Then, finally: “Don’t ever again ask me to leave you.”

Chapter 24

“So we’re agreed there are two houses in Hollycroft we’d like to take a look at, we’re getting

married in November so we need to hire a planner and someone who can deal with the press, but that

has to be coordinated with the club and we’re getting a bit low on the protein shake ...” Daniël talks

while he pours a second cup of coffee. “There’s some administration I have to deal with so we can

actually get married. We can get a marriage licence via the embassy, so we have to make the trip to

Holland just once.”

Steve nods, being content to leave it all to Daniël for the moment. The world is still a big place

and life is dauntingly complicated. He does what he has to do, earning any sort of progress with sweat

and toil. But the biggest part of the job, which is to get them married and into their shared home, is

simply beyond him. He doesn’t like it and feels his contribution is below what it should be, but he

accepts it, happy enough that Daniël never takes any action without talking it through with him.

“I really need to start and sort out these newspapers and magazines. Stupid how busy you’ll get

with nothing, really.” Daniël grins. “I’m excited about the houses and getting nearer the wedding. And

I don’t even care about the whole fuss people make of it.”

“You mean you just can’t wait for the wedding night,” Steve teases him.

Daniël takes Steve’s hand and kisses it quickly. “You never get to guess again.” He thumbs

through the pile of pile of newspapers and frowns.

“Something the matter, Danny?”

Daniël shows him two envelopes. “Not really, I had forgotten all about them. I don’t

understand why they didn’t send these letters to the Graces. It’s clearly stated on the club’s official

website and on my personal blog and I know most online football communities have mentioned it at

least once. That’s hard to miss, isn’t it?Anyway, it’s not like you can keep your private address a

secret for long anyway, with those burglaries recently at players’ homes and all. Last week it was

Kurt, before that, Kevin. They were seriously pissed off about it. What shithead takes another man’s

school team trophy?”

Then he seems to realise what he’s implying. “Sorry, it just slipped out.”

“I’m not worried about it. It’s just stuff. And what happened to me, well, you know ...”

“I know. I think.”

“It’s probably something Jane and Emma know perfectly how to deal with. Perhaps we can

drop the letters off with the girls before training?”

The girls, being middle aged women with a reputation of having an uncanny talent for sifting

through letters, cards, e-mails and any written material in high speed without ever blushing or getting

into something that remotely looks like panic, have their own system of dealing with the stream of

reactions to anything concerning the whole matter. Even foreign language e-mails and post are being

dealt with, and with the same firm but friendly efficiency.

A few days ago, they explained it all to Steve in a fast stream of Kinbridge brogue that would

silence local boy and chatterbox Anthony Levee. The vast majority of the mail is easily answered with

a mention on the KTFC site or on Daniël’s blog: thank you so much for the continuing well-wishes

and heart-warming interest in Steve’s health and progress. If opportune, i.e. the question is asked,

either Matthew or Degaré mention it in their talks to the press. Small gifts go, if ever possible, to

different charities. Expressions of creativity get lovingly stored in the huge club archive. Work of

children always gets a little personal thank you note. A relatively small percentage of mail goes

straight to the police. And then there are, as to be expected, the mails and letters that are so personal

that a personal answer, if possible, is the only correct answer.

There are the few handfuls of young boys hoping they can become professional players without

having to acquire a wag, the closeted gay amateur players who suddenly don’t know what to do any

more, the ‘I haven’t told this to anyone before’ fans. They all get a friendly word from either Jane or

Emma and, if need be, addresses to get help and advice.

Daniël’s voice breaks gently through his thoughts. “Okay if I take a quick look at those letters

before we decide to hand them over to the girls? I’m getting a bit curious.”

“What? Oh yes, of course. Sorry, I seem to be a bit absent-minded.”

“You need more rest during the day? Am I pushing you to hard? Or perhaps I should be asking:

are you pushing yourself too hard?” Daniël takes a pocketknife and opens an envelope. “I think this

was the first one.”

“I’m fine, Danny. I was thinking about all those fans sending mails and gifts. I know it’s

because of what happened, but when I try to understand what it all means... I’m starting to see it’s

more than you and me being visible as a couple. Think about those young lads hoping they have a

chance in five or ten years’ time because you’re still training with the club, and the manager and the

owners declared in public they’re okay with it. I’m thankful that we can mean something to others by

simply being ourselves, but ...”

But he doesn’t get the chance to finish his sentence.

“What a fucker. He’s got some fucking guts to do this to us ...” Daniël stares at the letters, his

face pale and his hands visibly trembling.

“What is it, Daniël? Please talk to me. You’re scaring me.” Steve hasn’t seen the boy this upset

in a long time and he doesn’t know how to deal with it. The ground is shaking under his feet and the

one keeping him safe looks like he’s in need of help himself.

Daniël clutches Steve’s hand. “Please sit on the couch with me, I need to hold you.”

Steve feels how all the muscles in his beloved’s body are tensed up, like he’s an animal ready

to attack. His arms feel like fierce protection, instead of the loving embrace when they quietly sit

together for an hour before they decide it’s time to go to bed.

“Sweetheart, you do understand I have to know what’s in that letter if it makes you this upset.

I’m not sure if I’m able to read it all myself, but I’m willing to try. Is the handwriting difficult to

read?” He talks as gently as he’s able to, but Daniël has to know Steve refuses to let him carry this

alone. “Is it something for the police? Hate mail?”

“Not hate mail. I’m so sorry for scaring you. I just didn’t expect this. I’ll make a fresh cup of

tea for us and I’ll read the letters to you.” He kisses Steve in a gesture of apology before he gets up

and walks to the kitchen, but turns at the door and looks at Steve like he wants to say something but

isn’t sure what exactly, then is out of the room.

A few minutes later, he returns with two mugs of tea. He takes both letters from where he had

left them on the table and joins Steve on the couch again.

With one arm around Steve’s shoulder and the letter in his free hand, he starts to read aloud.

“Dear Mr Gavan,

I have restarted this letter so many times over the past months I lost count. And I still don’t

know how to begin.

First of all, please excuse me for delivering this letter personally to your home. But I hope

you’ll understand my reasons after reading.

My name is Mark Smith and I assure you, that is my real name. I’m in my mid-forties, and I

was married until recently. My daughters are 18 and 14 years old. The oldest just started her studies

at the University of Manchester, the youngest lives with her mother. I used to work as a sales manager