Chapter Text
PERCY
The first day at a new job is always nerve-wracking. Add to that the fact that millions, literally millions, of pounds has changed hands to get me here… and it’s definitely enough to justify the spare pair of boxers I packed in my bag “just in case”.
Walking on to Wratham United’s ground is exactly as I was expecting it to be— incredibly fucking intimidating. Even though I’ve been here before, (I played Wratham’s under 18 squad when I was with Cherley’s, but those matches were always a blur of excitement and sneaky cans of Stella), I'd never paid attention to the grandeur of the place.
It reeks of history and it’s not surprising - Wratham holds the record for the most top-division titles and were the first team to ever win the Premier League. The team is legendary.
And I’ve just signed for them.
I stop at the doors, nodding at security and taking a long look around me again, before hitching my bag up on my shoulder and stepping inside. I walk down the long corridor, decorated with team photos and framed shirts signed by Wratham United legends, until I reach the home locker room. It’s currently empty, the team has already started training, so I look around until I spot it — and, cringe, it sends a chill up my spine. My new kit. A home kit in pink and white, and an away kit in two shades of grey, both hanging on a hook above my locker. I pick up a pink shirt and turn it to the back.
NEWTON
04
It suddenly all feels a bit too real. There’s no way this is actually happening. Me. Percy Newton. Wratham United centre back. Shit.
Just as I’m starting to feel myself sinking into a full existential crisis I hear a door slam open. I jump and put the shirt back, feeling weirdly embarrassed, then look up as someone staggers into the locker room, still wearing sunglasses. (It’s autumn.)
It’s Henry Montague. Actual Henry Montague.
“Fuck!” He spots me and stops in his tracks, dramatically clapping a hand to his chest. “I didn’t think there would be anyone in here.”
“... Sorry.” Before I can even help myself, I realise I’m staring.
Henry, or Monty as he always insists people call him (it’s even what’s written on the back of his shirt), is Wratham’s star striker. Scrap that, he’s the league’s star striker. One of the top five in the world, in fact. He’s also one of the rare footballers who manages to level-up past ‘successful sports star’ and become ‘actual celebrity’ . I walked past two billboards of him on the way here; One for Nike and one for Under Armour. Both of which scored him seven-figure sums, if the sports blogs I read are accurate.
He’s also really fucking hot. Despite looking like he hasn’t had a good sleep in about three weeks, he has that dishevelled casual sex appeal that says “yes, I really have fucked every single supermodel the press has linked me with”. His unkempt dark blonde hair would look in desperate need of a cut on anyone else, but on Monty, it somehow looks like a fashion statement.
He’s pretty short too, at least four inches shorter than I am, but somehow on famous and hot people, it doesn’t seem to matter. His… presence more than makes up for it.
Shit. I’m still staring. “I’m new.” I try not to look too star struck, deciding to feign confidence instead. I walk over and hold out my hand to him. “Percy Newton.”
“New?” He looks down at my hand, still not taking off his glasses, but he doesn’t shake it. I’m not sure if he’s being rude or just cautious. I take my hand away awkwardly. “I didn’t know we had anyone new.”
“Oh. Well, it’s sort of… I mean it was all over the sports pages for a few wee—”
He laughs. “I don’t read the sports pages, fucking hell.” He walks past me, nudging my shoulder slightly. I guess that’s a greeting he’s more comfortable with. “Can’t think of anything more boring, Perce. Alright if I call you Perce?”
“Uh… well not re—”
He interrupts. I can’t seem to finish a sentence without him interrupting me.
“How late am I, Perce? I know I’m late but am I ‘slap on the wrist’ late, or ‘might not even bother and just go back to bed’ late?” I blink at him. “What?”
“Can’t you just… check the time on your phone?” It’s his turn to blink at me. I roll my eyes slightly and get my own phone out of my pocket. “It’s ten past 8. They’ve only just started.”
“Was that so hard?” I narrow my eyes and he softens slightly. “I think I left my phone somewhere, alright? I’ve already lost all three of the backup ones my agent got me so… you’re my watch for today.”
He goes to his locker and seems to run out of energy before he can even lift his hand to unlock it, instead he rests his head against it with a solid thud and groans.
“Fuck it. I might just leave.” He looks up at me, finally taking off his shades. He shoves some of his hair out of his (annoyingly blue) eyes and grimaces slightly. “Cover for me, Percy Newton?”
I frown at him. “You’re going to… skip training?”
“Oh god. You’re one of those.” He sighs, running his hand through his hair, further enhancing that tousled ‘just been shagged’ look he’s known for. “No one will miss me during one training session. No need to guilt-trip me about it.”
I have a feeling this isn’t the first session he’s missed. And I don’t really fancy my first introduction to the team being me bluffing my way through some excuses for their very hungover star player. I decide to appeal to something I’ve read a lot about— his ego.
“I’m not guilt-tripping, I just…” I scratch my head, shrugging. “I was looking forward to watching you play. You’re one of the main reasons I decided to sign.”
He stares at me, raising an eyebrow. I can’t tell if he’s bought it, but he seems to be carefully assessing me. He tilts his head and motions to my nose.
“Are they letting you keep that in?”
My hand goes to the septum piercing in my nose, and I frown.
“I got a nipple pierced once," he continues, "but they made me take it out. Said it was ‘dangerous’ or something.”
I smirk. “No. I doubt they’re letting me keep it. Just thought I’d see how long I could get away with it.”
“Hmm.” He scans my face over for a second, and I suddenly feel extremely on display. After a couple more seconds, he seems to come to some sort of decision. “Okay, I’ll stay. If! You come and get a coffee with me after.”
“Oh… I was actually going to meet with my friend, she said she was going to buy m—”
“She’ll understand! I always take out the newbies for a coffee. It’s a tradition.” He grins at me and I suddenly feel even more star struck than I did when he first walked in. “Deal?”
“Fuck it... “ I hold out my hand again and he shakes it this time. “Deal.”
-------------------------
We change out, and I try my absolute best not to watch Monty undress. However, I can’t stop myself from stealing a glimpse in a conveniently placed mirror as he pulls off his shirt, and I notice what appears to be a dark red lipstick mark near his right hip. Classy.
Once we’re dressed, we head out onto the pitch together, interrupting a hardcore-looking drill which from the looks of it, I was lucky to be missing. Monty ignores a scathing look and comment from Duke Bourbon, our manager, and grabs a ball, doing a dramatic stretch and yawn as he joins his teammates. One of which throws a ball at his head with impressive accuracy. He grins and flips them off.
Duke takes a deep breath and slaps me on the back, just slightly too aggressively. I flinch as he makes my introduction. “Alright, lads! Our new recruit is here, I’m sure some of you have already played against Percy. He’s the best new centre back in the league and now he’s ours. So don’t scare him off.”
The rest of the team mumble in greeting, and before I can say hello, Duke shoves me in the direction of the equipment, hissing under his breath. “You’re late. Catch up. And next time, lose the nose ring. You look like a fucking bull. Unless you want your nose getting ripped off mid-game, that is.”
Feeling like a naughty school child, I pick up a ball and look for a space to join the drill. I glance over at Monty, who’s watching me and looking vaguely amused.
Duke orders us to do 30 keepie-uppies (and to start from the beginning if we drop one). I manage fairly easily, as do most of my teammates, but Montague is struggling. His smugness has worn off very quickly, replaced by the realisation he has to do three hours of intense football practice with a stinking hangover. He lets the ball drop about once every three kicks, then winces every time he has to bend down and collect it.
This carries on for a good ten minutes before Duke reaches the end of his patience and storms over to him. I don’t hear the argument, but it’s clear Monty doesn’t win, as it ends in him petulantly kicking his ball halfway across the pitch (my first actual in-person glimpse of his world-leading skill) and then stomping off back to the tunnel like a moody teenager. I stifle a laugh.
The rest of training goes pretty well, and by the end, I’m sweating buckets but feeling reasonably confident. The rest of the lads seem okay, and some of them even know some of my stats, which took me by surprise. I still feel like an amateur and a charlatan, even after a year and a half in the premier league. One of them, who introduces himself as Eric, walks with me back through the tunnel when we finally finish.
“So, what made you late? Monty?”
I frown. “My taxi got stuck in traffic. Why would he make me late?”
“He likes to drag people down with him. About once a week he does this. I’m up for a party like anyone else but on a Wednesday night ? Out at some bar until three then up shagging birds until six. Then thinks he’ll be alright for training after a couple of lines. Didn’t seem to bother with that today though, by the looks of it.” He sighs, but there seems to be some element of affection behind it. “He’s going to be burned out by the time he’s 26.”
Christ. “I didn’t realise it was that bad… how is he still so—”
“Good? Annoying, isn’t it?” He shrugs as we reach the locker room, kicking off his boots. “He can’t keep it up forever, though.”
“Well, not forever . But I do have pretty good stamina.”
We both turn around with a start. Monty is sat on one of the benches in the corner, back in the clothes he arrived in and scrolling through a phone. He lifts it up to show me.
“Found one in my locker! You ready to go?”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You… waited around for me? I just assumed you’d gone home to bed.”
“I said it was tradition! The gaffer being a prick isn’t going to mess with tradition. Tell him, Eric.” Eric just gives me a look. Monty gives me his most charming grin. “I’ll buy you a pain au raisin.”
I pause. “I do like a pain au raisin.” He grins even harder. “Can I at least have a shower first?”
“Alright. But make it quick. I’ve waited around long enough.”
“No one asked you t—” He jumps up, interrupting me (what a shocker) and slapping me on the back.
“Chop chop! You stink.” He walks past me. “I’ll be in the car park! Mine’s the Porsche.”
Of course it’s the Porsche. This man is becoming more of a walking cliché with every passing moment. He leaves and I look at Eric, who is giving me a slightly pitying look.
“With any luck, he’ll find you boring and never speak to you again,” he says.
“Fingers crossed,” I reply, grabbing a towel and heading to the showers.
-------------------------
Me : change of plans, simmo. someone from the team is taking me for coffee, apparently it’s a thing x
Sim: you fucker. which someone?? x
Me: …. montague x
Sim: SHUT UP?? call me the MOMENT you’re done omg x
I roll my eyes slightly and lock my phone as Monty’s Porsche pulls up to a quaint looking café a mile or so from the stadium. He parks on a double yellow line (I guess he can afford the fines) and hops out. I take a deep breath and get out after him.
We didn’t talk much on the drive. He put Radio 1 on full blast and sang along to every song that came on. I can’t help but notice he seems a bit more... chipper than he did at training. I decide not to mention it.
The café is pastel-coloured and verging on crowded, but the staff greet Monty excitedly and lead us to a quiet booth in a corner, where we’re out of view of the other customers (we still have to walk past a few of them though, and I spot a couple of phones popping up to take very un-subtle photos).
He drops down into a seat and I sit opposite as he orders for us. “Two flat whites and a huge fuck-off pile of pain au raisins please, Celia.”
I smile at her, looking apologetic, but she doesn’t seem concerned. “Thank you.”
She picks up our menus and walks away. Monty leans back, grinning at me.
“Soooo…” He takes his phone out of his pocket when it buzzes, scowls at what he sees, then puts it straight back again. “First impressions, Percy Newton?”
“Of… the team? The café? You? Team seems really good. Friendly lads. Café seems nice. Nice décor.”
He leans forwards, smirking. “And me? You were excited to meet me, remember?”
“I was excited to see you play. I didn’t see much of that today.” He curls his lip slightly. “But… you’re pretty much what I expected, I suppose.”
“Oh!” He leans back again. “Interesting. What were you expecting?”
I think I should probably tread a bit carefully here. Seeing as it’s still my first day.
“I dunno, you’re just kind of… very… Monty.”
He stares at me for a couple of seconds, then shrugs. “True. So, tell me about you! I don’t read any sports shit. I know nothing about you.”
“How can you ‘not read any sports shit’? You’re one of the best footballers on the planet.” He grins at that and I roll my eyes. “Do you just avoid it, or…?”
He shrugs. “I just… don’t really like football. My dad likes football. He insisted I play. Turns out I’m quite good at it. And it comes with a few perks, so…”
“Yeah, just a few.” I look up as the waitress brings us our coffee and pastries. Monty smoothly hands her a fifty pound note with a smile and she visibly blushes before walking away again. “I wish I could be accidentally good at something. I try embarrassingly hard.”
He laughs slightly. “If it helps, you seem pretty effortless.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’ve only seen me do about ten keepie-uppies, how would you know?”
“Touché. I suppose you just have that… vibe.” He eats a mouthful of pastry and continues talking with his mouth full. “You still haven’t told me anything about you.”
I hate talking about myself more than anything in the world. It always ends up sounding like some cringey ‘X Factor’ sob story. Orphaned at age five, spent the rest of my childhood in a series of foster homes, took off as soon as I was old enough and ended up living in a South London squat with six other teenagers, playing football with the local youth club until I was discovered and signed to the under-18s.
Also I’m gay. So very, very gay.
And no one here knows except my best friend, Sim. She’s Muslim, also gay as hell (thrown out by her deeply religious family as a result, which is how we met), and she also loves football. We’ve been soulmates since the age of sixteen and we talk on the phone at least twice a day.
I don’t say any of this. Instead, I say; “I’m pretty boring, really. I used my transfer fee to put a deposit down on a pretty sensible apartment. I like to read. I have a cat.”
“Okay, okay, you’ve successfully lost my interest. Which I’m sure was your plan.” He sips his coffee, watching me. “I don’t believe it though. You seem interesting. And I’m a very good judge of character.”
His phone buzzes again and he huffs, grabbing it out of his pocket again. This time he answers it, although only to snap “I’m busy!” and immediately hang up. I raise my eyebrows at him and he sighs.
“My sister. Also my publicist. And general pain in my arse.” He puts it back in his pocket. “Although, she’d argue I’m the one who makes her life a misery.”
I can imagine. “I’ve never even thought about having a publicist…”
“It’s necessary for someone like me. She keeps my secrets, ya know.” He says this casually, but to me that sounds like a very intense statement.
“Secrets? Surely everyone knows you like a party. Isn’t that kind of… your thing?”
“Is it? Well, that’s depressing.” He hesitates for a moment, quickly glancing around and lowering his voice. “Some secrets they don’t really like in this industry. Like the fact I’m even better at giving blow jobs than I am at scoring goals.”
I was halfway through a sip of coffee when he says this. Somewhat dramatically, I start to choke. Did he just… did Henry Montague just come out to me?
“I thought you were... “ I try to recover, still coughing. “The… womanising thing?”
“Oh, I’m good at that too.” I must look confused because he rolls his eyes slightly. “I’m bisexual, Perce. Heard of it? It’s probably mostly down to my sister that you only ever hear about the ‘womanising’. She’s actually a pretty good publicist, despite being an annoying twat.”
I consider asking him why. Why he feels the need to hide this side of himself. But this is football. And I’m not a fucking idiot.
“You didn’t need to… tell me that. We only met a few hours ago. I could be…”
“An undercover journalist or something? I doubt it. Unless you’ve made up an entire football career just to try and find out where I like putting my dick. In which case, you deserve the scoop.” He fiddles with one of the pain au raisins. “I dunno… you seem trustworthy I suppose. Like you wouldn’t have a problem with it.”
“Do I?” He gives me a look and I swallow slightly. “Well… I mean yeah. I don’t. I don’t care where you… put your dick.” He laughs. “What?”
“Dunno. Was just amazing to hear that come out of your mouth.” His phone starts buzzing again and he growls. “Okay I think I might actually need to go see my sister. She’s only this desperate when I’ve managed to really fuck up. Here. Gimme your phone.”
I hesitate but take my phone out of my own pocket, unlocking it and handing it to him. He starts typing in his number and my eyes widen slightly, but I try to restore my face back to cool and casual before he looks up at me and hands it back.
“Text me if you ever want to actually tell me anything interesting about yourself, won’t you?” He stands up and leaves two more fifties on the table.
“Monty, I don’t think this came to a hundred quid…”
“Don’t be such a tight-arse, Newton. You’re rich now, may as well act like it.“ I frown at this but he doesn’t notice.
“See you in the morning.”
He winks at me and pulls the hood of his jacket over his head to try and shield his face on the way out. I stare after him for a second, before realising he was my mode of transport.
“Shit.” I pick up my phone, about to text Sim and ask for a lift, when I suddenly think of something. I go into my contacts and scroll down to where Monty has added his details (he’s followed it with a couple of kissy emojis and an aubergine, I expected nothing less) and I open up the contact page and screenshot it.
Me: [image_3452.png]
Sim: WHAT THE FUUUUUUCKK???
Me: i’ve dropped u a location, come get me and i’ll tell you everything xx
Well. Almost everything.