Playing the Palace by Paul Rudnick

Author:Paul Rudnick [Rudnick, Paul]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2021-05-25T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

Edgar had a full schedule of meetings the next morning, but by noon we were in a car on our way to Wembley Stadium, just outside the city.

“Are you keen on rugby?”

In these politically forward, stereotype-busting times, I should reply that, as a proud queer man, I’m as capable of following sports as anyone else. Except I hate them. All of them. I don’t like having anything thrown to or at me, or running around a field chasing a small object, or a slightly larger object, or staking my self-esteem on defeating another team or individual in the course of a bewildering competition that causes head injuries. And of course I think that certain athletes are combustibly hot, especially when as naked as possible, but like opera and ballet, I feel sports should exist only as still photography.

I don’t hate sports because I’m not man enough or because I never played catch with my dad or because I’ve never given them a chance. I hate sports because I’m sane and have taste and know that going to the gym is about being able to wear a T-shirt to brunch afterward. Of course I’ll aggressively cheer for a victorious female soccer team led by lesbians and honored with a ticker tape parade. But that’s as far as I go.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been to a rugby game.”

“Match. A rugby match.”

“Or that either.”

“But you’re sure you’ll hate it.”

“I’m sure that I’ll like anything as long as I’m sitting next to you.”

We both burst out laughing.

“I was fairly certain you’d be resistant, and I actually adore rugby, but I’m scheming, because I adore you as well, and I want England to share that. But just right now, due to an incident in Manhattan involving a photograph of two fellows in bed, which I’ve entirely forgotten, England is somewhat divided. On the subject of you.”

“Listen to this,” said James, from the front seat, checking his phone. “It’s from a squalid, wholly objectionable gossip website which I’m addicted to. And they’re taking a poll. Is Carter Ogden A) A gold-digging nonentity, B) An amateur porn star, or C) A Soviet agent. How shall I vote? Oh, wait, there’s an additional choice, D) An Associate Event Albatross.”

I’d been veering away from these sites and royalty-oriented YouTube channels and the TMZ-style cable shows that I’d once mainlined. But Adam and Louise had sent me the GIFs of King Kong, with my head, clambering up Big Ben with Edgar in my paw; Edgar’s and my heads transposed onto a Dancing with the Stars tango; and Drag Race contestants blessedly supporting us by saying things like “Hate the hate, not the boys.” My mom has always told me, “Don’t feed the trolls,” but when an exceptionally nasty, bigoted tweet got the better of her, she’d log on with, “Carter Ogden is a terrific man and why don’t you just fuck off right back to your Klan rally, shithead.”

Like everyone else, I’d always guessed that celebrity

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