Page 7

Chapter 7

Lost Boys

Brandon

I don’t know if it’s the concussion or the hangover, but when I wake up, my head feels like it’s going to explode. No, scratch that. It feels like it already

exploded , and I’ve crazy glued it back together.

Damn F-Boys. Damn goalposts. Damn life choices.

I do a quick scan of my surroundings. Hotel room. Phone on charge. Clothes piled up neatly on a chair. There’s no way I made it back here without help. A note in Freddie’s handwriting sits on my bedside table, next to a bottle of water and a box of paracetamol.

Drink this.

Take two of these.

Check your camera roll.

Don’t google yourself.

I mean it. Don’t.

I follow the first two instructions immediately, then slump back on my bed to follow the third. My phone is filled with the usual array of messages consistent with a victory, an injury, and a big night out. In that order.

Nothing from my dad yet, but he’s probably super busy with the campaign. His Chief of Staff still copies me on the weekly itineraries. I check my email, and sure enough today he’s due to speak at the opening of the new orthopaedic wing in a district near home. It’s highlighted green, which means there’ll be local TV there.

I eagerly reach over and grab the remote. It doesn’t take long to find him, right where I left him, on the Channel 29 news.

He’s standing in-front of the hospital, wearing his man-of-the-people uniform. Blue button down and maroon gilet. I can tell by his hand gestures that he’s wrapping up his standard stump speech about the importance of sensible healthcare.

A handful of reporters raise their hands. “Senator, what do you say to families who are forced to choose between paying for healthcare and putting food on the table?”

“I say they should join me in getting this country back to work so all families can realise the benefits of a steady and fair income”, he looks around, making sure he’s holding attention. “That’s why I’m so honoured to be opening this new facility today”.

My mother cuts in from behind her sunglasses, with a wink to the camera, “Especially since our son will probably be the first patient”.

A ripple of good-natured laughter, and my mother preens in acknowledgement. We may share blonde hair and blue eyes, but that’s where the similarities start and end. She’s very at home in-front of the camera, more so than I’ve ever been.

My dad laughs, a little loudly. “Whilst on the subject, my wife and I would like to thank everyone for their well wishes after Brandon’s accident. Like any parent, my heart was in my mouth, but Carters are made of tough stuff, and he was cracking jokes with us over FaceTime on the ride to the hospital”.

“Will this anecdote be in your book, Senator?” a young reporter pushes her way forward, “We all love some Brandon-content”.

The ground trips beneath my feet, even though I’m sitting down.

“You’ll have to wait and see when it comes out in a couple of weeks”, Dad says. My mother unslips her hand from his, a simple gesture that I’ve seen a hundred times in private. “As for Brandon, well, his mother and I are proud and very grateful to have the appropriate healthcare coverage. Which brings me back to…” he returns to his talking points.

I didn’t know he had written a book .

I sit in silence for a moment, then force my feet into the carpet until my breathing returns to normal.

There’s nothing on my phone from Parker. I guess he doesn’t have my number anymore. I still have his. I know without checking. I’ve lost a lot of midnight hours staring at it, toying between deleting it and calling him, and landing nowhere in the middle.

My camera roll is far more entertaining.

I’ll say this for my team, when it comes to posing with a championship trophy, their creativity knows no bounds. The group chat is popping off, and more photos are dropping in every second. I flip past the obligatory NSFW’s and make a mental note to get that trophy professionally cleaned, when I land on one that makes me double take.

It’s a candid of Parker and me together.

Someone must have snapped it when we were chatting.

He’s standing casually against the wall, and I’m leaning into him, resting my hand for balance on a nearby pillar. The light has hit us both just right.

I look happy, I realise. And he looks good. Taller, darker and broader. A sharp buzzcut, with a smatter of chest hair peeking out from beneath his unbuttoned collar. That was new. And it was hot.

Fuck. With a capital F.

Being in love with your straight best friend is tough when you’re in high school. But at least it’s understandable. There were only a couple of other gay dudes in our year, and they had nothing on Parker. But now?

I’m sure I’m over it. Over him. I am. It’s been years, and besides, he’s straight.

I jump in the shower and crank the temperature to its hottest setting. I let the water pour over me, and after a minute, my dick, fuelled by the hangover horn, starts begging for some attention. I start to jerk myself slowly, lathering up so the water and shampoo blend into a soapy waterfall.

Without warning, an image of Parker flashes through my mind. I close my eyes. My body begins to hum. He and I alone together. I imagine his hand squeezing my shoulder, then working his way across my chest, then my stomach, before slipping to my waist and then…

Whoa .

A gentle moan escapes my lips as I jerk myself harder and harder, desperately imagining his firm, hairy chest pressed up against mine and before I know it, an orgasm crackles through my body and I shoot everywhere, so hard it hurts.

I slam my palm against the shower tile in a resounding slap of frustration. Three years later, and he’s still giving me the most intense orgasms of my life.

Even worse, he still has no fucking idea that he’s doing it.

Maybe it’s better that last night was no more than just arm’s length formality. We’d parted cordially. That’s better than nothing.

Even if I can’t stop thinking about him.

****

“You wanted to see me, Coach?”

Coach Shah is usually all business, but his demeanour softens when he sees me. He dismisses the two assistant coaches, neither of whom make eye contact as they close the door behind them. I look back in alarm.

“Why did they close the door?”

“It’s nothing to worry about”. There’s footage of a recent match playing on a screen behind him, on mute. “Hell of a game, kid. Your antics gave us quite a scare”.

“Just doing what needed to be done, Coach”. I don’t rise to the implication the accident was all my fault. “I felt the occasion called for something glorious”.

If he catches the reference, he doesn’t show it.

“Brandon, there’s no easy way to say this. Whilst you were in hospital, the doctors took scans of your shoulder and ankle as a precaution. Whilst we’re confident that you’ll make a full recovery with the right kind of physical therapy, you’re not going to be ready for the tour. I’m sorry, kid. You’re not coming”.

My whole world freezes. Off the tour ? Is he freaking kidding me?

On screen, a goal is scored, and the crowd goes wild in a mute frenzy.

The tour was basically our reward for winning the tournament. We go to Europe, six weeks, ten cities, a ton of friendly games. A chance to get noticed by international scouts, see the world, and have a ton of parties. And he thinks I should miss it?

My face must betray my devastation, because he reaches across and places his hand on my arm.“It’s for your own good, Brandon. I’m thinking about your long-term future. There are concussion protocols to think of”.

“You said there was nothing to worry about!”

He blinks. “When?”

“Just now! I asked, ‘Why is the door closed?’ You said, ‘There’s nothing to worry about’”.

“Brandon, calm down”.

“Getting kicked off the tour IS something for me to worry about, Coach!”

“Brandon, listen”. But I’m spiralling.

“Your whole motto is ‘My door is always open’. Coach Shah? Oh, his door is always open. Then your door closes and my whole life falls apart? I didn’t even know your door could close!”

“This isn’t a punishment, son”.

“Coach”, I inject as much force into the word as possible. “ Please ”. I swallow. “I can’t go home”.

“That’s not all”, Coach Shah looks about as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen him. “The league has made the decision not to penalise Volchok for his involvement in your accident”.

“They’ve decided that already ?” Not that I wanted anything to happen to Volchok, particularly. But it doesn’t seem fair. He gets to walk away without any consequences, and I'm benched, busted up, and lose my spot on the tour.

“I understand your disappointment, kid. Believe me. So I talked to the other coaches, and the coaches from the Bears, and we think we have a compromise that you might be on board with”. What the hell do the Bears have to do with this?

“In exchange for you agreeing not to appeal the decision in favour of Dmitry Volchok, the Bears will co-sponsor your stay at a premium training and rehabilitation facility”. Coach Shah pauses, “Six weeks at Summit”.

Summit 434. Holy fuck.

It’s the premium soccer facility. Tons of training, activities, coaching. And sports therapy.For a moment, I can’t speak. It’s the best place in the country. And expensive. I’ve been desperate to go since I was a little kid, but my parents would never let me.

Still, something doesn’t ring quite right.

“This sounds an awful lot like a bribe, Coach”.

“Consider it a goodwill gesture. It’s your decision, but you’ll get the best care and come back with some elite-level training that any other player would kill for. Including your own teammates. They won’t be happy. You know what to do about that, right? Come back better than ever”.

I swallow. Being at odds with my team isn’t an appealing prospect, no matter how much a stint at Summit might do for my career. “You said co -sponsor?”

“We’ll put up the rest of the money. Because you’re my best player. Despite being a pain in my ass. Speaking of”, he clears his throat uncomfortably, “Summit hosts professional players too, as well as up-and-comers. I don’t know who’ll be there, but you want to get off on the right foot. And that might mean showing some discretion about your lifestyle”.

My lifestyle ?

I colour, feeling my cheeks burn. “I don’t know what you mean, Coach”.

He appraises me for a moment, then tilts his computer monitor towards me. “I’ll go and get your paperwork”. He steps out, and after a moment curiosity overwhelms me.

MLS & Openly LGBT Soccer Player Brad Fleming retires, citing on pitch and locker room abuse .

Brad Fleming, the youngest openly gay soccer player signed to a MLS team, stunned fans by announcing his retirement at the annual soccer association press conference.

The defensive midfielder originally received universal acclaim after coming out in his rookie year, but his performance has struggled in the wake of excessive trolling both on and off the pitch.

“I’m not going to pretend that I haven’t been impacted by the regular abuse I have received on the pitch, or the lack of support I’ve received off it”, Fleming stated, “The level of disappointment I feel that my sexuality is still an issue in this day and age, is second only to my disappointment in not being able to fulfil years of hard work in a sport that I love”.

Once considered to be a future contender for the men’s international team, Fleming hesitated when he was asked whether he would encourage other closeted players to come out, and instead said he hoped that one day ‘we would be in a place where coming out wasn’t necessary’, and that the ‘staff working behind the scenes would take necessary steps to protect the physical and mental wellbeing of their players’.

Fleming (23) later confirmed on social media that he would not be seeking a coaching role and intends to leave soccer altogether.

“I spoke to Summit’s manager this morning”. Coach reappears. Simon , I suddenly remember. Parker always kept his family at arm’s length. “Can I tell him you’ll be there in a week?”

“No”. I close the article, replacing Brad Fleming’s face with the Wolves logo on Coach’s home screen. I stand, not looking Coach in the eye. “Tell him I’ll be there tomorrow”.