“No one sees me as myself. Everybody sees Thomas Milton Siedentrop, footy hero.”
Oh fuck! Did I just say that out loud? Tom colored deeply, from embarrassment that Adam would think he was blowing his own trumpet, from anger at his own gabbing.
Adam smiled lazily at him, and took another sip of the wine before he spoke.
They stared at each other then began to laugh, simultaneously.
“You knew all along,” said Tom wryly, surprised that he wasn’t angry.
“Yeah. But I hate footy. I can’t stand all that rah-rah, all the adulation, all the worship of youth and youthful prowess. As far as I was concerned, you were just a guy in the gym. I don’t give a fuck what you did or what you do. Or whom you root,” he added, boldly.
“What do you give a fuck about, then?” Tom was smiling at him, his face open and guileless, friendly and warm, his charm natural, unpractised.
Adam wouldn’t answer. This was getting too intimate, too dangerous.
Read the rest here.