"Oh fuck you. You let me starve on the outstretched arm. All that shit about I love you, I missed you so much, my heart hurts so much.... blah, blah, blah," I mimic Alec and scream out my frustration, which lies dormant deep inside me and is slowly making its way to the surface.
"What are you trying to tell me here? You want to fuck, but a relationship isn't in it? Is that what you're trying to tell me? You come flying over during breaks in the game, we meet here among rancid pool tables, stale beer and sticky whatever stains the floor, do each other until you return to your mistress and I'm just a memory? Until the next break, the next fuck. Every year, year after year and eventually I'm old, gray and alone. Just because you didn't want to give me what's rightfully ours. You'll sit in your shitty villa with Sara and your son, maybe even a daughter, and you'll act like the world is perfect. And all you really want is to break out. That's how it is, isn't it? Ridiculous, just the idea... you, in a bourgeois life, surrounded by half a dozen grandchildren. I want to understand, Alec, I really do. Raphael and Spencer made me promise to give you a chance to explain yourself. But I am having such an incredibly hard time doing that. Also my heart is constantly screaming at me and my skin is on fire.... fuck Alexander...", I sob.

"Was that it?" he asks softly. His voice thin and vulnerable like paper soaked with tears of pain.
"Please listen to me. If you want to understand me, you need to know my story."
"How can you do that?", I ask in a shaky voice.
"How much are you willing to give away of yourself?" An amused snort escapes Alec.
"I don't know where to start at all. I've been playing soccer since I was four years old. So much has happened in that time. There have been tears of joy and tears of sorrow," he replies, and silence settles over us again. Music quietly reaches my ear, a familiar melody, and I could scream at so much irony. Yes, the universe clearly takes pleasure in my suffering.

"An interview," I reply feebly. "Imagine we're doing an interview, a ghostwriter is sitting in front of you and you're telling him your story so he can use it to write the new bestseller, a biography of the life so far. I'm the ghostwriter and I'm listening to you."
"My interviewees don't usually look that attractive and certainly don't wear forbidden tight shirts", Alec replies with a grin. Very funny.
"That's not mine," I hastily justify myself. Alec nods and, frowning, we look at each other. What?
"That shirt is JoJo's, am I right? Why are you wearing it? I thought...you said he kicked you out. So why are you wearing one of his shirts? Do you do that a lot?" How does Alec know that this shirt on my body doesn't belong to Spencer or Raphael, but to Jonathan.
"What makes you think it's one of Jonathan's shirts? It could be Raphael's, too. Wouldn't be the first time I've worn one of his exquisite garments."

"No," he counters.
"This piece here, is at least ten years old. I used to have... wait is that like? Is that my shirt?" asks Alec in wonder. Annoyed, I roll my eyes, watching Alec's skeptical look, his brow furrowed. His finger strokes the black lines gauzily, my heart races, and slowly, almost reverently, his big strong hand beds down on my chest. What is he doing and why the fuck does it suddenly matter whose shirt it is? Definitely it's not one of mine.
"See here? The missing part of the logo? A lace is missing and I remember how mad I was at my mom for being so stupid and washing my favorite shirt too hot. It was a gift from my uncle. When I was fifteen he took me to a Metallica concert for the first time and since then we attend every tour together. At least one gig and when it's convenient, two or three. Call it corny, but those visits mean everything to us."

"Not you, too," I say, annoyed.
"What do you mean?" asks Alec innocently. How could he possibly know that Jonathan's favorite way to cope with stress is to listen to Metallica's heavy riffs for hours on end at an inhuman volume, and he regularly steals my last nerve with it.
"Oh, not that important. But Jonathan used to manage his frustration by doing nothing but listening to Metallica for hours. I know all their lyrics and I hate it," I honestly admit.
"I'm sorry. Guess that's my fault. When everything got too much for me and I was under so much pressure that I thought I was going to die from it because I couldn't breathe, I went for a run. Actually, I always listened to Metallica. The rawness, Hetfield's rough voice and the lyrics cleared my mind, made room for new thoughts. It's still like that today. My training schedule also includes an intense running program. It distracts some players, but it calms me down. Music is magic, it heals, makes us remember, grieve and relive moments of pure happiness over and over again."

"Another thing we don't have in common," I say softly.
"Not bad," Alec replies. His hand is still over my heart, the warmth of his skin enveloping me. Why can't it always be like this? Quiet, peaceful, just the two of us.
"Is it okay if I just start talking? Anything that's on my mind? You can always interrupt me and ask questions." Silently, I nod, trying to get the chaos of emotions inside me under control. Little finger, palm over my pulsing heart and my mind is working half as fast as it should. Stupid feelings. Alec was already right. If only our hearts were a lump of ice. When Alec stands in front of me like this, he messes with my mind. I need a clear mind to take in and process all the information. Spencer's expert talk, his unwavering efforts to teach me about the beauty of soccer, the talk of colored cards, feints, tactics to outrun the opponent... the offside trap. I still feel a slight squeeze in the base of my skull, pulsing pain and somehow this has become a constant companion as has the ache in my chest.
"What's it like?", I ask. Alec looks at me, frowning. My traitorous heart pounds hard against my chest. Every beat hurts, Alec's warmth, his closeness, it's all too much.
"What do you mean?" he asks. His protective hand slips from my heart and immediately the feeling of missing sets in. Fuck.

"How does it feel to stand in this huge stadium? Down there in front of everyone, hearing the fans, the teammates, the opponent?", I explain my questions. What do you think I mean? He wanted to talk about soccer, after all. I just wanted to sort through the chaos in my life.
"Indescribable. The floodlights are so bright some days and blind me, so I'm afraid I can barely see the goal. The fans make the stadium shake. I feel the vibrations of their heavy kicks, the rhythmic singing accompanied by drums and clapping hands. Our fans and those of the opponent, mixed, single and beautiful. The ball under the feet and turf. It smells of freedom and happiness on rainy summer days. In winter, the ground is hard as a rock. Hoarfrost in the morning, it glistens in the sunlight. When the stadium rages, the crowd rushes through the stands like a hurricane, infecting everyone with the fever of soccer. There is no turning back, at that moment you belong to the sport and only the sport. I give everything, always, train hard, live modestly. No bedding with Y-star celebrities and influencers. I rarely go to clubs and when I do, it's in establishments where anonymity is very important. No one in the club knows that my wife and I have a platonic marriage. To the outside world, we are the perfect couple from hour zero of our meeting. Our son thinks that mommy and daddy love each other very much. We love him, but our love is different than my love for you."

Alec closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, and his piercing gaze on me.... I can't interpret it.
"There's only winning or losing. No gray area. Either the fans celebrate you and carry you around the world on their hands. Or you're the object of their ridicule. Hate tirades ring out every time you touch the ball, insults and your head is so full and the next goal miles away. I've experienced it all and it's so insanely hard. A lot of players suffer from depression because the pressure and constant tension is just so high. It affects everyone, straight or gay. We are only human and not machines. But we're not allowed to talk about it. Depression? They don't exist in professional sports any more than gay players do. I know the feeling of crushing heaviness and silent numbness. If I want to say I'm lonely, barely get out of bed in the morning and swallow a handful of pills to even make it to the bathroom, I can't do that publicly. If the floodlight can't dispel the darkness in your heart. The downsides of success, they are endless and varied. We footballers don't always do well. If I talk publicly about the fact that I have sleep problems, that every sound is too loud and every light too bright, that my legs no longer carry the weight on my shoulders, then I am weak and I must not be. After all, I have a well-filled bank account and I make enough money. That's the response you get when you stand by who you are or feel. And that sucks. As a public figure, as a celebrity, it does. One sports psychologist said, 'For some people, soccer is therapy.' There's some truth to that, he's right. Soccer is therapy. The smell of the turf life-affirming, the chants of the fans intoxicating, and the dynamics of the game healing. It's everything we need. Nothing else matters down there on the field, surrounded by the floodlights and thousands of voices."

"When we are on the pitch, we hear the fan chants and, of course, racist and homophobic remarks. It hurts, it hurts and some days I have trouble concentrating on the game. The first few years it was hard for me to block out all the hate and ridicule. The first times are always the hardest and I will never forget the comments. The fans are drunk, full of adrenaline and testosterone. They mob and insult us and the opposing fans. This behavior has become part of fan culture and I just don't think it's fair that I, as a player, have to expose myself to this discrimination. European soccer is full of guys with black hoodies and scarves in front of their faces. At the beginning of my career, it was a real shock. Until then, I only knew it as a spectator in front of the screen. But to hear it live? That's something completely different. Why do you think no gay player comes out? It's exactly this behavior, the sayings and comments in social media. Everyone is allowed to say what they think and no one cares that such statements hurt. It's not always the ultra-fans and fan councils either. Often it is also the people who sit in expensive designer suits in their boxes, drink champagne and simply shout out what they are thinking. Faggot is still the most harmless thing. But unfortunately also the most common. And the functionaries are good at keeping quiet and making things taboo. Many of the old geezers are machos and tough guys. No matter in which country and at which club I played, there were always the same sayings on the pitch and in the stands."

I keep silent, listening. What could I possibly say? Alec's anger, his fiery zeal, I feel all that clearly and yet I wonder how he manages to live this life. To get up every morning with the knowledge that a dark shadow hovers over everything, that every step is watched with suspicious eyes and that the mask of the successful heterosexual player must not slip. Not even, not even a millimeter.

"Of course, you also go out with your teammates. So not on dates, but team nights have always been popular. It's like going around the houses with buddies. And the best part is, in Germany you can get alcohol legally much earlier. It was crazy what was going on. Shots and women as far as the eye could see. In the beginning, I tried to pretend that I wasn't interested. But at some point the sayings and innuendos became more and more. There were jokes that I was gay and half the team made fun of it. That from now on they would only shower without soap so that I wouldn't get on their asses. Things like that. I laughed about it, made jokes, acted poncy on purpose and hated myself so much for it. I figured if I layered the situation with jokes, then they wouldn't take it seriously and eventually it would stop. I was able to transition from gay to straight very easily. It was easy, not every gay man comes out at first eye contact or when he opens his mouth. I know a central defender, he's so straight. For everyone else. Because he, has perfected that. When I first met him in a gay club with extremely sparse lighting, I thought it was a joke at first. After I had his tongue down my throat, not anymore. Christian has always been very attentive. I knew what to do, what was expected of me. Still, I had a really hard time hiding the fact that I was totally into our goalie."

"Were you in love?", I ask with interest.
"I thought he was great. He was doing a good job. He was on the national team squad for a reason. We got along on the pitch and also in private. Yes, I was in love. It was beautiful and exciting. But also scary because everyone knew us and we didn't know what was going to happen."
"What happened?" Were they outed? No, they couldn't have been.
"There were rumors within the team. But we ignored them and acted like it was none of our business. I didn't know many people in town, just the few from the club. We spent a lot of time together. I can't and won't tell you his name. Let's just call him John."
"John it is." Every stranger in an emergency room is called John Doe. Jane if it's a woman. I know this. My name wasn't on the clipboard when I was admitted to the ER.

"That's right. John Doe," Alec says, chuckling at his ingenuity.
"John, like me, was very talented and we became fast friends. Together we goofed around, went to parties and practices. The games went well, everything was in great order. That we were more than just best friends and teammates, no one knew. Suddenly, however, rumors started to circulate within the team. Without names. It was said that two players would not only fight for the ball, but also who would be allowed to fuck whom in the ass. John was nervous and again and again he asked me if I had told anyone. We had arguments because he didn't trust me. I was just as scared as he was. An outing would have been the purest disaster. I was just establishing myself. The last thing you want is bad press and rumors. One day at practice, one of the other players bumped into me and whispered, 'Fucking faggot. Disgusting pack'. I was frozen. I'm no stranger to encounters like that, it's part of everyday life, unfortunately. But at that moment I had the feeling that he knew. And that now everything is over before it really began. The way he looked at me, his gaze was full of hatred and disgust. It scared me. Later I found out that I was challenging him for his place in the squad and he had a lot of anger towards me. The coming game was a disaster. We lost big and the culprit was quickly found. My friend. In front of the camera, we stuck together and everything was cool. But in the booth, as soon as the door closed, the anger and frustration came over us in waves. They called him names and a lot of very unkind words were said. I stood protectively in front of John and it was clear that the rumors were real and that we were the fags who were poisoning the team with our homosexuality. It was such a crock of shit back then," he finishes his narrative shaking his head.

"Will you tell me what they said to you?", I ask cautiously.
"No. I don't want to repeat it. It doesn't matter, either. After every game, we have a debriefing. We sit together with the team and the coaching staff. Sometimes even one of the bosses is there. Via video analysis, we can see everything from a different angle. The coach praises us for the things that worked well, but he also gives a lot of criticism. When the passing was miserable, the spaces were too big, and the goal kick was simply too laxly executed. There is yelled, analyzed, a culprit sought and more yelled. During this debriefing, the coach's frustration was directed at our entire team. He gave us hell about what we were thinking of circulating such crap. We wouldn't have fags on the team, there wouldn't be under his leadership. He did not tolerate such behavior, not in any way. We shouldn't be dealing with petty things like that and we should rather focus on the game."

"Spencer says you are a great talent. That the way you play is beautiful, elegant and every move well thought out. You're good at what you love. Shouldn't it matter if you love guys or women? It doesn't matter. The main thing is that you score goals."
"It should. But that's not the way soccer is. I'm tired of hiding and pretending to be someone else all the time. And in the protected darkness of the night.... I'm so tired of it," Alec says resignedly, shaking his head.
"You don't understand. That feeling in your chest, your body flooded with adrenaline and the stadium is like a witch's cauldron. It's intoxicating. Like heroin. You try it and want more with every push. More and more and they carry you on their hands through the stadium, singing your name so loudly that everyone in the city hears it. All over the country, all over the fucking continent."

"Assfucker, faggot, girl, princess, and I don't know what else. I've heard so many things over the years. It started in youth team and it just doesn't stop. There were days, moments in my life, when everything inside me was empty. Like frozen. My heart stopped beating, the blood was stagnant and every step out was painful. Not to talk about it. Never. Always a smile on my lips and posing for photos with the fans and the press. I was sick, feeling empty and burnt out, thinking only about what it would be like to be someone else. Not gay, normal. It was tearing me apart, all my dreams were coming true and yet I felt uncomfortable on the court and on the team. Between all these guys who thought they had seen it all. I was seventeen years old, talented, and considered the next Diego Maradona," Alec recounts.
"Who's that?", I ask, and Alec draws in a hiss.
"God. Maradona was God himself."

"Social media is both a curse and a blessing. I got training in how to use private details, photos of me and the family. What is promotional and what is more damaging to my brand. I am a brand, like Adidas or Nutella. Incredibly, I felt like my head was going to burst. Likes, clicks, followers, always smiling and never pictures of the house. Neither inside nor outside. I was photographed more in one week than I had been my whole life. Press appointments, photos for autograph cards, the fan store so that the people out there also buy the jersey with my name on it. Then the sponsors. Those old bags with wheelbarrows full of gold and their pathetic macho behavior. I was seventeen years old, my dream was coming true. But I also felt an insane amount of pressure and there was no one I could confide in. Everyone patted me on the back, called me 'prodigy' or 'golden boy'. They put all their eggs in one basket, and of course I wanted to show them that I was worth earning €150,000 a month. They watch us, constantly, every step, every word, every gesture is dissected and analyzed. We are never alone, constantly surrounded by people with smartphones and a picture is on the net so quickly. It spreads across the globe in seconds, is shared, liked and commented on. At first it was great, exhilarating. The attention and recognition, the cheers, signing autographs, fans waiting for me outside the stadium and at every practice or game. But at some point it becomes routine. You make your rounds, sign autographs, smile and fall into bed burnt out in the evening."
"Alexander, have you ever wished you weren't gay?", I ask the question that has been on my mind since the beginning of his story.
"Every day," he answers with a seriousness that makes all the blood in my veins freeze.