Come Back

Jay snorted and glanced up to the digital timetable display. “Two minutes.”

“Fuck’s sake, why did you have to trade in our tangerine machine? We could have used that car right now.”

“I had to, to get the upgraded motor. Least the BMW will be more subtle. With blacked-out windas, an’ all.”

“Damn right. But we could have taken a cab.”

“And fork out a fuck ton to pay some geezer to sit us in midday traffic? No, ta.”

“Isn’t now a little prudent to be counting the pennies? If that last contract you signed at West Ham for a cool half a mil is anything to go by.” Seb tsked. “New money.”

“I’ll always count my kilkennies,” Jay retaliated. “No matter what I earn now. Just like you’ll always be an entitled rich kid who throws away his mash the moment it touches his sky rocket.”

“I won’t even attempt to decipher what you just said.” Seb twirled a crunchy tip of dark brown hair between his fingers. “And I swear you do it to confuse the fuck out of me.”

“Nah. I just know you like it.”

“Ha.” Seb ran his tongue along his front teeth. “That I do. Say more.”

Jay chuckled. A group of rowdy lads bundled down the underground steps to the platform, each one wearing a replica Tottenham football shirt, and the remnants of their drinking session hit Jay in the face. Jay cursed under his breath. Why he’d agreed to do this on the same day as a London derby was due to kick off, he’d never know. Edging closer to the yellow line, he impatiently awaited the next train hoping to avoid any undue attention.

It had been getting harder to venture out in public, but he couldn’t remain inside with Seb forever. Not that it was a particularly bad thing when they did get to close the doors to their poky flat and shut out the world for a while.

“Ah, bollocks.” Seb shoved Jay on the arm and squirmed through a crowd of commuters. “Who the fuck invented a fucking camera on a fucking phone? How is that ever going to be fucking useful?”

Stumbling to the end of the platform, Jay peered over Seb’s shoulder. The flash of a mobile camera illuminated the tunnel, and all the other passengers scrambled to see who or what had been the target of the non-consensual snap. Him? Seb? Both of them. Together. Bowing his head, Jay gripped the peak of his cap to conceal as much of his face as possible into the shadows.

This was also taking some getting used to—the attention, the random cameras being shoved in his face, the recognition on the street that his status as one of the top goal scorers of last season had brought him. Seb seemed to take the attention in his stride. But he’d always been destined for celebrity status, and revelled in the public’s scrutiny. Like a moth to a flame, Seb was drawn to the bright lights of the media circus they’d inadvertently created for themselves. Jay wouldn’t have him any other way, of course. Well... Maybe sometimes.

“The specs ain’t working.”

“Nor is the cap.” Seb slapped the peak of Jay’s hat and it fell to obscure his vision.

“Piss off.” Ripping it from his head, Jay huffed and slicked back his floppy blond hair. His hooded sweatshirt rose to reveal his stomach, but he slapped it down, double lively, on seeing Seb’s roaming gaze. “And you can put your tongue back in.”

He almost wiped the corner of Seb’s mouth with his thumb. But that would have caused even more of a stir, and they’d made their pact not to fuel the speculation in the press about them. Jay may have outed himself last year, but he refused to speak of his love life—of Seb. Keeping that firmly in the shadows aided his survival on the pitch, the training ground, the changing rooms, even if he claimed it was so Seb could find his own path without the links to him. And he was.

“You show those abs,” Seb licked his lips, “and I’m going to drool. Sue me. I got a lawyer.”

“Speakin’ of cash...”

The tube train shunted into the station and the doors bleeped open, stifling the conversation that Jay had been meaning to have for a while. Well, since this had all got a bit more serious. Steering Seb onto the carriage, Jay pointed toward two vacated seats and Seb grabbed the copy of the Metro newspaper left on the multicoloured cushion.

“Hmm?” Seb sat and flicked through the pages, eyes hidden behind his dark glasses, but Jay knew they’d be darting across the printed words and no longer focused on him. Priorities. Not for the latest news in the capital: probably more for the entertainment section. The hottest in music releases, more specifically.

“We need to get the finances sorted.”

“Like how?”

“The club are setting up a meetin’ with an agent, so I gotta know what we got between us.”

“An agent? Why do you need one of those money-grabbing sleazes?” Seb slapped the paper to his lap. “You have me to swipe your hard-earned cash off your hands.”

“Ain’t that the truth. But the club recommended it. Could be a good move. Getting someone to, y’know, deal with all the shit. Especially with what we’re about to go do right now.”

Seb chewed his lip. “How much?”

“They’ll take ten percent.”

“Of your wages?”

“No, off my boot laces.” Jay tutted.

“That’ll make it hard to kick a ball.”

The train pulled out of the station and Jay rocked against the window pane. The raucous banter from the group of lads all squashed into the vestibule drowned out the squeal of the metal wheels on the track. Jay tensed, wriggling in the seat and adjusted his trackie bottoms down his legs. This train couldn’t go quick enough.

“And what do these people do for the sweat off your back?” Seb returned his interest to the Metro.

“Sort my life out.”

“They’ll tell you to stay in the closet.”

“Bit hard that now, innit?”

Seb smiled. “Whatever you want, Champ.” He trailed his gaze back to the printed text on the newspaper. “But you are aware of my own background in business? I can sort your finances out into various investments that’ll mean you won’t be destitute by the time you’re thirty.”

“You mean, put my hard-earned dough into your band?”

“No sell-by date on rock and roll. Look at Bowie.” Seb grinned.  “No, you don’t need an agent. You just need some sweet talker to answer all those OK! And Hello requests. What about your dad? Surely the man wants to give the decorating stint up at his age? I would pay good money to read John Ruttman’s response to a photo shoot, ‘fuck off sweet’art, my son ain’t no piece of meat to sell your shit rag so you can stop gettin’ your knickers in flap over ’im. And you at the Mail, you homophobic twat with a microphone, you can go fuck yourself. ‘”

Jay glared. Hard. “And that’s the reason, right there, why you ain’t allowed to talk to the press.”