CHAPTER THIRTEEN

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As soon as the Western Suburbs Post was delivered to the school on Wednesday morning, Bernie brought it through to her. The first period bell had gone and Ella was sitting at her desk relishing the peace.

“I think you’re gonna love this.” He smiled, holding it up to reveal the front page headline.

The Little School That Could said the bold black type and then under it in smaller print but still readable from across the room — Education Dept Threatens to Shut Down Local School.

“Front page?” Ella practically leaped off the chair. “Oh my God! Much better than I hoped for.”

Ella took the paper from Bernie and he departed. Her hand trembled a little as she cleared a space in front of her and laid it flat. A large picture of the jubilant team carrying Jake and Pete off the field with the Hanniford High scoreboard in the background dominated the article. Ella smiled again at the memory.

She devoured the article which spilled over to page three. Suzy Barton, the young reporter who had obviously seen All The President’s Men a little too often had been most eager to listen to what Ella had to say. Given that she probably spent her time covering the fluffy bunny stories Ella was happy to play Deep Throat to her Bernstein.

Whatever rallied the local community worked for her.

And it was a very good, very comprehensive article. Everything she’d discussed with Suzy was there. The Education Department’s threats to close the struggling school and the desperate measures Hanniford High was employing to stay open. The BSFC bid was outlined succinctly with a great summary of all the Demons’ successes concluding with Saturday’s win.

Suzy Barton went on to trumpet Ella’s coup in landing Jake Prince as the coach, mentioning that they’d gone to school together. She also raved about the school spirit and how the cheer squad, tutored by Trish Jones, herself once a professional cheerleader, had become a whole school project, applauding their anti-violence message.

There were also mentions of Cam and Miranda, to demonstrate how Hanniford High was one big family and praise for Ella herself, for leading the charge and standing up to the Man.

The piece ended with a diatribe on heartless bureaucrats who were ripping the soul out of a severely depressed socio-economic area to pinch a few pennies. Phrases such as denying poor kids access to free education and discrimination leaped off the page.

It was exactly what Ella hoped it would be - a stirring piece of journalism to inspire even the most apathetic in the community to rally to the cause. She made a mental note to nominate Suzy Barton for a Pulitzer Prize — or whatever the Australian equivalent was.

It may not be Watergate but Ella hoped it’d have Donald Wiseman on the run. Or silenced, at least.

She leaned back in her chair, revelling in the buzz of a job well done, until a loud knock on her door startled her out of the glow. Before she could open her mouth to say come in, the door was flung open and Jake strode in to her office.

“What,” he asked, holding up the paper, “the hell is this?”

Ella blinked and the glow disappeared like a genie in a puff of smoke. Damn it! Sadly she’d had post-coital moments that hadn’t been this good, so she’d been hoping to prolong it.

Needless to say his interruption was irritating in the extreme. She raised an eyebrow and then made a point of looking at her watch.

“Good morning to you too, Jake. Bit early for you, isn’t it?”

“I run a pub,” he snapped. “You know, in my real life? I don’t get home until three a.m. So imagine my annoyance when Pete bashed on my door at eight this morning.” He slammed his

copy of the paper on top of hers. “Didn’t I say no press?”

Ella stood. “Yes, I know you did but—”

Jake gave a loud snort, raking a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Ella, I think I was fairly specific.”

“The department’s demanding I show cause. I just thought this might drum up some support.”

“I don’t care what you thought,” he roared.

Ella glared at him. “Look, Jake, I know you didn’t want any media attention drawn to you, that you wanted to stay anonymous, but I think you’re overreacting here.”

Jake closed his eyes and pressed his thumb and forefinger hard against them. He dropped his hand and opened his eyes. “Overreacting? You don’t have a clue, do you?” he yelled.

“It’s only the local rag, Jake. It’s hardly The Age.”

Jake gave another snort, stalking over to the window in case he should succumb to the rising urge to throttle her. He slapped his palm hard and high against the frame. “There’s no such thing as local, Ella, especially not now with the internet. People will bloody blog and tweet about it, for fuck’s sake. Every national paper, every TV station and radio station will see this story — they pay people to comb independent newspapers looking for juicy stories.”

“Your name’s barely mentioned,” she rationalized. “You can’t even tell it’s you or Pete in the picture.”

Jake took two steps toward her desk, flipped the paper over and stabbed his finger at the photo of himself gracing the back page. “Wrong.”

Jake sneered at the headline: The Prodigal Prince. There was a picture of him in the foreground in his Demons jersey, standing arms crossed on the sidelines. Sure, he was wearing his dark glasses and baseball cap but it was clearly him.  In the background were Trish and Ella, their blank gazes glued to the action. And beside them, Rosie and Simon, ignoring the game totally, pashing like two horny teenagers who had been grounded for a week.

She shrugged. “It’s just the back page, Jake. No one reads the back page.”

Jake thumped his fist down on her desk. “I bloody did. And here’s a newsflash, Ella, so do a lot of other people. It’s only you who considers sports beneath her dignity.” He glared at her. “Where were you hiding him anyway?”

Ella frowned. “Hiding who?”

“The photographer.”

“I wasn’t hiding anyone,” she snapped. “The reporter who interviewed me made arrangements to send someone to take some shots of you and the guys training on Monday but then she rang to say that, coincidentally, their sports photographer had snapped some pics at the match on Saturday and they were going to use them.”

Jake rubbed the nape of his neck a few times. He must be getting old. He hadn’t seen anyone with a telephoto lens on Saturday. A couple of years ago he’d been able to sniff out a cameraman or a journo from a hundred paces.

But then he had been quite preoccupied with trying to win a match.

Time out of the spotlight had made him complacent, had lowered his guard. Not that this was about him. Rekindling interest in his messy exit from football was nothing compared to the story he’d managed to keep under wraps for almost two decades.

Until now anyway.

He shook his head, his temper barely suppressed. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“Oh puh-lease.” She rolled her eyes. “Do you really think anyone cares about a washed-up footballer? I mean, really?”

Jake’s jaw clenched as rage drove a hot spike through his chest. He had the sudden urge to pull her over his knee and smack her backside. Who did she think she was to be playing God with other people’s lives? And then a really ugly thought wormed its way into his head.

“Oh my God. You did this on purpose. You did this to get back at me for Rachel.”

She blinked. “Don’t be ridiculous, Jake. How could you even think that of me?”

“Yeah,” he snorted. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“More like moronic.”

Jake took a step closer and leaned over the desk. “Listen up,” he growled. “I’m only going to say this once. I. Did. Not. Sleep. With. Rachel.”

The admission rung all the angst accumulated over these last months out of him and he eased himself back into the chair behind him, resting his elbows on his knees. It felt good to unburden himself, even if the damage was already done.

He looked up at her. “My father was one of her clients. Sometimes he was too drunk to get home and Rachel would ring the pub and I would go and pick him up. That’s how I knew about the damn vases.”

Ella stared at him, his fervent denial and explanation seeping into the cracks of her frozen grey matter. He looked part pissed off, part exasperated, and tired as hell. But she believed him.

He hadn’t slept with Rachel.

She sank into the chair behind her. “You didn’t —”

“No,” he said tersely.

The weight Ella had been carrying on her chest suddenly lifted but that didn’t make her feel any better. “Why didn’t you say something?” she demanded.

“I do believe I tried.”

Ella wanted to refute it but it was the truth. He had denied it that morning and she’d pushed it aside. “Not hard enough.” Why hadn’t he tried harder?

“Maybe I hoped you’d had a better opinion of me?”

The barb struck her in the centre of the chest. It was a fair comment. “You’re right...,” she murmured, her hands trembling. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I’m sorry.”

He ran both hands over his buzz cut “Forget it,” he sighed.

“But —”

“Jesus, Ella.” He stood. “It doesn’t matter. Not compared to this mess.”

Her phone rang and Ella was grateful for the reprieve from his accusatory stare. “Yes, Bernie?”

He didn’t release her gaze as Bernie prattled away in her ear, his grim expression putting a dampener on the good news.

“The phones are ringing off the hook,” she said, replacing the receiver, eyes still locked. “Some radio station wants to talk to me.”

“And so it begins,” he muttered.

He shut his eyes briefly releasing Ella from their hold. She breathed easier but only for a second or two. When he opened them again they were grimly determined.

“I quit.”

Ella shot to her feet. “What?”

“Hey,” Jake snapped pointing at her. “I told you I’d walk if the press became involved. It’s the only way I can think of to make the story about Hanniford.”

Ella couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You can’t do this to the team.”

Jake rubbed his eyes. “They have Pete. They’ll be fine.”

Ella walked around the desk and stood directly in front of him. “It’s not Pete they’re doing this for. It’s you.” She poked him in the chest. Hard. “They look up to you.” Another poke. “You can’t walk out on them now. Not when they have the finals to go. You’ll devastate them.”

“Well, maybe you should have thought about that when you went to the press.” Jake turned to the door.

“Oh no. No, you don’t,” Ella snapped. “You’re not putting your desertion on me.”

He stopped. “I knew this was going to be trouble. Right from the beginning. I just knew it.”

Ella almost laughed out loud - he was sounding so much like Iris now. “Jake, please.” She put her hand on his shoulder and he reluctantly turned to face her. “Look, I’m sorry about thinking the worst of you and I’m sorry I took this to the media. But you can’t just walk away. You made these kids believe in you. Kids who didn’t believe in anything. The whole school believes in you. Don’t walk out on them when the going gets tough like every other adult in their life has.”

“Go and do your radio, Ella. Milk the publicity for all it’s worth. Just leave me out of it, okay?”

The bleakness, the defeat, in his eyes clawed at her gut as he turned away again, opened the door and walked out.

Ella laid a shaky hand against the back of the door, her heart drumming wildly, her chest rising and falling, as agitated as the rest of her.

What had she done?

Ella was on the oval as soon as the final bell sounded. It had been a busy day. She’d done a couple of talk-back radio slots and a journo from The Courier Mail had interviewed her. The photographer was due to show any moment. She’d avoided Jake’s name as he’d requested but it did seem to be the one thing they were the most interested in.

Only Pete was there when she arrived. The knot of nerves in her belly tangled tighter. She couldn’t believe Jake was serious. Surely he wouldn’t pull out on them?

He was mad, she understood that, but he wouldn’t do something so damaging, would he?

“Ella.” Pete nodded.

She smiled at him and forced herself to be light. “Jake running late?”

Pete returned her smile with a sympathetic one of his own. “He’s not coming, Ella.”

There was tenderness in Pete’s tone and she knew he was trying to let her down gently. She swallowed against the hard lump that had lodged in her throat since Jake had walked out of her office earlier. “He’ll be here. Tomorrow,” she said. “After he’s had a chance to calm down.”

“He’s pretty pissed. I think Chernobyl’s nuclear reactor has a greater chance of cooling down before Jake does.”

“He can’t just walk out on the team, Pete. Can you talk to him?” she implored. “Please?”

“If I thought it would make a difference, Ella, I would. But he won’t listen to me. He can be damn bloody-minded when he wants to be. I’m sorry.”

Ella nodded at the truth in Pete’s words. Damn Jake to hell. “Okay,” she sighed, accepting defeat, for today anyway. “Just do me a favour? Tell the team he’s not well and he’ll see them tomorrow.”

“What happens when he doesn’t show?”

“He will,” she said with a confidence that was only wafer thin.

Thursday was as crazy as Wednesday. Crazier. The phones ran hot. Everyone wanted a piece of her. The community was getting together a petition. A letter-writing campaign to the state member and the Education Department was being organized. And the cherry on top came in the form of Donald Wiseman from the education review panel ringing to express his displeasure at the negative press she was generating for the department.

Ella embraced all comers, grateful for something to occupy her mind, to keep it off that afternoon’s practice session.

Would Jake be there?

She wished she could be sure. He hadn’t returned any of the umpteen messages she’d left on his mobile since yesterday afternoon. She’d barely slept for fretting about it.

Was it possible to develop an ulcer overnight?

A last-minute phone call kept her from being early to the oval and she arrived with the rest of the team to find Jake was another no show. The boys looked around, searching for him.

“Coach still sick, Pete?” Cameron asked.

Pete looked at Ella and she gave him a slight nod. “Yep. You know these old blokes. Can’t keep up. He asked me to work you guys extra hard though.”

The team grumbled but hit the oval for their warm-ups in good spirits. “Thanks, Pete,” Ella said.

“They’re going to have to know sooner or later,” he warned.

Ella chewed on her bottom lip. “I know. I know. Did he tell you he wasn’t coming?”

“Couldn’t get hold of him. He hasn’t been in to work either.”

“At least the finals comp doesn’t start for a few weeks,” Ella murmured.

Last week the wait for the final series to start had been pure torture. Today Ella was prepared to get on her knees and praise the football gods.

Her life had officially gone to hell.

“What’s his problem, Pete?” she demanded, watching the Demons go about their drills. “Why’s he so damn media shy? His face was on practically every tabloid and magazine in the known universe during his career. He picked a really bad time to go all reclusive on me.”

Pete shook his head. “It’s not really my place to say. I think it should come from Jake.”

There was a strange note in Pete’s voice and he was looking at her like she’d just dropped one hundred IQ points. But if he thought she was going to go crawling to Jake for an explanation then he had another thing coming. Not when she could consult a far greater authority.  

All hail the great god Google.