As I placed the ball down on the penalty spot, I took a deep breath and had a second to take in my surroundings. 40,000 people, plus millions more on the T.V. all waited with bated breath, as I tried to calm my nerves ready to take this penalty. If I score, Wembley surely awaits, where we will play our biggest rivals in the FA Cup Final, with it also being the first time Sungate Albion had ever reached that far. If I missed, the dream would be over, and thousands and thousands of dejected fans would have me to blame for it. Who'd be a footballer, ey?
The ground fell silent as the ref blew his whistle, and I began my run up. Time seemed to be going in slow motion as I put my foot through the ball, striking it with all the power and venom my right foot had become known for. Before the goalkeeper even had time to react, it was beyond him, and into the back of the net. Thousands of jubilant middle-aged men flooded the pitch, swarming me in a sea of body parts. Every inch of me was cuddled and kissed, and I was repeatedly told how much of a legend I was, and that I could do unspeakable things to these mens' wives. I was a hero.
When the celebrations had died down and the police had managed to restore order, the ref blew the final whistle. That was it. This time it was my teammates' turn to hug me, kiss me, and tell me they'd have beheaded me if I'd missed. I hadn't missed, though. I'd fucking done it. Super Davey Thomas!
BZZZZZZZZZZZ!
I was awoken the next morning to my alarm clock, as it tuned into the 7AM news. As my eyes adjusted to the daylight, I sat up in bed and reached out for my iPad. As I did so, I listened to the radio.
'Our top story this morning comes from the world of football, as Davey Thomas' last minute penalty sent Sungate Albion to the FA Cup Final for the first time in their history, where they will meet bitter rivals Castleborough. It'll come as a relief for Thomas to be hitting the headlines for footballing reasons, after speculation regarding his private life has been rife on social media in recent months.'
"Arseholes," I said to myself, hitting the off button on my alarm clock and concentrating on my iPad. I waded through the hundreds of Twitter and Instagram notifications, to find my private messages, and more importantly, my Grindr notifications.
Yeah. I'm gay. Not that anybody knows. I first had an inkling as a child, being transfixed on the men's Olympic diving when my parents were watching it on the telly. I joined an academy when I was 11 though, and when you're trying to befriend a group of lads at that age you learn to hide your sexuality at all costs. So that was that. My teenage years were full of gay porn, fantasies, and not much else.
I was 18 the first time I felt the touch of a man. I'd just signed my first professional contract with my first club, Durfield, and had been taken on the club's pre-season tour of Greece. After beating a local Greek team, the gaffer gave us the night off, and with my tourist hat firmly on I decided to have a wander around the picturesque little island I found myself on.
After parking myself at a quaint little bar, I immediately noticed the guy behind the bar. If I were to hazard a guess I would have said he was my age, but his chiselled, sun-kissed Mediterranean good looks had me swooning immediately.
"You...tourist?" he said, in about as broken a version of English you could possibly think of.
"Err, yeah. One err, beer please," I replied, pointing to a bottle behind him. The lad got the bottle for me and opened it, putting it down in front of me. I got my wallet out of my shorts pocket, and pulled out some money to pay him, to which he put his hand over mine and shook his head.
