by C F White
After a few stretches to loosen his stiffened body, he made his way out to the pitch. The other lads were running laps, camaraderie already in full swing. Jay met Ronnie at the side line, and he slapped a palm into his.
“Welcome to the team, Rutters.” Ronnie’s Yorkshire drawl was soothing to Jay’s east end ears. He was used to those at West Ham, accent as hard and loud as the Bow Bells. Whereas Ronnie commanded attention by having to be concentrated on to hear him. Good tactics for the head coach of a boisterous football squad.
“Cheers. Good to be here. Ready to get going.”
“Glad to hear it.” He clapped Jay on the back, then whistled out to the pitch.
It was like watching a farmer herd cattle at how obedient, and boisterous, the squad were. Jay waited, rubbing his hands together to both stave off the chill and stop his fingers from showing his treacherous trembling. He caught sight of the guitar tattoo on his ring finger and ran his thumb tip over it. That ritual usually helped calm his nerves and give him a bit of Seb confidence.
Ten men all stood in a circle in the centre of the pitch and eyed him as he jogged over. They waited for Ronnie to do the intros.
“Lads,” Ronnie said. “We have our striker. You’ll all know Rutters from West Ham.”
The lads nodded, mumbled their welcomes, with a few fist bumps his way. Jay licked his lips, itching for the session to start and desperate show them all what he was made of. Why he was here. Why he’d been chosen to be here. Why he’d left his fiancé in bed to be here.
“We’ll go through the qualifiers and what we got coming for the classroom. For now, I want to see your fitness. So, find your men. Drills, one on ones, then stretch it out and into a five a side. Rutters?”
“Yes, Gaffer.”
“You’re with Carlisle. Gonna play him wing defence, so he’ll compliment you nicely. Plus, you know each other.”
Jay nodded in recognition of Bruno Carlisle, his old team Captain. He’d been sold from West Ham four years ago to play out his final career across the pond in LA. He was looking good for it. Tanned. This was more than likely going to be his final cap. Jay rolled his shoulders, ready to get going. He was practically a football veteran here, besides Bruno that was. He had to remember that. If nothing else, he had to remember that he had eight years professional football under his belt and a hundred and thirty-eight goals scored on his record.
As soon as the ball found his feet, he was off. Training sessions, no matter who they were run for or by, were Jay’s adrenalin rush. He threw himself into it, making up for his tardiness by training hard and, in the short match, scoring again and again. He was on a high when Ronnie blew the whistle and declared the outdoor session to an end. The other players had accepted him. No complaints. No hard tackles that weren’t part of the game. They all honoured him with the respect he deserved. That they all deserved. No matter what they did behind closed doors.
The changing room wasn’t any different. Boisterous. Loud. With various scents and sprays cloying in the air. Jay showered, changed, joining in with the squad’s mundane chatter as they all wandered to the dining hall. The spread laid out for lunch was even better than Jay got at West Ham. It was restaurant quality, with nutrition being foremost. He filled up his plate, sat on a table surrounded with a few other players, ready for the next part of his initiation.
Lunch banter.
It didn’t take long before the conversations went from general lad chat about football, fitness and their representation in FIFA 13 to playground sniping.
“Watch it, Micheals.” That was Wright, the goalkeeper, nudging their centre midfield on his elbow as he shovelled in the pasta dish. “Might wanna limit that. Your spunk’ll taste like garlic.”
Micheals snorted, giving Wright the side eye. The lads all laughed, boisterous cat calling bouncing off the dining hall walls and merging into deep murmurs.
“Trying for a baby, Wrighty,” Michaels retaliated, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Means it won’t be going near her mouth. Maybe you don’t know how the anatomy works.” He waved his fork, calling out to the rest of the staff. “Think Wrighty needs a pep talk, Skip! He’s been shoving his dick in the wrong hole.”
“Any hole’s good for me,” Wrighty said, winking and ripping off a piece of garlic bread with his teeth.
“Maybe it’s you who should lay off the garlic then,” Bruno hollered over heads.
“Mate, my spunk tastes like Champagne. Unlike yours, you dirty fucker.”
“You tasted it?” Bruno asked, eyebrows rising in challenge.
“Fuck off,” Wrighty reached for his water and downed a load.
Ripples of laughter faded out, leaving in its wake clattering knives and forks before Mathers, the youngest on the squad at eighteen, piped up with a musing, “Does it taste different? Like, does what you eat make your jizz taste of it.”
“Probably best to ask Rutters,” Wrighty said, pointing his fork across the table.
There was a hush as Jay peered up to meet Wright’s gaze. Then, for some unfathomable reason and because he was comfortable and had forgotten that he wasn’t surrounded by the West Ham teammates who he’d been bantering with for six years, Jay filled it with a brazen, “Sometimes, yeah.” Then shovelled in more of his lunch.
The room quietened. Jay glanced to each of the lads who gazed upon him, mouths open. Shit. He shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have brought attention to himself. He shouldn’t have retaliated. Nor shoved the unspoken down their throats first day at camp. He swallowed, cheeks flushing, and waited. That had probably sealed his fate. He’d always be on the periphery of a team.
Then Wrighty belted out a laugh. “Does it, mate?” he asked, all honesty and good-natured. “Good to fucking know!” He pushed back his plate. “Can I get the salad option please, Lottie?” he called to the servers behind the kitchen.
Jay snorted and the laughter from the others followed suit. Banter. That’s all it was. If Jay remained quiet and didn’t get involved, he’d always be on the outside. By mucking in, being confident, a team couldn’t label him as the sensitive touchy one. If it didn’t overstep a mark—which it wouldn’t—he could handle anything. He was one of the lads here too. He was part of the team. Accepted.
Now that was out of the way, it was time to play football.
“How’s the wedding plans coming along?”
Jay peered up, but it hadn’t been him that Michaels was talking to.
“Yeah, all good, mate.” Wright sat back, rubbing his belly. “Not long now. She’s gone total Bridezilla. Counted the fucking diamantes on her dress. Went garrity there was some missing. How the fuck can she know that? How many are there meant to be?”
Micheals chuckled. “Birds, mate. All bat shit crazy when it comes to weddings. My missus went nuts that they couldn’t get the cake the right shade of pink.”
“You’re getting married?” Jay asked across the table.
“Yeah.” Wright scrubbed a hand over his face, fingertips brushing stubble. “Next month. Been engaged a year so she’s finally twisted my fucking arm to agree the date.”
“Next month?” Jay dropped his cutlery, falling back in his chair. “In between qualifiers?” He angled his head toward the coaching team a couple of tables away, heads together as though planning the thing. “They all right with that?”
“Why wouldn’t they be?” Wrighty frowned. “Not up to them, is it? Not like it’ll be on a matchday.”
“No.” Jay peered down into his plate. “Guess not.”
“What about you, Ruts?” Michaels asked. “Ain’t you engaged? It’s legal now, innit? Set a date?”
Jay snorted. “Only been engaged six years, no point rushing it.”
He doubted his teammates would pick up on the blatant sarcasm and, as he glanced around, none of them had and they all tucked into their desserts oblivious to the hidden depths of Jay’s seething annoyance.
Jay didn’t eat his dessert. He’d lost his appetite.
&n
bsp; chapter eight
Rock-a-Lullaby
Seb couldn’t get back to sleep after Jay had left. He was too miserable. So for the first time in forever, he got out of bed early and decided to get some jobs done before the launch that night. Except each task he tackled, the novelty wore off after mere seconds. And without Jay there to reprimand his lack of focus and attention, he left all the washing up from breakfast in the sink to breed new life. He couldn’t even find motivation in the music room to compose a song. Not even a ranting one.
God, he was depressed.
So, after a quick phone call to Ann to check she was okay, where he resisted the urge to call her best friend a wanker, he showered, dressed, locked the house and drove Jay’s BMW across town. There was only ever one place he could go when he needed to offload. He knew he’d be up. He always was these days.
Because he was able to have everything he ever wanted.
Martin opened the front door with a screaming baby swaddled in a blanket in his arm. Seb flinched at the ferocity of Rocky’s wail.
“He might make it as a front man in a rock band with that set of lungs,” he said, pointing at the tiny red-faced cherub.
“Tell me about it.” Martin kicked open the door for Seb to follow him into the house. “What do I owe this pleasure?” He had to raise his voice over the incessant screams of his first-born.
Seb rubbed inside his ear. “Could use a chat,” he called at the back of Martin’s head.
“Yeah?” Matin fell down into a comfy rocking chair one end of his living room. A living room that looked as though a bomb had exploded in it. A bomb that spat out baby stuff. “You might have to shout.” He rocked the baby in his arms, using his gangly legs to bounce the chair.
Seb watched for a moment, undecided. He was invading Martin’s life. His free time. He was on extended paternity leave. Seb should probably leave him to it. He had his own problems to contend with. And by how Martin looked like crap, he probably hadn’t slept in days. Weeks. Months, even. He clearly didn’t need Seb crashing into his front room, pissing and whining about his bastard boyfriend.
He stayed where he was though.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asked, nodding to the baby.
“Fuck knows.” Martin rocked back and forth in the chair, snuggling the baby against his chest that only drowned out the cries by preventing his output. “He only stops when Leah feeds him.”
“So why isn’t she feeding him?” Seb lowered himself into the sofa.
His moment of hesitation might have been short lived, but the fact he’d had it at all proved he was a decent friend.
“’Cause she’s fed him all night and she’s knackered. She needs to sleep. So I’m taking over whilst she buries her head under mounds of pillows. Could use your soundproofing insulation in here.”
“Can’t you give him a bottle?”
“He refuses it.”
“Ah.” Seb nodded. “A breast man.”
“Like father, like son.”
“Ha.” Seb chewed on his lip. “Tried a dummy?”
“Spits that out as well. He knows it’s fake.”
“I guess nothing beats the real thing.”
“Apparently not. And, to be honest, I’d quite like to remember what my wife’s breasts looked like myself without this little head in the way.”
Seb snorted then hovered to the edge of the sofa cushion. Martin gazed into his baby’s feral eyes as it screamed and snotted on him.
“How long can he keep that up for?” Seb asked.
Martin rolled Rocky closer to his chest and checked the watch on his wrist. “He’s been nonstop with me for an hour.”
“Christ.”
“He’s done a solid three before passing out.”
“So, we have two more hours of this delightful backing track then?”
“Hmm.” Martin reached for a baby bottle filled with milk by his feet, popped off the lid and held the teat to Rocky’s lips. The screams increased. “Anyway, what can I do you for?” He asked over the battle of the bottle, which Seb thought would be like someone force feeding him instant coffee. “Might as well feel like I can achieve something by solving your problems. It’s been my life’s work to date.”
Seb stuck his middle finger up. Martin wasn’t wrong though. So he breathed out a miserable, “It’s Jay.”
“No shit.” Martin gave up with the bottle, tucking it between his legs, and gave Rocky another shush and bounce. “What’s he said no to this time? ‘Cause I do still agree with him about that bathroom design. It’d make me throw up, all those disco lights when trying to take a piss.”
“Getting married.” Seb’s delivery was deadpan.
Martin widened his eyes and stamped his foot down on the carpet to stop his chair from rocking. “He’s broken off the engagement?”
“No,” Seb sighed. “God. Can you imagine if he did? I’d be holding his bollocks in my hand right now. And what would he make that tattoo on his ring finger into? A giant cock?” He laughed but didn’t really feel it, so he picked at his fingernails. “He doesn’t want to have a wedding whilst he’s playing for England.”
“Oh.” Martin pushed off from the floor to resume his rocking. His baby resumed his screaming.
“Jesus wept, Martin!” Seb stood and stomped over to him, holding outstretched arms and waggling his fingers. “Give him to me.”
Martin froze. He narrowed his eyes and had that look of a man who didn’t know whether to trust his instincts. “What?”
“Give me your child.”
“Why? What are you going to do?”
“What I do with all my malfunctioning amps. Smash them.” Seb rolled his eyes. “I’m giving you a break. Let me hold him.”
“You ever held a baby before?”
“Christ, Martin, yes, I have. Noah had two for fuck’s sake! I’m pretty sure at some point I held them. And Jay’s brother’s ones. I’m a natural caregiver. I have a calming aura.”
“You? A calming aura? The man who wrote Fifty Reasons Why I Want to Kill You (You Fucking Scumbag)?”
“I was nineteen when I wrote that.”
“Still an awesome tune.”
“I know right.” Seb thrust his arms forward again. “Come on. Let me have at him.”
Martin looked at his baby, then back up to Seb.
“How much worse can I make it?” Seb clamped his hands on his hips. “I’m concerned he’s going to break a vocal chord and I won’t be able to get him in the Drops’ offspring band.”
After a moment of reluctance, Martin stood then handed over his baby and wrapped the blankets around him. Seb instinctively started to sway, making those shushing noises that he’d believed were a waste of time whenever he’d heard Martin or Barbara doing them. There wasn’t a chance a screeching baby could hear anything over his ear-splitting screams. Martin waited for a moment, not daring to move away and give Seb space. So Seb backed off, pacing up and down the living room whilst swaying Rocky. His crying muffled, then paused. Seb glanced back to Martin, eyes wide. He was a natural. He was the baby whisperer! He was Super Nanny! Manny. Seb gave a smug grin.
Then, after a heavy inhale of breath, Rocky screamed again.
Seb flinched.
“Give him back!” Martin demanded.
“Bugger off.” Seb danced away, not giving in after the first bad review. If he had, he wouldn’t have a dozen albums to his name, millions of sold copies, and a musical based on his songs.
So he used what he had in his arsenal—his voice. He could outdo this little tyke. Whilst swaying Rocky in his arms, he hummed a sweet melody with words falling from his lips after without much coercion. When he was confident in his lyrics, Seb lifted the baby and pressed his lips to his tiny ear.
He breathed Rocky in. The scent of new-born, of milk, of lavender talcum powder, had him tearing up. So he sang louder to curtail the emotional outpour that he couldn’t put down to paternal hormones. What drifted out from his lips was a heartfelt lullaby
, made up on the spot. Even he was impressed. He kept his voice light, and soulful but ensured his vocal vibrations could be felt by the baby through his chest.
Rocky spluttered for a while, his screams slowly dissipating. Then those subtle cries morphed into gentler sniffles and his scarlet face returned to its more natural golden-sand shade. He hiccupped and Seb laughed through his chorus, peering over to Martin. He winked.
Martin dropped back into the rocking chair, hands splayed on the armrests as he watched in awe. Seb swayed over to the Moses basket in the corner of the room and with his hushed singing, began lowering the baby inside.
“No!” Martin leapt from his seat, hands up. “Please. Please don’t let go of him.”
“What? Why?” Seb snatched the baby to his chest, eyes wide. “He’s asleep. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“You put him in there and he won’t be any more. Please. I might get this ringing out of my ears if you just hold him for a bit.”
The pure desperation on Martin’s face had Seb hovering away from the basket as though it would have eaten the baby alive. “Okay,” he said. “Sit down. I got this.”
Martin collapsed into the chair, moulding into the cushions and his deep breaths caused his chest rise and fall. Seb sank into the sofa, coddling Rocky closer and watched his tiny lids flicker, his cute button nose twitch and his perfect little lips quiver as he drifted off into baby dreamland.
Seb sniffed back the tears.
“Nancy boy,” Martin joked.
Seb laughed. “He’s so fudging cute I could die.”
“Please don’t.” Martin tapped the armrests. “Least not until Leah wakes up to take him from you.”
“She’ll have to rip him from my cold dead fingers.”
“To be honest, if he’s asleep, I doubt she’d even bother.”
Seb chuckled and snuggled back into the cushions to get comfortable. No doubt, he’d be here a while. He couldn’t resist kissing the tip of Rocky’s head as he did so. One day…one day this would be his child. Well, not this one exactly. Martin might have something to say about that. Although, looking over at his oldest friend’s dishevelled state right then suggested he could be brought on board with the idea. But Seb might have his own child. His own baby to soothe. His and Jay’s.