Page 72 of Oyster

An uncomfortable pause stretched out, broken by a few titters from the PSG players. “Alors, too late. I’ve earned it, it’s mine, and I’m not giving it back.”

Her eyes hardened as they roamed the audience. “Some of you may want to leave, to walk out in disgust. Go now.”

No one moved; heads twisted around. “I suspect the desire to hear what I have to say has won out. Bravo.”

For a moment, her gaze landed on mine before returning to the solid golden football. She weighed it thoughtfully in her hand, dwarfed by the huge empty stage. Behind, a giant screen played her physics-defying goal against Manchester City overand over, yet still she held everyone’s attention. So small, fragile even, and yet so very, very determined. She cleared her throat.

“So, this award. Once more, it is mine. However, this year I am dedicating it to a very special woman who is not with us tonight. A mother who gave life to a son and brought him up to live that life with his heart wide open. Her son is my partner, Nico, and he is here with me now and, I hope, will be by my side always. Regretfully, Nico’s mother passed away earlier this year, and I never had a chance to thank her.” Éti held the award aloft. “To Mme Marie La Forge, always loved, never forgotten.”

I missed her next words, too busy swallowing down the sea of emotion threatening to let rip from my eyes. My heart swelled to impossible dimensions with love for the woman shaping my future and the one who had shaped my past. I blinked up at the intricate moulded ceiling high above our heads, at the thousands of lights, like an ocean of stars, blinking back from the many chandeliers, cursing Éti for not warning me and, at the same time, so fucking full of love for her I wanted to scale the walls of the auditorium and shout it from the highest balcony.

Fabien’s heavy arm around my shoulder brought me back to the present. Éti’s voice gained confidence, her tone clear and precise.

“We are all gathered here tonight to celebrate the magic of football. My intention is not to hijack that, though the time has come to share something very personal. I don’t give many interviews, and that isn’t going to change. My private life will remain, as always, private. So, pay attention, because I shall share this with you all only once.”

A deafening hush swept around the room as Éti sipped from a water glass at her elbow. Behind her, the image reel had come to an end. Her face as she stood at the lectern filled the screen: elegant, poised, and about to take the next step in the most important dance of her life.

“I am Éti Salvador. Paris St-Germain’s number ten and the winner of this year’s Ballon d’Or. And, don’t forget, the winner for the last four years. I am a trans woman. My pronouns are she/her. Away from the football pitch, Étienne Salvador has not existed for many years, and I will no longer respond in public or private arenas to that name. I appreciate this is new information to most people here tonight, but I assure you, it is not new to me.”

Each pause brought a fresh round of murmuring, like a disgruntled earthquake rumbling away in the distance but drawing ever closer. If Éti was aware of it, she paid no heed.

“To some of you, I’ll always be a freak.” Her eyes leisurely travelled across and down the rows of the packed auditorium as if collecting, cataloguing, and storing away the bigots, the haters, the narrow minds, the threats. And, knowing Éti’s big heart, doing her best to forgive them. “I may never convince the majority of you otherwise. But seeing as how I have this huge public platform and your attention, I owe it to my trans siblings to widen the camera angle between my public and private life and explain. I can’t take this microphone and speak for all of them; our individual experiences are unique. But by hearing mine, just maybe,just maybe, a few of you will walk out of here tonight a little more open-minded, a little less black and white, and a little more forgiving of our differences.”

With a wicked smile, her eyes flicked down to the lectern. “I’m going to take you on a journey back to your school days, to those January afternoons shivering in gym kit while the sports teacher divided the class into teams for a game of netball or hockey or football. Remember those? Nicer teachers walked down the row, pointing to each child, and randomly assigning them A, B, A, B, A, B, etc. Others, not so thoughtful, picked a couple of captains and let them select who they wanted. The most popular, the fastest, the prettiest, and the scariest werealways chosen first. Some poor kid, the same one each week usually, was always left until last.” She paused a beat. “Of course, that poor kid was never me.”

That got a few laughs, but she held up a finger. “Yet this is the part I want you to try to comprehend, so listen carefully. Despite being one of the first picked, I still felt like that poor kid. Like the last person standing, stuck in the middle. Neither belonging nor comfortable in one team nor the other. For years and years, in fact, until one day, a long time ago now, a team chose me. A. Team. Chose. Me. And I’m making an important distinction here. I had no choice being this way. Trans people do not choose to be this way. The team chooses us.”

She sipped at her water as the murmurings swelled again, then up to the front row. A flash of chipped incisor filling the screen behind, her face crinkled into a smile. “Mon dieu, the FIFA president’s about to faint. Don’t worry, monsieur, there are no more surprises! All that is left is for me to thank all the good people without whom, my career would not have been what it is today.”

She listed a few names that, at knifepoint, no one present would have been able to recall. “And, of course, I wish to thank my parents, who sacrificed a huge part of their lives to shaping me into the best soccer player I could be. Sadly, they are unable to be here celebrating with us this evening.”

A diplomatic way of putting it. Some things were best left private.

“And last but not least, from the bottom of my heart, I would like to thank my teammates. Because without the team, I am nothing.” She grinned again. “And without their collective expertise, my first and only tattoo would have been an abomination.”

Once more, Éti picked up the award, admiring it. “I am going to leave you with my gratitude once again for awardingme this trophy, and a simple message. Which is this: a day will come when someone receives this award, and whether they are straight, gay, trans, or bi will be an irrelevance. It will be all about the football. Until that day comes, you will have to put up with me, and I will keep dancing for you for as long as you are willing to watch. And, as I wish all of you a very pleasant remainder of the evening, I leave you with something to think about: joy takes fewer words than hate. And when you find joy, hold on to any piece of it, because a lot of people will try to take it away from you. Thank you and goodnight.”

Fabien was on his feet clapping even before she’d stepped back from the podium, tall and proud on the front row. Ruiz and Dubois rose to their feet next, flanking him, defying everyone else in the auditorium not to follow suit. A muted wave of polite applause echoed throughout the theatre. Another teammate wolf whistled. A few more stood; then, within seconds, the entire squad were standing, clapping and whistling, chanting Éti’s name. Joined as one in a massive, united, supportive fuck you.

For the second time in the space of a few minutes, my eyes brimmed with tears; on the screen behind her, Éti’s did too. The well of human hatred might not have been as shallow and dry as I’d imagined.

“Watch,” whispered Fabien’s wife on my left with a nudge. “They have arranged a surprise for her.”

Putain, Fabien was unfastening his jacket and loosening his collar. Ruiz too. All along the row, the PSG team were slipping out of jackets, removing bow ties, unbuttoning shirts. Like it was a stag weekend, and someone had ordered an elite team of male strippers. On stage, Éti clapped her hand over her mouth, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Each player revealed not bare torsos, but the familiar blue and red of PSG. As one team, they strode towards her, Fabien leading the way, his huge armsstretched wide. And on the back of each player, printed in big white letters, were the words ‘Éti Salvador, 10’.

Solidarity. For the whole world to see.

“Really, Éti? After running that gauntlet, they expect me to plough through four courses of haute cuisine? I don’t think I can digest a mouthful of bread.”

Even Éti, with her monumental appetite, struggled, although not because of leftover adrenaline.

“People will think I’ve swallowed a basketball if I eat any more in this dress,” she moaned. “Mon dieu, that tarte au chèvre looks scrumptious. Look at it! It’s calling my name! Why didn’t I wear something more forgiving? When I win next year, remind me to buy a kaftan.”

“Neymar will win next year,” hollered Ruiz from across the table. He was still in his Salvador soccer shirt; Meyer, the big German, had draped his around his head like a turban. “We’ll bribe the judges. We’re not going through all this palaver again.”

From her perch on Fabien’s knee, Éti chucked a bread roll at him. “She even throws like a girl,” crowed Dubois. “Why the hell had I never noticed that?”

“Looking smokin’ tonight, by the way, Mrs La Forge,” Ruiz added wickedly. “If your man Nico here gets fed up with feeding you, you know where to come.”

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