, their groans ricocheting around the bedroom, Jay came inside him with Seb’s orgasm following in an exploding frenzy.
Jay slid out of him, letting Seb’s wilting cock go and, wrapping his arms around him, he held Seb to his chest and nuzzled into his neck. Seb closed his eyes around escaping tears. The way Jay held him as though he was going to lose him was a step too far. Seb spun in his embrace, freeing his arms to scrape Jay’s hair from having fallen into his eyes. He held his gaze, exhaling his frustration. Then, he kissed him, tasting bitterness from bruised lips.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Seb said, heartfelt conviction in his delivery. “I’ll wait. For you.”
Jay smiled, but his eyes glistened.
“Twenty-fifteen has a much better ring to it anyway.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely. Not only will I then be marrying an England footballer who would have brought the World Cup home, but we’ll have our own little page boy to walk down the aisle with us.”
Jay breathed through a smile and hugged Seb to him. “Sounds perfect.” His smile fell then and in its place was an accustomed seriousness. “They might dictate when we can,” he said, swiping his forehead to Seb’s. “But they can’t dictate whether we can. I am gonna marry you.”
“Good. Let’s just tell the world we didn’t cave into their demands. That we’re giving ourselves enough time to plan. And concentrate on Ann and the baby.”
“Fair enough.”
Seb kissed him then gripping a handful of his arse, he said, “Hadn’t you better skedaddle? Let me get some sleep in before tonight.”
Jay dragged himself from their embrace and Seb settled onto his back to watch him clamp around the bedroom, then rush into the shower. He stared up at the ceiling listening to the electric whirrs and droplets of water slapping against glass. He was still miserable. But as Jay clambered back in, naked, and wiping a towel over his hair, Seb delighted in that view and decided that it didn’t matter when.
Just that they could.
“Good luck, Champ,” Seb called. “I love you.”
Jay twisted from throwing on his base layer and stood. “Back at ya, baby.”
Seb grinned. Jay didn’t often use that word, but when he did it was all the more sweeter falling from honest lips. He lifted the duvet, shoving it over his head and snuggled down to sleep, keeping the remnants of his fiancé inside him for as long as he could.
chapter seven
Camp it Up
Jay had a ninety-minute train journey from London up to the England training camp in Staffordshire. To say that hour and a half was relaxing would have been lying. His nerves were shot to shit. He was arriving a day later than all the others were. They’d all had time to bond, to formulate a team, to get used to playing with each other. He
was going to walk onto that pitch like the new kid in school.
They’d know he was coming. His name was already splashed over the papers, trending on the usual social media channels, and talked about on TV and radio. Jay Ruttman picked for England. Finally. After eight years playing West Ham’s main centre forward, Jay had avoided a national team call up. Not so much avoided it, more resigned himself to that fact he’d never be chosen. Not because he wasn’t good enough. Because he was a liability. A headache. An avoidable and unnecessary risk.
But Ronnie Walker—the new England Head Coach—was giving him a chance. Why? Jay wasn’t sure. There were at least three other English born strikers playing in the Premier League he could have called upon. All decent players. They might not have Jay’s long history in club football, all being relatively young, but they had all been Academy boys and played under 21s for England at least. No doubt they’d be feeling snubbed right now.
Let them. Jay had been for years.
He glanced out of the train window, watching the urban landscape merge into rural grassland. He fiddled with his phone, plugging in headphones and logging into the Spotify playlist that Seb didn’t have access to in the hope for soothing music to calm his nerves. He was always a little apprehensive whenever he trained with new lads. He might already know them all. He’d played against most of them at one point in his career. It didn’t mean he knew how they’d react to him as a teammate and not an opposition.
He wondered, as he hit play, if he’d ever shake the feeling of being an outsider?
He decided not to think about that and settled into the first-class seat to close his eyes for the remainder of the journey.
When he arrived at Staffordshire, he had a private taxi waiting to take him to the closed off training ground at St George’s Park. There, one of the coaches greeted him at the entrance, showed him around the acres of ground, gave him his training kit, and told him to change and meet out on the 3G pitches. Jay’s hands shook as he laced up his boots. Which was ridiculous. He was thrust back to his first day playing for West Ham all over again.