more than having money and being famous.”

He’s more than willing to subscribe to the idea of whatever I do in bed is private. He certainly

has no intention of sharing the intimate details of his sexual relationship with Daniël with others, but

why does that mean he has to hide everything that exists between them, unless it’s called being good

mates or having taken the young talent under his wing? Even the most tight-lipped players in any

professional football competition in any part of the world don’t actively hide the fact that they are

with a woman. However exciting and, as he knows from wonderful experience, beautiful secret love

can be, marriage has limited meaning without being witnessed by other people.

And now there's this insolent bloke who assumes, not incorrectly, that Steve isn’t blind to the

sexual appeal of men and he can’t decide between telling half a lie and taking all of a risk.

“I understand you completely. Okay, almost completely.” The man is tenacious; Steve has to

give him that. “If I go public on you, I stand the chance of losing my wife, my family even. Please,

you don’t have to do anything. Just let me touch you. I’ll make it really good for you.”

There’s movement around them, the shuffling of feet coming closer. There are excited

whispers he can’t understand but can guess the meaning of easily enough.

He refrains from vanity searches on the internet, even if it’s about Daniël, with the exception

of the articles from a handful of sharp and to the point football analysts. But he’s aware of the

speculations: which player is one of us? Which player is doing it with which player? Most if it will be

motivated by wishful thinking. He can imagine they almost all have their fantasies about the pretty

boys, preferably the ones who play in the first teams of one of the major clubs, being one of them, but

from the surprised sounds he hears around him he doesn’t think his own name has been mentioned

very often. That, however, doesn’t prevent the rustling of clothes and the collective breathing from

going faster; the men trying their best for a fantasy to last them a lifetime. No one will believe them

when they post their messages on the online communities, no matter how much they’ll stick to what

they claim to have seen. Even if their eyes deceived them in a way that’s too ridiculous to be true, and

saw the truth in a way they would never have come up with. Quiet, nearly invisible Gavan with that fit

hot number from Holland? Yeah, right.

His life hasn’t prepared him for this. Why don’t they ask for autographs for their eight year old

nephews? What is this place? Why is this? He doesn’t feel the need to be in someone else’s dream,

when he’s already perfectly happy with the one he and Daniël are dreaming. He will never blame

people for what happens in the privacy of their own minds, because whoever has real control over

that? He can just about live with the idea that some of them share those thoughts on the internet about

his Daniël doing it with who knows which pretty player (they’ll never guess the truth), but he doesn’t

want to be confronted with it just because he happens to take a nice long stroll and can’t find a loo.

Why doesn’t he just open his mouth to tell them, in a nice way, to get lost? He can already hear

Dan’s laughter when he’s going to tell him about it. It can’t be that difficult to speak one’s mind. He

appreciates his behaviour in public reflects on the club, but that doesn’t mean he has to accept this

kind of...he isn’t even sure how to call this. Don’t these people have homes to go to? Lovers?

Families? He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the right tone: friendly, but firm.

Before he can even say the first words, they’re scattered like a flock of frightened birds. The

rustling of clothes has been replaced by the stamping and scraping of nailed boots, and the excited

whispers by harsh curses.

The man who couldn’t keep his hands to himself is gone with the rest. He must be pretty

proficient in the vanishing act because Steve doesn’t see it happening. Probably back to wife and kids,

saving the story of his big adventure for when he’s alone with his computer and the friends whose real

names he’ll never know.

Chapter 2

“Fucking hell, tell me you’re not him.”

“Okay, I’m not him.” Steve smiles because the look on the face of the man is genuinely funny.

If this night is going to stay oddly surreal, he might just as well accept it with a smile and a joke. He

guesses the autograph moment will be just about now, together with the more recent standing next to

the famous person and ask your mate to make a photo with his mobile phone.

Only then he sees the absolute horror on the face of the man, and on the faces of the others

around him. The shattered admiration. He doesn’t count them; guesses there might be half a dozen

pairs of staring eyes and gaping mouths. No, definitely none of them is thinking: I can’t believe my

luck today.

“My little boy has his poster above his bed. Plays the same position with his school team. Has

his number on his kit. The nipper worships this fucking, bloody... can’t even say it...”

“If you can’t even trust the boys of your own club...”

“Just now we’re finally getting somewhere, with a gaffer who knows what he’s doing and

owners who give a shit and some new boys with real talent ...”

“It wasn’t easy to get airtime for his bleedin’ song ...”

“Away games are going to be hell if they ever find out ...”

“In a park, where there’s families and all ...”

“Good thing we’re here to put things right, because the police have gone all politically correct.

Protecting the queers instead of the decent people.”

“He didn’t even try to get away, like they always do. Saw them running? Won’t see them any

more tonight. Thinks he’s something better. Thinks he’s one of us.”

What’s he supposed to say? That what the men thought they saw was a misunderstanding? That

he simply needed to take a leak? That his private life is exactly that, private? That he would never risk

the last years of his career as a professional player at this level to seek some cheap thrill in a park,

when he has the genuine article in his own bed? That love is love? That no father should teach his

child to hate?

Something tells him the men gaping at him are not of the polite conversation kind. And most

likely a statement, however truthful, that he just happened to walk in the park, with no greater crime

than having his fly open to take a pee, unaware of the kind of place this seemed to be for some, will

prove to be useless. They saw what they saw and whatever comes from his mouth cannot be the truth.

Above all, he doesn’t want any more of this kind of attention, if only because of Daniël’s position at

Kinbridge Town. Thus far no one has made the connection, but what does that guarantee? Guilt by

association can be just as devastating.

“Nice meeting you too. Now boys, it’s getting late, so if you’d be so kind as to let me pass ...”

They howl with laughter.

“Now boys, it’s getting late, so if you’d be so kind as to let me pass ...”

“Makes you wonder why we didn’t see it sooner.”

“They can pretend whatever they want but in the end, it always shows.”

Since when is it unmanly to ask a polite question in a civilized manner? No one can accuse him

justifiably of having a posh accent. He doesn’t sound all that different from them, he knows that all

too well. He might have been born in Ireland, but talking he learned in the housing estate in north-west