I began pairing up the players, placing favorites in steamy locker room grind sessions or motel room marathons, inventing chest hair patterns and “You’re buggerin’ me right proud” rugby porn chatter.

Then it happened: a goal was scored and I saw a full-field orgy, with all the players naked and sweating and going at it ecstatically, in couples, threeways and pileups. My imagination took over, and I was hired as a sex referee, running onto the field to get a closer look before making a call, like “Touchdown!”, “Bravo!” or “Great use of hands!” I was so into my version of the match that I jumped up beside Edgar and cheered every decibel as lustily, or maybe moreso. As we joined the stadium in banshee howling and fist-pumping, I got so overheated that I grabbed Edgar and hugged him.

As I instantly pulled away, horrified at what I’d done, I caught myself staring at Edgar in apologetic alarm on a Jumbotron. He clapped me on the back as if we were frat buddies, and then someone on the field got into a shoving dust-up with someone else, the crowd got distracted and vocal and on another Jumbotron I saw a woman holding a hand-lettered sign reading “I’m sitting near Prince Eddie and his strange new friend!”

“I’m so sorry!” I wailed, once James had ushered Edgar and me into a nearby private tent after the match. “I did what you told me to, about picturing the players having sex, and I got carried away. Was that a huge fuckup?”

“Of course not,” Edgar assured me, “and it was my fault for transforming the match into an X-rated free-for-all. And this is all very new, but we should remind ourselves to be careful.”

He was being nice and we both knew it.

“But with so many of these rules and precautions,” I said, “I’m not sure I get it. I mean, you’re out, which is so great, and you’re single. And most of all, you’re a symbol for queer kids and queer adults all over the world. You’re the guy. You’re our hero. You’re the out prince.”

Edgar was clenching and unclenching his fists, with a clouded look on his face.

“Thank you,” he said, “but I’m not sure you fully grasp what you’re saying. The implications. The responsibility. Every moment of every day.”

“Edgar?”

He held up a hand, controlling himself. What had I done?

“When I first came out, I wanted to believe that I was doing something logical and human and completely positive, and I hoped that the world would respond in kind. I wasn’t naive, but I was eighteen years old, which meant I was so sure of myself, of everything. I was doing what had to be done. I was telling the world, ‘This is who I am.’”

“And I admire you so much—”