Extra Time: The District Line #4 Read online

  If the Football Association let us, that is. Seb huffed.

  “Go on then.” Martin flapped a hand. “Seeing as your voice obviously bores him to sleep, you might as well use it for a bit. Tell me. What’s going on?”

  “Jay’s been told not to marry me until after the World Cup.”

  “He’s gonna play in Brazil, is he?”

  “Why is that your first question? And not the part about where he’s dumped your best friend for eleven other men.”

  Martin cocked his head. “The day Jay dumps you is the day you declare yourself Cold Play’s biggest fan.”

  “Don’t even joke about that.”

  “Jay wouldn’t dump you. He wants to marry you. Is that better?”

  “Not really. I’m so mad at him. He should have stood up for himself. He should have told them to stick it. He should have walked out of there, flicking his hair like Beyoncé, and told them if they wanted him first then they should have stuck a ring on it before I did.”

  “I’m going to stop you there and ask when you thought it was appropriate to quote Beyoncé?”

  “I’m gay, Martin. It’s my right. I don’t have many. Let me keep that one.”

  “Fair enough.” Martin slid his hair back from his face. “If he had sashayed out of there, sticking his middle finger up at the blatant hypocrisy, then he’d lose his chance, wouldn’t he? He’d lose his position on the England squad.”

  “Your point?”

  Martin took a deep breath, obviously mulling over how best to explain his musing. “It’s like when you watch Location, Location, Location,” he said. “You know how the bloke always wants a big garage and garden—probably to hide away in there so not to get nagged at—and she always wants two bathrooms and a big family kitchen-diner because she grew up in Chiswick and that’s what her mum says is the epitome of adulting. But the location they want to live in can’t give them both. So they get shown around a house that has it all but it’s literally in dumpsville, next to a power plant and surrounded by graveyards with the local vicar being a bit questionable. So when they get shown the one that has a smaller garden and only one bathroom and a separate dining room, but it’s located at the end of a rainbow with neighbours who shit roses and the school at the end of the road churns out Einsteins and Mozarts, they realise what they have to do.”

  Seb furrowed his brow. “What has this—”

  “Compromise, Sebastian. Compromise.” Martin waved a hand in the air. “I compromised my sanity so Leah could become a mother.”

  “You didn’t want the baby?” Seb gasped, hugging Rocky tighter. How dare he suggest such a thing to little, vulnerable ears?

  “Of course I did. I was being facetious. What I mean is, we all have to make compromises and sacrifices in our relationships. We can’t all get the big house in the best location. We can’t all get everything we want. Jay wants to play for England. The compromise for him to do that is to postpone his wedding to you. It’s not a never, right? It’s not the position you were in six years ago when it wasn’t even on the cards. You didn’t want to civil partner because you wanted the same rights as me and Leah. Noah and Ann. And so you should. Now you got them, it doesn’t mean you have to do it right away. You’ve got the luxury, like everyone else, to do it when you want to do it. When you can do it. You don’t have to it now because it’s a good PR stunt for the musical.”

  “That’s not why—”

  Martin held up a hand. “I know. But I also know you, Saunders. You’ve got great timing. I don’t doubt for one second that it didn’t pass your thoughts.”

  Seb dragged his gaze from Martin down to Rocky. He did know him too well. And he was making sense. Bastard.

  “Think about it, Seb. You’ve got a musical launching. Tonight. You’ve got a baby on the way—”

  Seb whipped his head up. “What? Who told you?”

  “When has Noah kept anything to himself? He came round yesterday to borrow Leah’s ginger tablets. Kinda guessed from there.”

  “It’s real early days.”

  “I know. So what I’m saying is, maybe this isn’t the best time to plan a wedding anyway. He still loves you. You still love him. He doesn’t need to do a Beyoncé. He’s doing a him. He’s following a dream and trying to do his best about it.”

  Seb sighed and nodded, gazing down at Rocky. “I hear you. I do. And rationally, I know all this. It just feels unfair. Unjust. We fought so hard. All we want is what everyone else wants. And there it was, in our reach. And they took it. I know not forever. But I’ve waited so long to call him my husband. I’ve written the best vows ever.” He threw his head back against the sofa. “I’ve written our song. I’ve picked the suits. I have the ring. All I need now is for the groom to stop playing bloody football.” He closed his eyes. “I don’t mean that. I love his enthusiasm for kicking a ball. And he looks so damn hot in that kit. But it would be nice for him not to have to ask permission about every aspect of his goddamn life.”

  An inhaled snore thundered around the room. Seb opened his eyes and peered down to Rocky. How could such a small child make such a hideous noise? Then it happened again. Not from baby lips. Seb glanced over to Martin and, sure enough, the man was sparko. Out cold. Seb rolled his eyes. It wasn’t just Martin’s son he could bore into a coma with his voice.

  “Don’t inherit your daddy’s bass control,” Seb whispered to Rocky.

  Then, head back, he closed his eyes, humming the delicate tune of his new rock lullaby.

  He had no idea how long it was before he was nudged on the arm. Seb flung his eyes open, disorientated. He glanced up, blinking back the glittering stars and laid eyes on Leah bending over him. She smiled, rustling her pink hair up into a bun then tucked her hands under the baby asleep in Seb’s arms.

  “Shit,” Seb muttered and offered Rocky back to his mother. “Sorry. Did I fall asleep?”

  “Looks like.” Leah rocked the baby for a moment, then glanced over to Martin still out cold on the armchair.

  Seb scrubbed his hands over his face to try invigorating himself awake. “Did you get some sleep?”

  “I did, yes. So I owe you a big thank you.” She kissed the tip of Rocky’s head. “What’s your secret?”

  Seb stood. “Melancholic self-indulgent singing.”

  “Ah. You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m okay. He’s given me the talking to I needed.” He angled his head to Martin then pulled out his phone from his back pocket to check the time. “Shi…shoot. I’m late!”

  “Press night?”

  “Yeah. Crap. I should’ve been at the office an hour ago. Can I leave the car here? I’ll have to get a cab. I’ll never get parked in central.”

  “Sure. Go on. I’ll kick Martin awake and get him on the move. He’ll be there.”

  Seb kissed Leah’s cheek first, followed by a gentler one to Rocky’s forehead. “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “No, I owe you.” She held up the baby. “He’s never been this content. You’ll be a natural with yours.”

  “Does everyone know?”

  Leah winced through a smile.

  Seb was about to rush to the front door when he stopped and added a few clicks on his phone. He held it up to Leah. “Just sent Martin a bunch of my acoustic tracks. Worth a try next time he’s screaming.”

  “Thank you.” Leah’s words had never sounded so grateful.

  Chapter Nine

  The Perks of Being a Footballer

  Jay had been provided with a swanky hotel room at base camp where, during his down time, he tried calling Seb. No answer. No doubt he was busy working on launch night. Jay hated that he couldn’t be there. It wasn’t the first time he hadn’t been able to attend one of Seb’s gigs. Over six years together, with two demanding high-profile careers, they often missed important events due to being scheduled in for something else. Seb had missed Jay’s cup games, and he often wasn’t around for Seb’s big arena gigs.

  But this felt different. It was different. It was a
new venture for Seb. But it wasn’t only about him this time. It was about them. Seb and Jay. Seb’s songs that he’d written and performed during their time together, apart, then together, had all been about him—them—their narrative and made into a musical about love and acceptance. And Jay was stuck here, a hundred and fifty miles away with eleven other men, on scheduled rest, until morning.

  Slumped down on the end of his bed, he tried one more time to call him. It went straight to answer phone that time. He clicked off and sent a message instead.

  Knock ‘em dead, babe. Love ya x

  He then chucked the phone on the bedside table, fell flat down on the mattress and flung an arm over his face. His life was filled with ups and downs, twists and turns. The past few years had been relatively stable. Up until they’d agreed to try for the baby. Since then, things had started to feel bumpy again. He should be ecstatic right now. He was at an England training camp. He was in the line up to play for his national side at the World Cup. After two hit and misses, he had a baby on the way. Same-sex marriage had been legalised and he’d soon be able to call Seb his husband.

  Except something still didn’t feel right.

  There was a dark cloud that loomed over him at how he’d left things with Seb. At how he thought he was choosing football over him. He was. But he hated that it had to be a choice. Especially now he knew that Wright wasn’t forced to make such sacrifices.

  A knock on his door snapped him from his petulance and he hefted up to answer it. The lads, Wright and Michaels at the front, gathered in the corridor all wearing a multitude of bling, designer labels, enough aftershave to bathe in and wide, mischievous grins.

  “What’s this?” Jay asked. He hoped it wasn’t another stupid initiation bollocks. He’d had enough of those. They got old. Fast.

  “We’re off to the casino.” Wrighty checked over his shoulder. “Keep it low key though. Don’t tell the Gaffer. Get changed. Meet us in the lobby in ten.”

  The lads bundled off and Jay closed door with his mind on overdrive. They’d all been told to rest. To stay put. They’d had a gruelling first training session followed by a couple of hours classroom tactics. The scheduled rest until morning was vital to get through the next day of much the same.

  They’d also been explicitly told no parties. No late night drinking. No shenanigans that would land any of them in the papers and have the FA thinking Ronnie Walker didn’t have a handle on his players. Jay should respect that. He wasn’t much of a drinker anyway. Nor a nightclubber. He’d planned to watch a bit of telly, slink into bed and get the z’s he needed.

  But…He’d just been asked out by the team. To go with them. That was barefaced acceptance at its finest. He couldn’t turn them down. That was a sure-fire way to get him disbanded from the inner circle. He’d spent his life proving he belonged, that he be treated equally and as one of the lads. By snubbing them, it would be like saying he was different. That he was above them. He’d be laying himself down to be treated differently.

  Burying the niggling unrest in his stomach, he ransacked his bag for something decent to wear. He’d not thought to bring anything that would be considered out-out gear. So he shoved on a pair of dark jeans and the plain black shirt he’d brought in case there’d been a team meal. He then did his barnet, sprayed on the cologne Seb had bought for him on his last trip to New York, grabbed his phone that still had no reply from his text, and made his way in the lift to the lobby.

  The lads greeted him with cheers and handshakes, which shook the unease from his shoulders. Jay was pumped. He could do this. It was only a couple of drinks. Maybe a cheeky bash on the blackjack, then back to the hotel to sleep. Camaraderie was half the battle to creating a winning team. Everyone knew that.

  What harm could this unscheduled outing really do?

  He chose not to dwell on that as he clambered into a private cab with the others and watched the world go by on the way to the Mayfair Casino just outside Birmingham. Michaels seemed to know the place, as he shook hands with the suited security then led them all up the back stairs to a private cordoned off area. Drinks were already waiting for them. Already chilled. Already flowing. Already on tab. There were magnum bottles of champagne, beers tucked into ice buckets, an abundance of spirits lined up on the glass table. It didn’t look like an on-the-whim one-drink affair.

  The lads all passed around the offerings and Jay agreed to a bottle of lager. He couldn’t go wrong with that. Less headaches in the morning. He then settled back to take in the atmosphere. They were treated like royalty. Which, Jay guessed, they practically were. The England football team would have more clout than the Windsor’s now. Certainly when qualifiers were on the horizon and a chance at a World Cup win next year.

  Jay parked himself on the jet-black sofa and enjoyed the moment of being one of the inner circle. He was part of the team already. He was one of the lads. One of the rebel lads. And he was invited into all the idle chit-chat, all the boisterous banter and had a drink shoved into his hand while it went on. He’d been out with his West Ham teammates on occasion, but it hadn’t been anything like this. This was men splashing their cash, enjoying their status as an England footballer, and indulging in a time that wouldn’t last forever.

  After a few drinks, a few lost bets on the blackjack and roulette, Jay was getting tipsy. He leaned back on the sofa and watched some of the others dancing along to the music that had cranked up the volume on their night. A few girls meandered onto the scene. Made-up girls. Short dresses and long hair. Hands roamed places Jay wasn’t sure they should. Lips formed kisses. And Jay had to look away when Wrighty’s tongue found its way inside a busty blonde’s mouth. He held his bottle up to the light. Two swigs and he’d be finished. He’d make his own way back to the hotel. This part of the night wasn’t for him.

  A figure sat beside him, and Jay peered to his right at what he had assumed would be one of the others on his squad that wasn’t as hardcore as the main back four were. It wasn’t. It was a man though. A slender man, in a tight vest and even tighter jeans with a barbed wire tattoo curved around the top of his arm. His hair, closely shaved around the back and sides with the rest gliding up into a quiff, was as black as his eyeliner.

  “Hi.” The man smiled, then held out a hand. “Ryan.”

  Jay peered up to the group of lads mooching by the rope that separated them from the rest of the echelons. Each had a girl hanging on their arm as well as their every word. Some were eating those words through locked lips. Wrighty dragged an arm over one of the girl’s shoulders—one he hadn’t been snogging with earlier—and met Jay’s gaze. He nodded, raising his glass of bourbon and smiling to Jay in what he could only assume was unashamed encouragement.

  Jay flickered his eyes closed, then opened them to settle on Ryan. “Do I need to tell you my name?”

  Ryan chuckled, lowering his outstretched hand. “I guess not.” He fluttered his eyes. “You’re Jay Ruttman.” He smiled illuminating white teeth. “And I know you’re not interested in what they get.” He nodded over to Wright and the gang. “So I came to relieve you of having to pretend you’re one of the macho straight lads for a while.”

  Jay clenched his jaw. “And you thought I might be interested in that?”

  Ryan shrugged with one shoulder. “Are you?”

  “No.” Jay downed his beer, clattering the empty onto the glass table. “I ain’t.”

  “Too bad. It’s not often I get a chance when the squad comes to town.”

  “Less than zero chance with me, mate.” Jay stood. “You’d have more sway with one of those macho straight lads.” He raised his chin. “I don’t play away when I’m playin’ away.”

  “Your boyfriend’s a lucky man then.” Ryan sat back, draping an arm over the sofa and raked his gaze over Jay’s body as though undressing him with his eyes.

  “Fiancé.” Jay stepped over Ryan’s legs to get out of the firing line.

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “Nunna your busines
s.”

  “Tease,” Ryan said with a tut. “Are you even gay?”

  Jay swivelled to face him, fists balled. “Why? ‘Cause I don’t fit your stereotype? Y’know what I can’t stand? I’ve been fighting against people like you my whole fuckin’ life. Those who think I can’t fit in with the macho straight lot ‘cause I’m gay. And those who think I don’t belong in the gay camp ‘cause I’m one of them. All I am is me. A man who plays fucking great football and goes home to his fiancé every night without fail.” He slammed a few notes on the table to foot some of the bill, then leaned in to growl in Ryan’s ear. “I do suck cock. I just only suck one.”

  Trying not to let that exchange get to him, nor judge any of the others for what they got up to when their wives and girlfriends weren’t watching, Jay said his goodbyes to the team, then bundled out into the darkening street. He checked his watch—another airport lounge gift from his fiancé—and the plan concocted into his head without much forethought.

  Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the guilt.

  Maybe it was his aching heart.

  Whatever it was, it led him away, and he held up a hand to an oncoming cab and clambered in. “Train station please, mate.”

  * * * *

  Seb was a bag of nerves.

  Stood in the wings of the Arts Theatre, he peered out to the audience. Not a vacant seat. All the press were here. Every blasted invited one now took up the seat labelled with their name. He’d expected a few no-shows. This musical wasn’t for everyone. Especially those who wrote for the right-wing papers. But they were all here. Watching on and waiting for the Drops’ first musical. Maybe they’d trash it. Who cared? The point was, they were here.

  As much as he was confident in most of the things he produced—his songs, his albums, his PR—he still felt the twinges of apprehension for how they might be received. This was no different. In fact, it was a hell of a lot different. This was him trying to prove he could do anything. Was he shoehorning his songs to fit a narrative that wasn’t fit for purpose on a West End stage? Maybe. Possibly.