“Not on my best form today. Sorry, chaps,” said Nathan.
“We all have off days.”
“Thought you might have been sniffing out one of the opposition,” said Ken, one of the younger and better-looking team players, smirking and winking at Nathan. Laughter filled the changing room, and Nathan joined in. One thing he could confidently say about his team was that none of them gave a toss about his sexuality. “Noticed that left back kept giving you the eye.”
“He’s my window cleaner. I still owe him money.”
A couple of the men laughed. Jumping on the moment of getting their attention, he clambered up onto the changing room bench seat, grabbing one of the coat hooks for support.
“Listen, chaps. Important announcement before you all bugger off. If you’re up for it, I’ve been asked to get your help with a charitable venture for this year’s summer fête.”
Conversations either stopped or quietened among the good-hearted bunch. The previous year, they had played a game for charity against St Joseph’s, a school for physically challenged kids—which they’d obviously let the kids win. As he talked through the proposal for the summer fête, the room grew progressively quieter, and as he came to the end, an ominous silence filled the room.
“Have a chat with your other halves before you let me know. To be honest, I’m not over the moon about the idea. It’s a big ask, and the new chairperson—Arlene Killroy—doesn’t know you. It’s your choice, so if it’s a no, that’s perfectly fine. I’ll let her know and back you all the way. But for now, I’m going to add you all to a private messaging group called Fête Calendar in case you have any questions. Private message me for anything personal and to let me know whether you’re in or out. No pressure. I’ll let the group know if we go ahead, but if we do this, we’ll need at least twelve volunteers, one for each month of the year. I’ll need your response either way by the end of next week. The photoshoot, if it goes ahead, will be in February.”
After a quick scan of the room, Nathan could see plenty of shared frowns and shaking heads. Most of the players, by the looks of things.So be it.
“Do you mean all of us?” asked Bob Collier, landlord of The Crumbington Arms, goalkeeper and one of the oldest players on the team. “Or just the young ones?”
“It’s a Crumbington football team calendar, Bob. Nobody's excluded. If you’re in the team and you’re happy to be photographed, I’ll put your name forward. Arlene wants the calendar to be about real men.”
“That rules you out, then, Bob.”
A couple of the guys chuckled.
“We wouldn’t be showing our dicks, though, would we?” continued Bob.
“Don’t worry, Bob,” came a raised voice from the back of the room. “They’d have to find yours first.”
“Fuck off all of you. Nathan?”
Laughter had always been the best medicine in tense situations. Nathan laughed along with them.
“No private parts,” he answered, once the laughter had died down. “Absolutely no junk on display. We want this to be suitable for the whole family. Tasteful and fun shots of us at our best by a professional photographer who has promised to make us look as attractive as possible.”
“Are you going to do it, Nathan?” asked Bob.
The million-dollar question. Some of the men were still laughing, but he noticed a number of them had stilled, their eyes on him.
“Come on, guys. You know me. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a hypocrite.” However much he wanted the men to turn down the idea, he was grateful to have Polly’s cousin’s advice come back to him. “I would never ask you to do something I’m not prepared to do myself.”
Silence again. He glanced at his watch. Arlene’s function was due to begin in thirty minutes, and he would need to put his skates on if he was to walk there in time. Maybe he needed one last carrot to dangle.
“And if it goes ahead, I’m going to insist the majority of the proceeds from the calendar sale goes to St Joseph’s. Which is only fair, seeing as how we know them, and they know us.”
As he jumped down from the bench, he noticed a few of them nodding. They were a decent bunch of blokes. Maybe there was still hope.
Outside the clubhouse in the chill midday air, Mikey called out his name before dashing to catch up with him and pulling him to a stop.
“What the fridge, Nathan?” Mikey’s wife had trained him to replace his usual arsenal of cusses with innocuous words around his young children, and the habit had stuck.
“I know.” Nathan huffed out a sigh, staring at Mikey’s collar. “I’d have given you a heads-up, but I couldn’t find you before the game. You missed an interesting committee meeting on Friday. Do you think anyone will agree?”
“Maybe. But if you’re in, so am I.”
Nathan looked up into his friend’s eyes.
“Seriously?”
