Chapter One

Nine years later

I STARED at the expressionless faces on the packed train, and they stared right back, daring me to try to push into their space. I put my head down and did what they silently told me not to.

Yeah. Shane the rebel. That’s me.

Not.

If ever there was a Hufflepuff, I was it.

I pushed in and roughly elbowed my way past the people who thought that, out of the five hundred or so people on the train, they deserved at least twelve inches of space all around their bodies. We were all in the same boat—err, train—all trying to get to the city for our Monday-morning jobs. We all had the same rights to space.

I ended up squished between a middle-aged man in a suit and a young guy who didn’t look old enough to shave. It was always a harsh choice of which way to stand on the train. Did you face the front of the train and end up crotch-to-butt with the other sardines? Did you face the window and the seated passengers and risk rubbing your dick in someone’s face? Or did you present them with your butt to stare at?

I thought of the brand-new hardback novel I had in my bag and wished there were enough room to pull it out and read. I’d paid forty dollars for a hardback edition of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods and wanted to see if the story was different from the e-book. The promise of cracking open the novel was my reward if I made it to lunchtime. God knew I needed a reward, since my life was pretty sucky otherwise.

Like every other sane person on the train, I had my earbuds in as an attempt to dull the indignity of being a sardine for twenty minutes. One of my oldest friends, Jamie, worked for a radio station, and the breakfast program was “his.” He didn’t speak on the air, but I knew he was working behind the scenes to make sure the program was running smoothly for the announcer, Harry. Tuning in to the radio station each morning was my little way of supporting Jamie. Even if he didn’t know it.

I loved the guy in a “we’re going to be friends forever” way. I never could figure out how I got to be a part of his social group, because I would’ve dumped my boring arse a long time ago. Jamie is the brightest, loudest, most glittery, most gayest person in the room, every time. We could be at a drag show, and Jamie would outgay them and the entire crowd. In contrast I’m almost the same shade as the wallpaper.

I swear I could walk into a bank, hold up the teller, take the money, walk out the door, and the only thing the witnesses would remember about me is that I interrupted their precious, important, busy day for thirty seconds. Nondescript, that’s me.

I’m rather short for a guy. Average weight. Not a single muscle to brag about. Run-of-the-mill haircut. Ordinary shirt, suit, and tie. Regular all round.

Don’t tell anyone, but I have a rather large crush on Legolas from The Lord of the Rings movie. I would love to be him. I can’t do anything about my height, but I tried to starve myself thin and grow my hair once so I could look like him. Whereas Legolas and Elrond look regal in the movie, with their thin faces and long hair, I just looked homeless. It wasn’t pretty, and besides, food and I had an intimate relationship I wasn’t willing to give up, even if I could be a—rather short—Legolas at the end of it all.

Jamie would look great as Legolas. He has a tall, graceful body I’d always envied, and a pale, ethereal look I would need to be dying to achieve. Although he has a motor mouth—you could barely shut him up—so he couldn’t achieve the silent, reserved presence of one of Tolkien’s elves.

I’ve known Jamie since we started year eight together at Lakeland Senior High School. What fun. Not. We’d grown up in neighboring suburbs and attended different primary schools, and if we ever crossed paths, we didn’t remember. Then we started the larger regional high school at the same time. The dorks, nerds, geeks, and gays all banded together to form one social group—safety in numbers and all that jazz. I was the dork who grew to be a geek. And of course I was also the gay, but I didn’t admit it back then.

Jamie was my idol. He never denied he was gay and even reveled in the attention. If someone called out “Faggot!” he’d more than likely turn around and shout back, “Absolutely, darling. Never forget it. Did you need my number?”

I hung with the gamers and geeks, but at that stage, I was more interested in the books than the movies or video games. I also hung around the nerds who were involved in high-level chess games and things like robotic wars. It wasn’t until year eleven that Jamie suddenly took me under his wing and forced me to have a social life. He was fun.

Fun, unlike catching the train in the morning. The only thing that kept me sane at the end of the day was that I needed my job. Without my job, I wouldn’t get paid. And without pay, I couldn’t afford my house. And without my house, I’d have to move in with my mother. That was a wicked spiral I wasn’t interested in, so I kept my sighs to myself, shuffled along, and exited the train with all the other commuters.

From the train station I headed east. Coincidentally I worked near Jamie, but our timetables only sometimes allowed us to get together during the workday. But we would email back and forth, and if Jamie had a spare thirty minutes, I usually tried to find thirty too. Of course, that would mean skipping lunch because I would have to make up the time—not that anyone in my workplace would notice if I took an extralong coffee break. Actually I’m not sure if they would even notice if I took an extralong lunch break too. Nondescript, that’s me. But I’m also conscientious and wouldn’t feel right about lying.

I trudged up St. Georges Terrace, weaving through the crowd and avoiding those who felt they needed to stop unexpectedly in the middle of the sidewalk. I waited at every red light and only crossed when the little green man flashed. I politely stepped back when a woman needed to cross in front of me and didn’t mumble when a guy using canes made me slow for several meters until I passed him.

There was a young guy on the corner in a fluorescent vest, with two plastic-wrapped stacks of newspapers at his feet. I’d see him most days, selling papers to suited men and women as they were on their way to their offices. I usually gave him a wide berth so as not to interrupt his customers, but as I approached, he held up a paper, and the headline caught my eye.

Bro-Jak Out for the Season

The black lettering screamed its message, or maybe it only felt like that to me, because I suddenly felt faint and stopped for no reason that anyone around could see. My gaze was fixed on the paper, and I felt as though I’d lost the bottom of my stomach. There was a faint whistling sound in my ears, but I couldn’t turn to see where it was coming from.

No. He couldn’t be injured. But if he were, he’d probably head back home. And that would mean….

I found it hard to breathe as I battled my hopes with my fears. I’d told myself I was over him, but one headline and I was back to wondering if he’d call, wondering if he’d come and see me, and wondering if….

Shit. I plunged my hand into my pocket, found some coins, and almost threw them at the poor guy as I snatched the newspaper out of his hands. I turned to the back page and skimmed the article while my emotions ran an obstacle course of highs and lows. The article confirmed that Ambrose Jakoby, Hawthorn’s star forward, had reinjured his knee in the Sunday clash at the Melbourne Cricket Ground against rival team the Western Bulldogs. Hawthorn had announced that Ambrose would need surgery and would miss the rest of the season.

I flicked to the previous page and read on. The article focused past achievements of the man affectionately known to his teammates, the media, and the footy fans as Bro-Jak—his athletic ability, his career, and the excellent season he’d been having before the injury. There were quotes from his coach and the captain of his team, photographs of the tackle that caused the injury, and one of Bro-Jak being stretchered from the field.

But the article didn’t tell me what I most wanted to know. It didn’t tell me if Ambrose Jakoby, born and bred in Western Australia and drafted to a professional AFL team when he was only seventeen, was coming home to recuperate. It also didn’t tell me if Ambrose Jakoby, one of the top players in the Hawthorn lineup, would be contacting his old childhood friend, nondescript Shane Timmons.

It didn’t tell me shit, which meant I would have to wait and see if Ambrose Jakoby, who was recently dating some blonde Instagrammer model woman, pushed back into my life just three months after I decided I was through with him.

Nondescript, that was me.

Conscientious, that was me.

Fucked, that was me.