Page 52 of Oyster

It was amazing at a few other things too, one of which we’d just performed.

“But seriously, I think I’ve always been aware. Though, when I was very young, it was hard to put into words. And it was my normal, you know? That feeling of wrongness? I didn’t know that everyone else wasn’t walking around entertaining those feelings too. But I also realised early on that talking about it wasn't cool.”

I nodded. It made sense. Florian said something similar about being gay. Instinct telling him to tuck the feeling away until he grew older.

“Did your parents know how you felt?”

“Ugh. My parents.” She shook her head with a hollow laugh. “That, mon amour, is a question to which we’ll never have astraight answer. They’ll both take that secret to the grave. But yes, I think they did.”

I tried to imagine a younger Éti, alone and questioning. That serious face, those straight brows furrowed in thought. Perhaps using football to push her inner turmoil to one side until she had the maturity and independence to figure herself out.

“I think they’ve always known I’m queer but pretended it wasn’t happening. If they ignored it, if we never spoke of it, then it would go away. Most likely, they prefer to believe I’m a closeted gay. I don’t think they’ll ever understand that gender identity and sexual orientation are very different concepts. I don’t think they want to, either. I did once try to explain, just before I renewed my contract with PSG and hit the big time. I must have been about sixteen, seventeen.”

“How did it go?” As if I needed to ask.

“Badly. My dad walked out in disgust and Mum asked me if I was doing it for attention, then dismissed it as a phase I’d soon get over.”

Again, I pictured young, small Éti, plucking up the courage to expose herself, begging for a hint of understanding. “And youstilltalk to them? After that.”

She huffed. “Yeah. Sort of. I mean, I owe them a lot. It’s complicated, Nico. I wouldn’t be who I am today without them. I wouldn’t have had anywhere near this level of success without them pushing and encouraging. And the sacrifices they made.”

“You could have had all thatandyourself if they’d been more understanding. At least in private, anyhow.”

“I know,” she agreed, with a heavy sigh. “But so many trans people have money worries, are homeless, or can’t access medical care; they have many human rights violations thrown at them, to put it bluntly. I count myself as lucky, because what my parents did for me, in terms of my football, means I’ll never suffer.”

“You are a very good person,” I told her. “I don’t think I’d be so generous of spirit.”

Turning her head into me, she kissed my neck. “Thank you. Hearing you say that means a lot. Where I can, I give some of my good fortune away, to help trans groups. As much as possible without outing myself.” She sighed again. “One day, perhaps, I’ll be in a position to help more.”

I squeezed her tight, hoping life was never cruel to her again. That bad people never tainted her goodness. Even though I was curious about them, I had no desire to ever meet her parents. “So why did they do so much for you? What are they like?”

“My dad was—is very driven. He was an athlete himself. He represented France in the long jump back in the early eighties. He had some moderate successes. He went to a World Championship; he even held our national record for about a year. When he realised his time had been and gone, he turned his attentions to his only child. By then, he’d got into coaching, and our local Ligue 2 club recruited him as part of their fitness training team. Very soon, the soccer took over. So, when I showed some potential, I became the focus of everything. My mum went along with it because complying was always easier than not.”

“Is that why you went along with it, too?”

She laughed. “A bit. But mostly because I was fucking good at it and loved besting these two-metre-tall boys who thought they could run rings around a cocky little squirt. That never gets old, believe me. I still enjoy it now. Did you see me, today? That connard who took my legs from under me? Not quite so happy when I nutmegged him in the second half.” She made apffingsound. “He defends like a fifty-year-old apple tree. Except less productive.”

I grinned. Éti’s scathing opinions of weaker players were some of my post-match highlights. “Whereas you are nearly asgood a striker as Neymar?” I teased. “Hey, you should call your biography that.Nearly as good as Neymar.Has a nice ring to it, non? Now you’ve told me your life story, I’ll start writing the first draft.”

For that comment, I was flipped onto my side and wrestled into the mattress. And then kissed like she’d been shipwrecked on a desert island, and I was the first rescuer off the boat.

“You’re amazing,” I whispered when we managed to leave each other alone and settle into sleep. “Don’t let anyone ever convince you otherwise.” Her warm body fitted snugly against mine, her strong back a solid wall against my chest. “I’m sorry your parents don’t see you that way.”

And so, the worst day of my life began in the best of ways. Sated, in love, and wrapped around my sleeping lover. It lasted until seven a.m., when the insistent repetitive jangling of my phone ringtone dragged me from blissed-out unconsciousness with the efficiency and precision of a woodcutter wielding an axe. My brother’s name filled the screen with a photo of him next to it, taken during happier times.

“We need you to come home now.”

A few bleak sentences chopped our existence into two neat halves: the precious years sharing the love of two people who understood that children were born to be real, not perfect, and the abyss of a motherless future.

“Éti.”

She lifted her head from the pillow of my chest, her loving, unaware, and sleepy smile giving me a memory to cling to and cherish in the coming days. “Max just phoned. My mum’s gone into the hospital. An hour ago. She woke up very breathless. She’s going downhill fast. I need to get back.”

Éti’s quick thinking wasn’t restricted to the soccer pitch, dodging defenders. All at once alert and concerned, she leaped up. “Okay, let me get dressed and I’ll drive you.”

“There is a Metro station at the end of the next street. It will take me all the way to Saint-Lazare station. I can walk.”Or sprint.

She shook her head and threw me my clothes from last night, abandoned on the floor when our only urgency had been to touch one another. “No, I’ll drive you to the hospital.”

---