Chapter 2
“YOU’RE coming whether you like it or not,” Roger commanded.
I ignored him and pretended to be shuffling through my messenger bag, looking for some important documents which in actuality didn’t exist.
“I know you can hear me,” Roger said unhappily.
“Of course he can.”
Without looking up, I knew Fran had returned to the room. We were currently in their lounge, having just had dinner. I had come straight from work, stopping home only to feed the cat and get scratched thoroughly for daring to leave her alone again. I rubbed absentmindedly at one of the wounds on my arm again, causing it to break open and seep a tiny rivulet of blood.
“Gross.” Roger noted the obvious.
Fran squeezed in between us, a new bottle of wine in her hands. I hadn’t even realised we finished the first and knew that this next glass would have to be my last if I still wanted to drive home. I didn’t want to have to catch a taxi home tonight and then back here the next morning to pick up my car, and if I crashed here overnight I would really be in the cat’s bad book.
“I don’t want to go either,” Fran told me. “But what can you do?”
“I’m not the one sleeping with Roger,” I said. “I’m not beholden to his demands.”
“Neither am I, and I am sleeping with him,” Fran countered, giggling to herself.
“Hey!” Roger protested. “I am here, you know!”
Like I said, things have long been back to normal with us now, enough that the casual mention of the thought of the two of us sleeping together no longer made him react like Dracula pulling open the curtains an hour early.
“Pour the wine, hon.” Fran threw herself back against the couch and propped her feet on the table.
Both Roger and I reached for the bottle at the same time.
“She meant me, Simon,” Roger said, although I knew he wasn’t being serious.
“No, I didn’t,” Fran said, a smirk suggesting otherwise.
“I’m man enough to back down.” I held up my hands in mock surrender.
Roger sighed, and I knew he was thinking for the millionth time that it was no fun when we ganged up against him. He passed us our glasses, and we fell into a peace that only broke when Roger murmured, “You’re coming, and that’s it.”
“I don’t even know these people.”
“That’s the point of a party. To get to know new people.”
“I don’t want to know new people. I get to meet enough new people at work every day.” That was true enough, and they more than exhausted my quota.
“There might be some cute guys,” Roger said desperately.
I looked at Fran. “Did he just say cute guys?”
Fran raised an eyebrow, a trick I wished I could master. “I’m as surprised as you are. I apparently married a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“Shut up.” Roger sulked. “You know, you could help me convince him to come.”
“Oh, he’s coming.” Fran turned to me, and I could see the glint in her eyes telling you in no uncertain terms you shouldn’t cross her. “He knows he is.”
And that was that. I could hold out against Roger, but Fran got the best of both of us every single time.
“So…,” Roger said finally, as Fran drank from her glass. “Friday. Get here by eight. No sense in being the first to arrive.”
Fran and I looked at each other, unable to hold in our laughter.
“What?” Roger demanded.
I pushed my empty glass over to him. “One more for the road, Miss Manners.”
“WHOSE party is this, anyway?” I grumbled, wrapping my scarf tighter around my throat to protect it from the winter winds everybody claimed blew straight up from Antarctica. I could see the fence of Melbourne Cemetery as we walked along, and truth be told, I would rather be spending the night in there than going to a shindig where the only people I would know were currently in step beside me.
“I don’t know,” Fran replied, snuggling in closer to Roger for warmth. “Roger knows them.”
“I thought you knew them?” Roger asked.
I groaned. “You two have to be shitting me. Aren’t we a bit too old to be crashing a party?”
“We’re not crashing,” Fran said. “It’s somebody’s engagement party. I know that much.”
“I thought it was a thirtieth birthday party,” Roger murmured.
“Great, just great,” I said in an even lower tone of voice, which they couldn’t help but hear anyway. “Is there even a party?”
“Don’t be Mr. Grumpy,” Fran warned. “We’re saving you from a night of sitting at home and watching your complete box set of The X-Files for the twentieth time.”
“Or telling kids on Twitter that they need to spell properly.” Roger laughed.
I would have given them both the finger if my hand wasn’t jammed so far into my pocket and it was too cold to pull it out.
“That all sounds much better than going to a party where we apparently don’t even know what it’s for.”
Roger and Fran ignored me, and the only sounds on the street were our shoes scraping on the bitumen of the road and the clanking of beer bottles in the plastic bag Roger carried. Gradually we could hear music from a distance away, guiding us in like a buoy on the ocean.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” Roger said. “Synch up our watches, if we’re all bored shitless after an hour we sneak out.”
That sounded like a good plan to me. I agreed happily. I set my watch a little fast because I already couldn’t wait to make a break for it.
“Look at Simon, that’s the first time he’s smiled all night.” Fran sighed as she adjusted the clock on her mobile.
“I can’t help it if you’re the only two people I like associating with on a regular basis. Or maybe that you’re the only two who will associate with me.”
“Oh, boohoo,” Fran said dismissively. “Try to act a little suave at this party, and people might even talk to you this time.”
Suave isn’t really me. I’m the doofus who normally will end up spilling drinks on somebody or inadvertently insulting the host’s partner. Then it’s time for a quick getaway and a renewal of vows to never go out again. Until, of course, the next time when Fran and Roger forget about whatever heinous social crime I committed before and force me out again.
We paused before the front door. From the sounds of it, the party was in full swing.
“Do we knock?” Fran asked.
“They wouldn’t hear us,” I said.
“Doorbell?” Roger suggested.
I sighed and took the initiative. The door was unlocked, and I pushed it open.
“Enter,” I told my friends.
They took my lead. In the hallway we unwrapped our scarves and shucked out of our jackets, and threw them upon the bed we could see from our vantage point. It was obviously acting as a coat rack for the night.
Fran and Roger were big fat liars. They instantly found people they knew, mutual friends who I had met only vaguely. From what I could remember we had all come away from the night still uninterested in one another’s existences. I circled nervously around the lounge room, the main congregating area. I groaned when I saw the first person I knew properly—Jasper Brunswick. He had worked for the Triple F a couple of years before, and he was a royal pain in the arse. I hadn’t been manager at the time, but I was being groomed for eventual takeover. Jasper was one of those know-it-alls who thought he could do everything better, but really didn’t want to do the work. I had burned my bridges with him when he drunkenly tried to seduce me one night, and my mouth had fired off before my brain had the opportunity to think of a kinder answer than “No way in hell!”
A cold war began between us and was exacerbated when I had to do some admin work and discovered that his name wasn’t Jasper Brunswick at all, but Jon Brown. Yeah, I’m sure you’ve got him all figured out now.
He was sitting in the centre of the lounge on a red couch that had seen better days. He drew everybody into a circle around him, regaling them with tales about himself and various celebrities he had schmoozed with. Jasper had made a name for himself recently for penning a gossip column for the local gay rag. His ego certainly had recovered nicely since I last saw him.
I immediately slunk into the shadows lining the walls and made a beeline for the kitchen. I needed that beer now and had to find out where Roger had put them. As I did so, I looked at my watch. We had only been here for ninety seconds, and I was ready to do a runner. That had to be a record, even for me.
Sure enough, Roger was in the kitchen. Anywhere there’s food and beer, that’s where you’re likely to find him.
“Roger!” I hissed. “Beer! Now!”
He grinned at me infuriatingly. “Did you see your best mate is in the lounge?”
“Why do you think I need a beer so badly?”
He took pity on me and handed me a bottle. I twisted the cap off savagely and downed half the beer in a few huge mouthfuls.
“Pace yourself,” Roger warned.
“We’re only going to be an hour, right?” I pleaded.
But it looked as if I may have lost this battle. Roger wore an expression signifying he might be ready to settle in, and Fran could be seen lounging comfortably against the wall, her posture relaxed and her attitude sparkling as she chatted with a woman who had called me a communist at one of Fran’s work dos.
I began to formulate whether I had enough money in my wallet for a taxi should the need arise, but the beer started to have an almost immediate effect on me. I’m a true Cadbury kid, needing only a glass and a half to get me going. In fact, even the Cadbury kid could drink me under the table.
“Maybe you should sleep with him,” Roger said out of the blue as if he had pondered this for the past four minutes.
My spit-take would have put most comedians to shame. “Are you high?”
He giggled like he had already downed a six-pack and it was affecting him already. “I don’t know, maybe you should just get laid.”
“Does your wife know you talk like this?” I polished off my beer and resolved to take the second one more slowly. I gestured for Roger to hand me another.
“When single you are,” Roger said, imitating Yoda dispensing advice to Luke, “get laid you can. When married you get, make love you do.”
“Oh, one of the magical gifts afforded to people who can actually get married,” I said, never one to miss the opportunity to climb up on my soapbox.
“Well, if I had my way you could,” Roger said, draping a casual arm over my shoulder. “But you’d also have to find someone first.”
I snorted as I opened my beer. “It’s not going to be Jasper Bloody Brunswick, that’s for sure.”
Roger peered behind us to take in the decadent form of Mr. Brunswick draped over the couch with his small crowd of neophytes sitting before him, desperate for some tenuous connection to celebrity. “Yeah, I wouldn’t wish Jon Brown on anybody.”
“Shut up!” I hissed. “He’ll hear you!” The last thing I needed was Jasper Brunswick hunting me down throughout this party because he heard his true name being spoken.
“Do you think if you say it three times in front of a mirror, he appears and slits your throat?” Roger was obviously very amused with himself this evening.
“Are you talking about Jon Brown?”
It was Fran, suddenly appearing behind us and as usual up to speed on everything even though she hadn’t been a part of our earlier conversation.
“Fran!” I protested weakly.
She took Roger’s beer away from him and drank the remains. “Yes, please, babe, I’d love a drink.” As Roger dutifully trotted away to fetch her one, she leaned in teasingly to me and murmured, “Jon Brown, Jon Brown, Jon Brown.”
“Simon Murray.”
I knew it was Jasper Brunswick from Fran’s expression. “Three times and he appears! Watch your throat.” She grinned wickedly and slunk off to find her husband.
I took a deep breath to contain myself and turned to face him. “Jasper Brunswick.”
His face was flushed, and his pupils were dilated from whatever drugs he had consumed either before or at the party. He leered at me, and I grew uncomfortable under his gaze. “Been a while, Simon.”
“Really?” It had seemed far too short to me.
“Mind you, I’ve done very well for myself since leaving Triple F.”
Triple F’s full name was actually the Furtive Film Festival but I found it a bit too twee and horrifically earnest, changing it as soon as I took over. Plus, it made the logo look less cluttered. “Why, what are you doing?” I asked innocently.
“Don’t pretend to be thick,” Jasper Brunswick said, his eyes narrowing as he tried to ready his best insult. “Although it is one of your more endearing traits. I’m sure you’ve seen my column.”
“Column?” Thankfully at that moment Roger passed by and clandestinely pressed another beer into my hand. Three in about fifteen minutes. They would be peeling me off the floor soon enough.
“In the Reach Out.”
“I don’t read it.”
“I find that hard to believe, Simon.”
“Yeah, well, it’s hard enough to keep up with publications I have to read for work.”
“Can I give you a piece of advice?”
Oh, this would be good. I remained silent.
Jasper Brunswick leaned in to me and rested his fingers upon my arm. I could feel them searing my flesh, leaving the permanent mark of the devil behind. “You might want to remain on good terms with the local press. Especially when you want to get coverage of your little festival.”
“We already get plenty of coverage,” I said firmly, opening my beer so his grip on my arm was shaken off. “In fact, we got a four-page spread in the Reach Out last year.”
“My column could be very important in helping spread the word further,” he insinuated, his breath hot and fetid upon my face. “A few pictures of the distinguished guests and the director of the festival. You can’t buy publicity like that.”
I winced. “I’m sure you could think of a price.”
He faltered slightly and crossed his arms defensively. “Still as cynical as ever, aren’t you? I’m surprised you’ve gotten where you are. No people skills, that’s your problem.”
“I have people skills,” I countered. “Just not the kind of people skills you used to get where you are.”
He grew even redder. I have no idea if he slept his way to the top, which is what I certainly sounded like I was implying, but to tell you the truth, I was talking more about his snaky schmooziness and brownnosing.
And to my relief, Jasper Brunswick turned on his heel and stalked back over to the lounge room, where he would no doubt find people who would fall at his feet to worship and restore his comfortable sense of superiority.
Roger and Fran appeared from where they had hidden in the pantry. “So he’s gone?” Roger asked, looking around like the man in question had the abilities of a chameleon and actually blended in with the ’70s-era tiling on the wall behind us.
“He’s gone. Thanks for the support,” I said dryly.
“I got you another beer, didn’t I?” Roger asked, affronted, as if it were equivalent to unsheathing his sword and standing beside me in battle.
Reading my mind, Fran said, “That was Lancelot’s main role on the battlefield for Arthur, wasn’t it?”
“No,” I replied, “it was screwing his wife while his back was turned. By the way, speaking of inappropriate trysts, did you know Roger tried to convince me to sleep with that dickhead?”
“Lancelot?” Fran asked.
“Funny.”
“I took it back straightaway,” Roger mumbled.
Fran rubbed his back affectionately. “Idiot. Please try to find better conquests for your mates.”
“I’m not looking for a conquest,” I pointed out, shepherding them out into the backyard, where a small fire burned in an old oil drum.
“Last I heard, you weren’t looking for anything,” Fran shrugged.
“Is that a crime?”
“It’s certainly not normal.”
“And what’s normal? You guys?”
“Shut up,” Fran said, without heat.
“You love us.” Roger always got cheesy when he was drunk.
I mumbled incoherently into my feet, an admission of returned love which they could understand without knowing exactly what I said.
Fran hugged me and then pushed me off her. “Now, go away. I want to make out with my husband.”
I laughed, not taking any offence, and went off to find a corner where I could hide.
Luck scored me a garden swing in a dark corner that no couple had yet appropriated to mack upon. I settled in and slowly pushed myself, my beer nestled snugly in my hands.
There was a small group standing off to my right, talking loudly. So it wasn’t like I was eavesdropping. I wish I knew who they were, because, really, I have them to thank for this whole story. Well, unless you want to give Fran and Roger the credit for dragging me to this party in the first place. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Again. I might as well go all the way back to thanking my parents for having a late-night snuggle one cold winter’s night almost twenty-eight years ago.
“The Devils are gonna have another shit year, I’m telling you.”
The voices were a garbled mess; beside the gender of each voice I couldn’t really separate them into distinct entities.
“Nah, it’s about time for them to start crawling up the ladder again.”
“You said that last year. There’s no way they’ll finish in the top eight.”
“Yeah, no finals hopes at all. They’re wasted.”
“They never should have allowed them to merge.”
That had been the biggest controversy in the recent history of AFL. To truly make the game Australia-wide (although conveniently neglecting the Northern Territory, but as my father liked to argue, it was a territory, not a state. My reaction: “It’s a bloody big block of land at the top of Australia with people living in it! They deserve some sort of team!”) the AFL created a Tasmanian team. But in order to keep the numbers of teams even so that there wouldn’t be any hassle in arranging games, they had to sacrifice one of the Victorian teams so they could merge into one (Roger: “It’s like bloody Fitzroy all over again!”). We had to say good-bye to the Melbourne Demons, who moved down south and across the Bass Strait to become the Tasmanian Devils.
At the time I remember being horrified at the possibility they might make Richmond merge so that they could be the Tasmanian Tigers, after one of the most famous extinct (supposedly) animals in the world, but we were safe.
So the Devils weren’t exactly popular in Victoria, like the Brisbane Lions before them, because they had committed the cardinal sin of taking one of our teams away from us. Problems besieged the Devils from the very start, with two of their key players being injured in their very first season, and although one had gone on to recover, Declan Tyler seemed plagued with injury ever since. It was a favourite source of discussion on both sides of the Bass Strait; we thought it was an act of the gods showing us the merge should never have happened, while the Tasmanians bemoaned the fact one of the best players in the league was doing nothing for them but to sit on the bench and occasionally run out to get injured.
I knew Tyler would come up sooner or later, and it was sooner.
“They’ve taken Tyler away from us, and look what they did to him.”
“I don’t think it was their fault.”
“What are you, a Devils supporter?”
Howls of derision floated over to where I was sitting.
“No, I’m not! Just I don’t think they’re going to take someone like Tyler and then intentionally injure him so they can’t use him at all!”
“They should do something with him. All he does is sit on that bench and gather dust. And lard.”
“He does not. He’s hot.”
He was, actually. But that’s not important.
“Typical bloody woman. Just watching the game to perve at the guys in their shorts.”
There was another frenzied protest at such an accusation. I sighed to myself as well. Women and gay guys always get stuck with that image, that they couldn’t possibly be interested in the game itself—it had to be the guys. I mean, sure, it’s a fringe benefit, but when the game is on the last thing you’re thinking about is the bodies of the men. You’re concentrating on that red leather oval ball and if it will make it between the triad of poles signifying either glory or failure. Not to mention some of the women I’ve met over the years at games or supporter functions have been the most vocal and knowledgeable proponents of the game.
Those very points were raised between the arguers. I laughed to myself and swore I wasn’t going to get involved. But then someone made a comment so wrong I had to butt in.
“It’s not even like he was that great a player to begin with, anyway.”
“Not a great player?” I made some of them jump when I emerged from the shadows.
I could now make out three men and two women arguing over the oil drum. “You are talking about Declan Tyler, right? Winner of the Best and Fairest for the Devils two years consecutively, a Brownlow Medallist, and winner of the Norm Smith medal and the Leigh Matthews Trophy? Yeah, he really sucks as a football player.”
“How many Devils fans are there at this party?” one of the men asked.
“I’m not a Devils supporter,” I said, the disgust plain on my face. “I go for Richmond.”
All five of them burst out laughing.
“Hey!” I protested. “We’re about due for a final.”
“You’ve been due for over fifty years, mate,” the woman closest to me said.
I could feel someone approaching us from behind me and just assumed it was someone else interested in the conversation or a friend of one of the group. “Look, I know Tyler comes across like a bit of an arrogant prick, but you can’t say he’s not a great player. When he’s not injured, of course.”
For some reason, everybody’s eyes went wide at this point. Puzzled, I raised my hands for any kind of response.
There was the sound of somebody clearing their throat behind me. “Well, thanks for defending my honour.”
No way! No way this was possibly happening. I turned, hoping it was just Roger being a dickhead, but I could already tell by the expressions of the rest of the group that it wasn’t. Although I had never heard that voice in person, I had often enough on television, usually in news bites or postgame interviews.
Behind me was the man himself, Declan Tyler. And you know how supposedly most people are shocked when they see a celebrity in real life and think they’re tiny? Declan Tyler was even taller than I imagined, and had at least a head on me. And I don’t think I’m that short, either.
At that moment I wished I had accompanied Roger to his martial arts classes when he went through his obsession with wuxia movies. I wasn’t any good at any violence or even defending myself against violence, should the occasion arise.
“Declan Tyler!” I heard one of the other men breathe in wonder.
“Well, great conversation,” I said hurriedly. “Very nice to meet you all.”
I managed to escape while the footballer in question was surrounded by the group, of which every member was now star-struck, of course; most of all, the man who previously had been bagging him.
I searched through the garden and the house for Roger and Fran, who were nowhere to be found. Jasper Brunswick was still in his own self-created shrine, and I couldn’t help but think that at least Declan Tyler deserved the adoration he was currently receiving, because he actually did something, even if it was just kicking a ball around.
Just kick a ball around? What was I thinking? I must have been more agitated than I thought. I was hopeless at confrontations.
I burst through the front door; the yard was empty. They surely wouldn’t have left without me. I checked my mobile to make sure they hadn’t tried calling or left me a text; they hadn’t. I beat the phone in frustration against my forehead, as if I could absorb the information I needed through osmosis.
“Hey!”
I turned around. It was Declan Tyler, coming to punch my lights out. Crap.
“I know krav maga!” I said stupidly.
“Good for you,” he said, a confused expression on his face. It wasn’t one I was used to seeing on him; on the field he was always in control and stoic. In fact, it seemed to be his default expression. It was like he knew how good he was, and he wasn’t going to deny it, which is where I guess my presumption of him being an arrogant prick had come from.
Not only was he a head taller than me, I now saw the span of his shoulders was practically a third wider than mine. He could easily fell me with one king hit. Looking confused gave him more character, it made his boy-next-door looks become even more appealing. He had to lose that gross bit of fluff above his chin, though.
“What do you want?” I asked, still ready to run although it would be akin to a meerkat trying to escape a lion.
He jammed his hands in his pockets. Was he trying to show me that he came in peace? “I wasn’t sure whether to thank you for defending my record or yell at you for calling me… what was it again?”
“Arrogant prick,” I said helpfully, before I could even think to stop myself.
He grinned. I had walked into his trap. “Most people think I’m either one or the other. It’s rare to find someone who thinks both.”
“Really?” I asked.
“You sound surprised.”
“Well, most footballers are….” I trailed off.
He kept his grin carefully plastered on his face. “Uh-huh.”
“… really nice guys,” I finished.
“Stereotypes are a killer,” he said. “I mean, if I was to go on what you look like, I would say you’re a typical arty wanker, what with your cargo pants, your Doc Martens and your all-black wardrobe.”
“Ah, but I am an arty wanker,” I replied. Rule one to survival: always be self-deprecating and get in with insults about yourself before the other party can.
“Where’s your beret?”
“That’s for Sundays.”
Just at that moment, Fran and Roger stumbled through the front gate.
“Where have you guys been?” I demanded, glad that the cavalry had arrived.
“In the cemetery,” Roger replied.
“I don’t even want to know.”
“Not what you’re thinking.” Fran giggled. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”
It was hard to tell who was propping the other up. I think they were really just sagging against each other, and gravity was being their friend.
Some cavalry.
Roger’s eyes widened when he realised I wasn’t alone. “Are you chatting up a guy?”
I flushed. Roger had just committed a major faux pas. You never outed somebody on their behalf. I mean, it’s not like I hid it, but you should always be the one to say it yourself. It’s just common sense, as it also gives you the opportunity to protect yourself if the situation warrants it.
“No,” I muttered.
Roger now looked like an anime character. “Hey, you’re— ”
Declan shifted uncomfortably and seemed to grow even taller. “Declan Tyler,” he mumbled.
“Oh my God, I don’t believe it!”
“Who’s Declan Tyler?” Fran asked.
Declan looked at her gratefully.
Roger began a spiel listing all of Tyler’s statistics, medals, and other achievements.
Fran’s eyes got that glazed-over look they usually did where football was concerned.
And meanwhile, for some unknown reason, Declan stood there and listened to it although he seemed somewhat mortified.
“Okay,” I interrupted Roger halfway through. “I gotta go. Nice meeting you,” I said hurriedly to the very tall and very imposing footballer. I then turned to Roger and Fran. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I was out the gate and a couple of houses down the street when I heard Fran yell,
“Hey, what about your jacket?”
Fuck. There was no way I was going back. I would rather freeze to death. They would have to give it to me at a later stage. I shivered in the cold night air, my visible breath leading me down to Lygon Street where I knew I would stand more chance of catching a taxi.
“Hey!”
I kept walking. I like to pretend that if you don’t acknowledge a general yell in your direction, the yeller will just go away. Who’s to say they were yelling for me, anyway?
“Simon!”
Even though I had only heard a few sentences from him tonight, I knew it was Declan Tyler again. I steeled myself for the inevitable fist in the face and wished I hadn’t left the relative security of my friends. And I mean relative security, because I don’t think they were capable of doing much on my behalf at the moment except serving as interested, if not terribly accurate, witnesses.
I turned and saw Declan jogging toward me with my jacket and scarf over his arm.
“You need these, you idiot. It’s fucking freezing.”
To say I was surprised was an understatement. “Uh, thanks,” I said, although it didn’t come out very graciously. Perhaps more bewildered than anything else. “How did you know—”
“Your friend Fran pointed them out to me when I said I would run them down to you. They looked a bit too drunk to be able to catch up.”
“Yeah, they were a bit….” I took my jacket from him. I zipped myself into it, and then took my scarf and wrapped it around my neck. “So….”
“So.”
This was awkward. And strange. Very strange.
“So,” Declan said again. “You’re gay.”
Oh, here we go. “Yes. There are gay footballer supporters, you know. I bet there are even gay players.”
He began to laugh.
I shook my head, trying not to let my temper rise. “Yeah, well, I’m sure that’s funny to you. Anyway….” I turned again, eager to go, but I felt an arm clamp onto my elbow, and I was turned back to face him. Declan was definitely in my personal space now, and he had that look on his face. The look of somebody who was about to lean in and kiss—
I yelped slightly as his mouth closed over mine. I don’t mind admitting I was in total shock. The night had definitely taken on a surreal trend. Declan’s body pressed against mine, and we shifted backward until I felt the rough bark of a tree against my back. His mouth was firm, and his tongue pressed between my lips until they parted. I was surprised that he tasted like beer, but at the good point, before it becomes stale and a little rank. I know I’m not exactly selling the romanticism here, but I was pleasantly thrilled by it at the time. This was not the kiss of a man who was trying it on, there was no hesitation. His hand curled around the back of my neck to deepen the kiss, and his other hand slipped down my back to hold me in.
I’m not sure how long we stood there for, kissing all the while, but my mind certainly raced through a thousand thoughts. I considered texting my father and brother, but knew they probably wouldn’t be impressed with my bragging that I was making out with one of the biggest players in the league. In fact, they would probably be horrified that said player was my way inclined, and it would probably somewhat diminish Declan’s abilities in their eyes.
We finally pulled away from each other, panting slightly.
“Stop looking so shocked,” he said, grinning at what was obviously a saucer-eyed expression on my face. “See, I know there are gay footy players.”
I still couldn’t formulate words. But this time I went on the attack, and he submitted willingly.
We were sheltered by the low-hanging branches, which is probably why he had been brazen enough to take on such a public display of affection in the first place. There was still a rational part of my mind that knew this stupid for him, as he certainly wasn’t out to the public at large. I knew nothing about this guy other than what was published in the AFL Record. I was starting to think I was being stupid as well, but with him squashing me against a tree and claiming my mouth as part of his own, I was too weak-willed to put up any protest.
Car lights flashed in our direction, and Declan jumped away from me. I was disappointed and slightly offended, yet understanding. Quite frankly, schizophrenic.
I could see the look on his face clearly illuminated by the approaching headlights.
He was shocked by his own brazenness, by his recklessness at outing himself. After all, he had a lot more to lose by it than I did. He had no idea of who I was or what kind of person I could be. In his mind, I could already be planning to sell the story to the Herald Sun.
I opened my mouth to speak, possibly to reassure him, when we realised the nearing car was actually slowing down. It was a taxi, and Roger was hanging out the back window. “There you are!”
He noticed that Declan was with me and that there was palpable tension in the air. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” I said. “I take it we’re going?”
But Roger was fixated. “Is he hassling you?” he asked, indicating Declan.
“No!” I scoffed.
“Hey, mate,” Roger addressed Declan, fumbling with the door of the taxi to get out and confront him. I could hear Fran protesting and see her arm try to yank him back in.
I threw Declan an apologetic look and recognised that I better defuse the situation. Sadly, the best way to do that was just to go and get the hell out of there, taking Roger with me. Nothing like a friend ready to drunkenly defend your honour, thinking you were about to be beaten up when really you had been having one of the best and strangest pashes in your life. Definitely a story to gross out the grandkids.
“Stay, Roger,” I growled.
Neither Declan nor I said a word to each other. He watched me get into the taxi. As I belted myself into the front seat, Fran made some sort of apologetic sound, but I was still staring at the man outside my window. Then the taxi moved forward, and I couldn’t see him anymore.