I’ve never quite understood the appeal of going to watch live football. Basically, you pay an unnecessary amount of money to freeze your bollocks off in an open-air stadium, watching players from so far away that you can’t tell who’s who, and being deafened by men who really should have stopped drinking about ten pints ago. Whereas you could be watching it at home, on a flat-screen TV with surround sound and high definition, settled comfortably on the sofa with a cold beer in one hand and a packet of crisps in the other.

Sounds like bloody heaven…

But you’re the football freak of the band, so I’ve always felt inclined to believe that there’s something special about going to see matches, even if I’m yet to discover what that ‘special’ element actually is. You always seem so excited about it, so there must be something there. Plus, I’m the only one who will ever go with you. The other two appear to have more sense…

“Danny…” I breathe to you twenty minutes before the end of the second half. “I think one of my balls just froze and dropped off…”

You just chuckle, your eyes still on the pitch, “You should’ve worn your thermals. The forecast said it would be Baltic.”

“I am wearing my thermals!”

You let out a proper laugh now at my hiss, enjoying my distress like the sadist you so clearly are, “Well, then, tie a scarf round ‘em or something.”

“Oh, because that won’t make me look stupid at all!” I retort. “Don’t be thick.”

You shrug, “Part of the job. Tom says he only keeps me around because I make him look smart.”

I roll my eyes at you now and try to focus on the game rather than the pain the cold is causing in various parts of my body. The agony that stresses the point of how freezing I am. And I look back at the right moment, just as our chosen team manages to manoeuvre the ball past the opposing defence and into the mouth of the goal. You cry out happily and throw an arm around my neck, “Ya beauty! They’ve equalised! One more and they can win this thing!”

“Is there time?”

You check the timer over the pitch, “Yeah. Should be.”

I lean closer to you in an attempt to gain some more warmth, and you chuckle as you realise my intention. But you humour me, and I steal some of your body heat as we watch. “I’m still cold,” I mutter.

“I assumed.” You reach over and tug my hat lower over my face with your free hand, “I don’t see how, though, with all these layers. Anyone would think you were as cold blooded as your lizards.” I stick my tongue out at you.

Your face lights up, “Oh, we’re in possession again! Look, Doug!” I do so, and see the ball zigzagging down the pitch from player to player. Defence to midfield, midfield to striker with no interception from the other team. You lean forward, murmuring: “Come on, come on…”

The striker takes the shot, but one of the opposing defenders sticks his foot out, catching the ball and sending it flying up into the air. There’s an intake of breath from the crowd- one I feel myself taking in unison. The ball spins in the air and crashes back down.

And a midfielder heads it perfectly.

As it hits the back of the net, the whole crowd erupts. You let out another happy cry and turn me in your arms, your lips descending onto mine. Shock hits me hard across the face as your mouth firms over mine in a short, hard kiss. Then you pull back, grinning at me and I just stare at you. You kissed me. We’re not even messing around, and you’ve kissed me. “We’ve got it, Doug!”

“Yeah,” I murmur breathlessly. You stare back at me for a moment, then move in again. Again, the kiss is firm and this time you move your lips against mine. I automatically respond, caught up in the euphoria of our almost certain victory. Your hands firm against me, pulling me closer. Angling your head, you take the kiss deeper, nibbling on my lower lip. Our tongues meet in a passionate battle, and I strain against you, suddenly desperate to get closer.

Then the final whistle snaps us back into reality.

I jerk back from you, my eyes wide, and I see my stare reflected in your eyes. “We won,” I whisper, not sure what else I can say.

You clear your throat nervously, your eyes still on mine, “Yeah.”

*****

Bugger.

I can’t contain an intelligent thought right now. All that comes to mind are curses. Curses at my own bloody stupidity. I can’t believe what happened at that football match yesterday. Not only did I let you kiss me, but I was insane enough to reciprocate! What was I thinking?!

Well, of course, I can’t have been thinking! Or I wouldn’t have-

A knock of my bedroom door interrupts the flow of my anger. I take a moment to compose myself; draw in a breath before calling, “Yeah?”

The door opens, and you peer around it, “Can I have a word?”

“You can have as many as you want.”

“I’ll have as many as it takes me,” you agree, stepping inside.

“As many as what takes you?”

You look sheepish, “Explaining myself.”

“Danny, you don’t-”

You wave a hand, cutting my off, “Yes, I do. I am so sorry for doing that to you yesterday.”

I blink, “Doing what to me?”

“For forcing myself on you. I was just so caught up in the emotion and I-”

I hold up a hand to cut you off, “Forcing yourself on me? Danny, I hardly fought you off.”

“Yes, but you were clearly just responding in the moment, and I wanted to let you know- I mean to say: I think I have to say that I promise it won’t happen again.”

I sit back on my bed, staring at you with wide eyes, “It’s likely to happen again?”

A blush forms in your cheeks, the pale skin going pink behind your freckles, “Maybe.”

“But I thought…” I shift on the bed, my eyes still locked on yours, “I thought you were coming in here to say you regretted it.”

“Regret it?” You cross to me, taking a seat next to me on the bed, “Dougie, how could I regret it? That kiss was amazing. I only regret that you found out like that. You should’ve been given a choice.”

“And now you’re giving it to me?” Even if you did, I’m not sure what my answer would be. Before it would have been no- definitely, absolutely. But after yesterday, after that kiss. I’m seeing you differently. I can feel the heat from you, I’ve just realised how sweet you look when you blush. It’s wrong. It’s all wrong.

But you begin to shake your head, “No. I already have my answer.”

Shifting closer to you on the bed, I nudge my leg against yours. A jolt of electricity sears through me. “You do?”

You smile at me, but your eyes are dulled with something else, “Your face said it all, Dougie.”

I frown now. What was my face like? Was it good or bad? And, besides, I was still in shock. How can you judge my reaction from that? “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I saw the shock, Dougie,” you say with another of those false smiles. “I saw the fear. You didn’t want it- no like I did. Do.”

But now I do. Now I’ve had time to think, I do. Oh, my. I do. This is even news to me! “You’ve got it wrong.”

“You don’t have to lie now, Dougie,” you tell me.

“Who’s lying?” I move closer still to you on the bed. “Danny, don’t assume for me. I-”

“You’re straight,” you tell me, looking away.

My frustration drives me to grab hold of your face and pull it round so I’m staring into your eyes once more. “I don’t know. Sexuality is rarely black and white, isn’t it?” I move my face closer to yours, but you shift back.

“No, Dougie.”

I only stare at you, my hands still cupping your cheeks, “What d’you mean?”

“You’re only doing this because I told you that I like you!” you say in a flat voice, reaching up to peel my hands away from your face. “You don’t have to do this. I promise that I’ll never touch you again.”

“But, Danny, I want-”

“Stop it!” You’re on your feet faster than I can stop you, and backing away from me, “You’re confused. I’ve confused you. But- don’t worry- you’ll get over it. You’re straight. I know you are!”

I push myself to my feet, “And I wouldn’t know?”

“You were caught up in the kiss,” you inform me curtly. “You don’t know right now, but you will. I won’t confuse you again.”

“But-”

You press three fingers to my lips to stop me, “Don’t worry. I will never touch you like that again.”

“Danny,” I attempt around your digits, but you just press them down even harder.

“No. I’d better go. See you later.” You open the door; turn back to look at me, “This is the last we say of this.”

I look at your face for a long moment. Your mouth is in a grim line, and your eyes are flat. I immediately know that you can’t be swayed. “Okay.”

*****

You’re watching football again as I take a seat next to you. Red versus blue, I note, and lean forward to look at the shortened names along the top of the screen in a vain attempt to work out who you’re supporting. I sense you laughing, but I ignore you. “Your squinting face is so funny,” you tell me.

“Shut up,” is my mild retort. You laugh again and jab me in the side playfully before turning back to the TV.

I sit with you for the rest of the game- quiet, hoping. I can’t explain it, but- ever since that game eight months ago- all I do is hope. I want your hands on me, your mouth on mine, your body pressed against mine. I want your friendship, but I want the other half as well. I know that I can’t instigate, because you’ll say I’m just trying to make you happy.

Is it so bad if it makes us both happy?

So I sit with you, through every goal- every happy shout, every celebration- hoping that you’ll lose yourself in the moment once more.

Hoping that you’ll kiss me again.