The Sub

Coach Kavanagh made them run the warm-up in pairs, which Rían had not factored in when he got out of the car.

"Grab a partner, boys, you know the drill." Kavanagh clapped his hands once, loud, like a man trying to start a slightly damp barbecue. "Passing, ten metres, off the hurl."

The other lads paired off instantly, because they knew each other. Rían had been on this panel for three weeks and he still got introduced as "the new lad from Mayo" by the manager's wife at the Easter raffle. He stood on the edge of the grid with a sliotar under his arm, and he looked at the ground, because the ground was not going to say anything to him.

"Here." A voice beside him. "You're with me."

He looked up. The voice belonged to Cillian: centre-forward, two years older-looking than he actually was, beard coming in by stealth. Cillian had said precisely one sentence to Rían since he'd joined the panel, at the end of the Enfield challenge game, and it had been "Good head-down there."

"Yeah. Thanks." Rían jogged after him to a strip of grass by the far sideline.

They passed back and forth for a minute in silence. Cillian had one of those easy, low-effort strokes that looked like it required no shoulder at all. Rían's own hurl always felt slightly too long in his hands under pressure, like a shovel he was about to drop on his own foot.

"You alright?" Cillian said, fielding.

"Yeah. Why?"

"You looked like you were about to cry when Kavanagh said to pair up."

Rían's ears went hot. "No."

"Okay."

They passed again.

Cillian said, casually, over a high ball that Rían nearly mis-timed, "First year with a new panel is weird, isn't it."

"Mm." Rían caught the sliotar against his chest, poorly.

"I joined this club in first year of secondary," Cillian said. "From a GAA club, not a new sport or anything. Even that was weird for a month or two. Took me ages to figure out why Kavanagh said 'leg it' when he meant 'puck out.'"

"I don't know if it's that." Rían sent the ball back. It was a bad ball.

"Okay."

They passed in silence for another minute. Cillian didn't push.

Rían thought about the car ride up. He thought about his mother saying, "Just play the first training back, love, and see how you feel." He thought about his old club in Ballina, where everyone had known him since he was seven, and the one lad who had started calling him names in Irish class last September and then stopped when a girl two years older threatened to fight him. He thought about the fact that nobody here in Meath knew anything about him except that he was left-handed and that he had once scored a very good goal against the U16 Leinster side from full-back, which, in fairness, you could build a reasonable reputation off.

He thought about how easy it would be to say nothing.

"Cillian," he said.

"Mm."

"Who do I tell that I'm gay. In the club, I mean."

Cillian caught the next ball without fuss, spun it on the bas, and tipped it back to him gently. He didn't say "what" and he didn't say "really" and he didn't say "cool, cool, cool." He said, after about two seconds, "Do you want to tell anyone yet?"

"I don't know."

"Okay."

"I don't want to be — the gay one. Already. Three weeks in."

"No. I get that."

They kept passing. Across the pitch Kavanagh was bellowing something about hip pockets.

"Who should I tell, though, if I did want to." Rían's ears were still hot. "Hypothetically."

"Right." Cillian thought about it. "Kavanagh's fine. You don't have to do Kavanagh. Noeleen on the committee, she runs the Gaelic Voices group, she'd probably be the first person I'd say it to. She knows everybody, she'd steer you to anyone you wanted to tell, and she wouldn't tell anyone you didn't."

"Gaelic Voices."

"Yeah. It's a thing. Welfare / inclusion group at the club. We send two lads every year to their day at the conference. I went last year. Wasn't just LGBT stuff, mostly, it was a bit of everything, mental health, bullying. It was alright."

"You went."

"Yeah."

"Are you — "

"No," Cillian said, cheerful. "I'm just — I don't know. One of the lads on the senior panel is, so I signed up with him, basically to keep him company. He's grand. He's very grand. His wife is a national-level rower. They have a dog."

"Oh."

"Right. Anyway. Noeleen's your person if you want a person."

Rían passed again. It was a better ball this time.

"Thanks," he said.

"No bother."

They worked through the rest of the warm-up without talking about it. Cillian corrected his grip, once, and showed him a thing about shifting his weight earlier through the strike, and Rían's passes started landing closer to chest height. They switched to four-way touch drills, and two of the other lads came into their square, and the conversation turned to whether the new hurl Cillian had was a genuine Torpedo or a knock-off, which Cillian defended hotly.

When they broke for water Rían stood at the side with his bottle and watched Kavanagh set up the kick-about. He thought: Okay. Not today. Maybe not this month. But if.

If, then: Noeleen. Probably after a training and before the feed. Probably over a styrofoam cup of tea. He could picture it, now, with a shape to it, instead of as a white sheet of panic.

"Pair up, boys, pair up." Kavanagh, clapping his hands. Rían straightened.

Cillian jogged past him, hurl on his shoulder. "With me again?"

"Yeah. Go on."

They walked towards the grid. The evening smelt of cut grass and the far-off bakery on the main road. Rían thought: this was fine. This had been fine. One ball at a time.

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