He didn’t seem to notice. Or, if he did, he had the best poker expression in the world. But then, this was his life. He didn’t get papped as much as he had when we’d first met, but it still happened often enough for me to want to sendThe Suna letter bomb.
Metaphorically speaking, obviously.
“So...” Micah trailed a fingertip around the rim of his glass. “I like your parents.”
“You liked them before. I was worried the full-on experience would put you off.”
“Why?”
“You like a quiet life.”
“Ihavea quiet life. That ain’t quite the same thing.”
“What would your life be like if you could choose? Like, living the dream scenario here.”
Micah drank more beer. “Not that different. Just maybe... I dunno. I guess I just want to be free, from myself and everything else.”
“How so?” I knew I was poking a hornet’s nest, but it had been so long since Micah had let his guard down that I couldn’t stop.
And if he minded, it didn’t show. Or perhaps the booze was loosening the tight hold he usually kept on himself. He leaned forwards, elbows on the table, and fixed me with a gaze that seemed to stop time. “If my brain didn’t hold me hostage and some cockhead fromThe Daily Mailwasn’t over there filming us, maybe I’d be able to just fucking tell you how much I want to kiss you right now.”
He’d have surprised me less if he’d grown a unicorn horn and wings. “What?”
“You heard.”
“I did, but I’m not sure it was real.”
Micah grunted as if he said that kind of shit to me all the time. “It was real—itisreal—but don’t ask me to do anything about it because I don’t know how. And it scares me... all of it, cos I need you in my life the way you always have been. I can’t— Fuck.”
He stopped and blinked hard. I started to reach for his hand, but the presence of a camera behind me stopped me in my tracks, and with a kick to the gut, I suddenly understood what he meant. How every move was a reality check of shattered privacy. I nudged his foot under the table. “Go on. I’m listening.”
Micah sighed. “I know. You always listen, and that’s what I’m talking about. If I messed everything up by throwing myself at you, I could lose that, and I just fucking can’t. You’re my best friend. I-I need you.”
My head reeled from the influx of information. I struggled to process it, to not focus on the fact that he wanted to throw himself at me—kiss me—and unpick what he was actually trying to say. “Micah, nothing could ever happen that would stop us being friends. I’m here for you, okay? In whatever capacity you need me.”
“What if I never figure what that is?”
“Then we carry on as we are. Nothing ever has to change. We’re all right, aren’t we?”
“You are.” Micah drained his glass. “I’m a fucking lightweight. That dark shit has gone straight to my head.”
I fought hard not to wonder if his uncharacteristic drinking had done more talking than his heart. Which turned out to be easier than I’d imagined, as tipsy Micah was adorable. I emptied my glass too and nodded at the bar. “Want another?”
“Fuck it. Why not?”
I could think of plenty of reasons, but none stuck, so I got up and fetched more beer from the bar. When I got back to Micah, he was scrolling through Instagram. He turned the screen to face me. “Do you know how many Premiership players followed me before the Grindr thing?”
“Um... no? The only players I can ever remember are Freddie and Dom Ramos, and that’s only because he got outed too.”
“They’re good players to know, but my point is, like, hundreds of players followed me before, and now I reckon I’ve lost more than half of them.”
“They dropped you?”
“Not straight away, but yeah, over time they’ve disappeared. Only a couple ever publicly acknowledge me. It’s fucked up, right?”
“It’swrong. That’s why I hate football. It generates all this wealth, but it’s stuck in the dark ages when it comes to equality. I suppose the romantic in me thought things were changing, but they’re not.”
Micah shook his head. “To be fair, it’s not just homophobia. The black dudes I played with are still getting bananas thrown at them, even in this country.”
