Cricket (22 page)

T
HE
next time Henry was rudely woken by Ryan on a Sunday morning, he didn’t mind quite so much. Although their relationship was changing rapidly—by the hour, it felt—he still slept alone in his own attic bedroom.

He vaguely registered the sound of Ryan’s footsteps on the stairs but resolutely ignored it until a cheery voice told him to “Rise and shine!” and his curtains were thrown wide open, spilling early morning light onto his beautiful white Egyptian cotton sheets.

“Oh, fuck off,” Henry mumbled.

“Can’t,” Ryan said simply. “We’ve got a cricket game to go to.”

Henry groaned and rolled over, pulling his pillow over his head. Not that it seemed to discourage Ryan, who jumped on the bed, threw the duvet on the floor, and used another pillow to batter Henry’s back.

“Oof. Get off me, you fucking pain in the ass.”

“Nope. Come on. It’s going to be fun.”

Henry wriggled until Ryan was dislodged, cracked an eye open, then groaned again as he caught sight of the time.

“It’s eight in the morning,” he complained. “On a
Sunday
.”

“Yup,” Ryan said cheerily. “I made coffee for you. Proper coffee. And I’ve got bacon. I’m going to do bacon sandwiches as soon as you get up.”

“I’m up,” Henry mumbled sleepily. “I’m up.”

“Then get dressed, you lazy sod. We’ve got to get down to Glastonbury.”

Henry dragged himself out of bed and started to pull on his clothes. All of their cricket gear was packed into a large duffel. They could change when they got to the clubhouse for their hosting team.

“Is that the same Glastonbury as where they hold the legendary music festival?”

“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Well, sort of.”

Henry considered this statement, decided it didn’t make sense, and responded appropriately. “Huh?”

“Glastonbury the music festival isn’t actually in Glastonbury the town. The festival is sort of in between Glastonbury and Shepton Mallet, near a town called Pilton.”

“So why not name it Pilton?”

“It’s not as catchy?” Ryan guessed. “I don’t know. I think, when it very first started, it was on a farm that was technically in Glastonbury. But it’s so big now it sprawls out all over the place.”

“Towns around here have funny names.” Henry scratched his jaw, decided not to shave, and pulled on a T-shirt and sneakers.

“Have you seen the signs for Wookey yet?”

Henry laughed. “No. But I like it.”

“I can go through there on the way home. We could stop off for celebratory ice cream when we win.”

They ended up eating bacon sandwiches in the car on the drive down to Glastonbury, Henry having taken far too long to get ready and eventually leaving the house only after Ryan had shouted at him from the bottom of the stairs.

Still, the car was a perfectly fine place to eat a bacon sandwich, as far as Henry was concerned. It was a bright, warm morning with a few fluffy clouds dotting the sky. Lovely weather for a cricket match—his second, with the Cheddar team.

There was something of an air of expectation surrounding him now, and he’d been bumped up the roster accordingly. Not far enough up to displace Ryan from his position as opening batsman, thankfully. Henry was sure he’d never be forgiven for taking that away from him.

It was a half-hour drive, and they were the last on the team to arrive, turning up just in time to join the warm-up and learn that they’d be batting second today. Henry was okay with that. He was still waking up, and the thought of roaming the outfield for a while was quite nice.

The Glastonbury team had a small building that housed the changing rooms, and it was here that the team gathered round to listen to the strategy that had been put together for the game ahead. Despite the fact that it was only a Sunday league and none of the players were professional, everyone seemed to take their roles seriously. Henry put it down to the simple fact of wanting to win.

As part of his own personal training, Henry had been following cricket games on the TV, learning the rules and starting to get more than slightly obsessed with the more delicate nuances of the game (of which, he had learned, there were many). For this reason, he was more confident going into the next game than he had been with his first, and couldn’t help the feeling that he had something to prove.

There was a swell of pride while walking out onto the field with the rest of the team, one that he’d missed, terribly, when he’d stopped playing baseball. For most of his personal career, he had worked alone, and this team spirit definitely fulfilled some corner of his soul.

As Andy rolled his shoulders and prepared to pitch the first ball, Henry hunkered down, finding that his lethargy had disappeared, and prepared to play.

T
HERE
was a postgame etiquette following a cricket match. Both teams moved from the changing rooms to the host team’s clubhouse, if they had one, or the agreed local pub. There was no clubhouse at Cheddar, which was how Stella and the Dog and Duck became the official watering hole (as Ryan liked to call it), but the Glastonbury team had one located just behind the playing field.

While Ryan went to the bar, Henry took the opportunity to look around. It was an old building, from what he could tell. The booths were deep and upholstered in a fabric that was going tatty, and the walls were paneled in rich, dark wood.

From the team photographs on the wall, he surmised that more than one sports team shared the clubhouse. There were pictures of soccer and rugby teams alongside the now familiar sight of men lined up in cricket whites. An impressive array of trophies sat in a glass cabinet, and on one wall, names of the club chairmen dated back to 1896.

“Here,” Ryan said, joining Henry and passing him a pint of cider.

“Thanks. Look how far back this goes,” Henry said, pointing to the list of chairmen.

Ryan nodded and sipped his drink. “Yeah. I think this was a rugby club originally. Then the football and cricket teams joined later.”

“I was just looking to see if I recognized any of the names.”

Cocking his head to one side, Ryan looked down the list. “Lots of local names,” he said. “I think Andy’s family is from around here somewhere.”

“He’s a Perrin, right?”

“Yeah.”

After a few moments of reading down the list, Henry felt the welcome weight of Ryan’s hand on his lower back.

“Come on,” he said, leaning in so his lips were close to Henry’s neck. “We should join the others.”

Henry fought back a shiver of delight and let Ryan guide him toward where the rest of the team was gathered around several tables.

It was relaxing to sit back and listen to the conversation around him. The team liked to dissect the game and the various achievements and failures of each team member, although there did seem to be rather more emphasis on taking the piss out of the failures than celebrating the successes.

Henry was still working on his first pint when Andy offered him a second. He refused, at peace with the fact that he didn’t drink nearly as quickly as these boys who had years of experience with the local cider.

When Andy returned, he slipped into the seat that Ryan had vacated while in the bathroom.

“Hi,” Henry offered, for lack of anything better to say.

Andy opened his mouth, closed it again, then blushed. Henry understood immediately.

“Stella said something to you, didn’t she?”

“Um, yeah,” Andy mumbled. “I’m just looking out for Ryan, you know. He’s like a brother to me. I don’t—I’m not—”

“It’s fine,” Henry said. “Honestly. Ask away.”

Blushing again, Andy looked over to where Ryan was now walking back to them.

“Budge up,” Ryan said, poking Henry, who shifted over in the booth, putting Ryan as a convenient barrier between himself and Andy. Ryan looked between them and frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“You,” Henry said, smirking when Ryan made the appropriately annoyed and confused face.

“Why?” he asked. Then it dawned on him too. “Stella blabbed.”

“You two are far too perceptive for your own good,” Andy muttered into his pint.

“If only that were true,” Henry sighed and leaned back and slightly into Ryan’s side. The warm press of Ryan’s arm against his own was the reassurance he wanted—needed—to continue the conversation.

“Have you always—” Andy started, then hesitated. “Played sports?” he finished lamely.

Henry laughed and rubbed his hand over his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “Ever since I was a kid. My dad has a season ticket for the Yankees. We’re a big sports family.”

“Oh,” Andy said. “I always thought….”

“Yeah, people think that gay men can’t be good sportsmen. It’s a joke, but there you go….”

“Who said that?” Ryan demanded.

“Oh, lots of people, Ryan. There’s still a prevailing stereotype that gay men are effeminate and limp wristed. Not athletes.”

“That’s bullshit,” Ryan said passionately. “Look at Gareth Thomas. He’s not effeminate. He’s hard as fucking nails.”

“Who’s Gareth Thomas?”

“He used to play rugby for Wales,” Andy offered. “Big guy, tattoos… he didn’t come out until after he retired. But he’s been pretty open about his sexuality since then.”

Henry considered this. “It’s good, you know, that different athletes are starting to come out. But it’s still not easy to play sports and be out at the same time. Not where I’m from, at least.”

Ryan shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Henry asked, laughing.

“The shit you’ve had to put up with,” Ryan said with a gentle smile.

“I’m used to it,” Henry said, shrugging it off. “A lot of people have it a lot worse than me.”

They left the Glastonbury clubhouse as soon as their drinks were finished, taking the route home through Wells and Wookey, as promised. During the half-hour journey, Ryan was quiet. He kept the radio turned up, tuned into a station that provided regular updates of various sporting fixtures around the country.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Ryan asked as they approached the house, trying to make his question as indirect and inoffensive as possible.

Henry shuffled in his seat, visibly uncomfortable, and took his time in making the decision.

“I used to play for a local baseball league,” Henry said wearily. He didn’t want to talk about it, not at all, but Ryan deserved an explanation. “I’d been out since before I started playing for them, but they didn’t know I was gay when they gave me a spot on the team. I knew… I fucking knew, for ages, that some of them wanted me gone. They couldn’t handle the fact that there was a queer on the team. And that I was a really fucking good player.

“I got involved in a fight,” he continued, refusing to look at Ryan until it was all out. “It was really stupid. A few guys were ragging on this kid, calling him a fag and just… disgusting stuff. I really didn’t want to get involved. I was just out with some friends, but this kid… I suppose he reminded me of me when I was younger. And no one ever stood up for me, so….”

“What happened?”

“They kicked the shit out of me, to be honest,” Henry said with a humorless laugh. “I don’t fight, not ever. I’m not a violent person. The kid got away, ran for it, I guess. They broke one of my ribs, fractured a cheekbone, gave me a pair of black eyes and a split lip and a lot of bruises. My dad got his lawyer to sue them. Not for the money, to make a point.”

“And this was right before you moved here?”

“Right,” Henry agreed. “I probably still had a black eye when I first met you.”

“I don’t remember,” Ryan said absently. He paused, apparently thinking on this, turning the information over in his head. “What happened to your baseball team?”

Henry sighed, wanting to not have to answer this question. “They kicked me out,” he said.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah,” Henry said. “They said it was because it’s against the contract that players sign when they join. Basically, it just says that we won’t bring the team into disrepute.”

“And saving a kid from a gay bashing brings a baseball team into disrepute?”

“Apparently so.”

“Fuck,” Ryan said, sounding genuinely angry. “That’s bullshit, mate.”

“It’s fine,” Henry said. “Really. If it hadn’t happened, then there’s no way I’d have accepted Nell’s offer of coming over here to see the house, and I’d never have met you. So it all worked out for the best in the end.”

Ryan reached over to take Henry’s hand, squeezed it briefly, and pulled onto the drive in front of the house. Henry didn’t really want to go into the details of how much of a mess he’d been when he first made the trip over from New York. It was more than the physical injuries; those had been healing nicely. His pride had taken a knock and his confidence a bigger one. Looking back now, he couldn’t think of anything that would have helped him heal emotionally other than finding Nell and meeting Ryan. The two of them combined had lifted him right out of his funk.

“Good game today,” he said as they both got out of the car, slammed the doors, and pulled their kit bags from the backseat.

“Yeah. I might be starting to actually enjoy it.”

Ryan’s smile, when it came, was brilliant.

H
ENRY
sang in the shower.

It was an old habit, one that he’d picked up when living in college dorms. It was a pretty good way of letting everyone else know that the shower block was occupied and clearing the space out if necessary. He didn’t hold out any false hope. His singing voice was terrible.

Ryan didn’t seem to mind. He entered the tiny bathroom dressed in his work uniform of jeans and layers of sweaters, ready to shed as the day got warmer.

“What are you doing up so early?” Ryan asked.

“I’ve got deliveries coming in early,” Henry said, washing his hair energetically with something that smelled strongly of tea tree. It definitely wasn’t one of his, but it was waking him up rather nicely. “What are you doing up so late?”

“Some warm body in my bed convinced me to snuggle for far longer than what is advisable,” Ryan said darkly.

“
My
bed,” Henry corrected him.