16. Round 17 cont

16

ROUND 17 CONT

Paige

I caught a bit of the Panthers’ game last Saturday night when Willo was watching it to see how they were playing. I know he’s watched it over and over this week, trying to tweak plays in his head that might break their defences and seeing the tactics they used against another team.

Soon after halftime, Ricky was almost thrown into the ground head first and was taken from the ground under the League’s concussion protocol. It’s serious business these days, and we talked about it on the podcast this week. Several retired players have come out recently and talked of memory issues and believe that repeated concussions when they were playing exacerbate their current conditions.

It means Ricky is forced to sit this round out. We’ve been texting all week. It’s not the same as my texts with Willo, but much more friendly banter. Ricky doesn’t have any siblings, and neither do I. It’s almost like he’s become an adopted brother to me.

Luna told me on Monday that her grandparents were coming to stay this weekend. I’ve been waiting for Willo to bring it up because I know they’ll need the spare room that I’ve been sleeping in.

Tuesday, I wasn’t seeing Marj, but I set my alarm for five, and spent an hour and a half on the phone to Brittany. I miss her so much. She agrees with Lenore and thinks Willo is emotionally stunted, and she’s probably right. He’s not good at initiating conversations, but then again, I didn’t try to speak to him either. It’s meant the last few nights, my sleep patterns have been all over the place. I’ve fallen asleep before the kids and woken up before dawn.

Ricky invited me to come and watch the game with him tomorrow. When I mentioned I didn’t know where I’d be sleeping this weekend, he invited me to come and stay with him. His nan lives in Bayview Cove, and he said he was going to come down and have lunch with her, then he could pick me up.

So, yeah, I’ve lied to Willo about catching the train to Melbourne.

As I sit at my desk, avoiding proofreading an article Jenny asked me to look over, I reread the text exchange I had with Ricky last night.

No, we usually finish early on a Friday, about three.

Ricky

Cool. I’ll pick you up. What does Lover Boy think about you spending the weekend with me?

I haven’t told him.

Ricky

Brave move.

Why?

Ricky

I wouldn’t let my girlfriend spend a weekend with another guy, even if there was nothing happening between them.

He’s not my boyfriend.

Ricky

We’ll get to the bottom of that tomorrow. Sleep well.

You too.

I don’t feel the same things for Ricky that I do for Willo. It would be easier if I did. It would be easier to have a fling with a known player who could wave me back to the States come December and never think of me again. Ricky lives on the very edge of the city. He has no kids. He has charm and confidence and speaks his mind. But he’s still not Willo.

Then there’s Brittany. The guy she thought was Mr Perfect ended up being Mr Perfectly married. She attracts them too, but at least she attracts men who shower her with praise and gifts and take her to upmarket hotels. Of course, I suspect they do this because they can’t take them home for fear of their wives finding out. This is the third guy in a row Brittany has fallen for who’s been married.

The first one we put down to naivety. Brittany had broken up with her college boyfriend, who wanted to head back to the west coast. It’s a shame, because she and Jordan were great together. Brittany had decided that New York was where she wanted to be, though. The second one, none of us picked. She picked him up on a dating website, and he even took her to his apartment. Except it wasn’t his apartment, but rather his buddy’s, who was complicit in his friend’s activities. If his buddy’s ex-girlfriend hadn’t turned up screaming and hammering on the door, that said buddy had given her gonorrhoea, and Brittany thought she meant… Well, you get the picture.

I’m not sure how this guy has got past her bullshit detector, but she’s done it again. This time, though, she’s found his wife and told her what a selfish prick she’s married to. Looks like it’s going to be a messy divorce, but at least Brittany has a new friend.

Debbie, Bel, Jenna, and Angelique are good friends, but they’re new to me. I haven’t told them about my upbringing. I haven’t told them about the idiots I’ve dated in the past and how I’ve put up with being used over and over again .

The WAGs, as I call my friends who are with Monarchs’ players, are all busy preparing for the ball that is held at the end of the season that announces the best and fairest player in the whole League. I’ve heard them talking about dresses and makeup and sponsorship deals with diamond companies and the like. Willo hasn’t mentioned it to me, so I doubt he wants me on his arm. I mean, why would he?

“Paige, how’s that article coming on?” Jenny asks, as she perches herself on my desk.

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “My mind’s elsewhere.”

“Let’s grab a coffee and head to my office.” We stand, and I follow her to the café near our building. I’m still not used to grabbing a coffee from a shop and there not being pots in the tearoom. It’s such an Australian thing to do, it would seem.

We order in silence and make our way back to the office. Jenny holds her office door open for me and ushers me, suggesting I take a seat on the leather couch along the wall. She sits on a similar one ninety degrees beside it.

“So, how’s things?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee in the reusable to-go cup. I keep meaning to grab one for myself.

“Yeah, good.” My reply is robotic.

“Really?” She quirks a brow.

I like Jenny. She’s in her late thirties, and her marriage ended last year, or so the office gossips say. She has a teenage daughter at home, and I glance over to see a photo of her on the desk. Jen’s cutthroat in business, but soft with people. It’s a strange combination, but I’ve grown to appreciate it.

“Are we extending your visa?” she asks me, taking another sip of her coffee. I’m playing with the plastic lid on my cup and trying not to shake my head at the way they’ve written ‘Page’ without the ‘i’ to identify it’s mine.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. “Sure, I want to stay. I love doing the podcast. It’s, like, the highlight of my week. I’d miss football if I went home.”

Jenny says nothing. She crosses her legs towards me, her pencil skirt riding above her knees. I’d kill to have legs like hers .

“I thought I wanted a radio job, but after Sydney, I’m not so sure.” I tilt a shoulder towards my ear.

“Have you thought about doing another podcast with your views on this region as an outsider?” Jen asks. “I know the local tourist board would be thrilled with something like that.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I know I don’t sound convinced. “But it would be just me, not me and Willo. People listen to The Yank and The Tank because of him. They like hearing his voice and his opinions.”

“Have you read any of the online reviews?” Jen grabs her phone and swipes up to open it.

“That would be a no.” I chuckle. “After Sydney, I know not to read people’s views about me.”

“Okay…” Jen nods, scrolling on her phone. “Let me read some.”

The hand not holding my coffee covers my eyes, and I grimace.

“Let’s start here.” Jen clears her throat. “I grew up in Brisbane and wasn’t introduced to AFL until I met my now husband. He’s been a mad Redbacks fan since birth. I go to games with him, but have been too embarrassed to admit I have no idea what’s happening. Listening to Paige asking the questions I want to ask has been amazing. I won’t tell hubby, but I’ve got a soft spot for the Monarchs now.”

Jenny continues, and I pull my hand away from my face and place my coffee on the table next to me. “This is good.” She smiles. “I listened to Paige when she was on the radio with Loser Lyle. So glad she got out of that. I’d listen to her read the phone book, her voice is so good. She should read those smutty books my wife reads.”

I laugh at that.

“They go on and on. Some of them aren’t as flattering, but most are. Here’s one…” Jen is still scrolling. “Love the chemistry between The Yank and The Tank. The way they talk things out on the show and the patience Willo Lovemore has for Paige is great. Love how Paige gives as good as she gets, and isn’t afraid to ask about things she doesn’t know about. PS, can Jedda have a regular segment or something? He’s awesome.”

There had been a great deal of positive feedback about having Jedda on the show. I promised him I’d sit with him and his parents sometime to watch a game. I might even see if I can get them into the family and friends’ room. He’s part of the club family, so he deserves a bit of comfort for the game.

“Thanks.” I look at Jenny, my brows knit together. “I never realised people liked my contributions.”

“I think there’s a lot you can get out of those comments,” Jenny counsels. I know what she means. After this weekend, I’ll make sure Willo and I have a heart to heart, because I think my heart has become involved in the whole shebang.

“How’s the head?” I ask Ricky, as I climb into his sleek sports car after work.

“Tough as nails.” He taps his knuckles on his forehead. “It’s a fucking stupid rule.”

“I’ll remind you that you thought that when you’re sixty and forget to go to the toilet.” I can’t help but smile when talking with Ricky.

“She’s going to still be around when I’m sixty. No other woman’s ever claimed that. There’s hope!” Ricky exclaims, his hands in the air—well, as high as they can get in this low?-?ceilinged car. “Shall we nip to the registry office and get married now? This is the best proposal I’ve ever had.”

“Ha-ha!” I drawl. “You’re the brother I never had.”

“And you’re my sister from another mister,” Ricky shoots back.

Conversation is easy. We make our way to the freeway into Melbourne and sing along to the tunes Ricky is blasting. There’s a mix of classic rock, rap, and stuff I’ve never heard of, but seeing him sing along is infectious, and even when I don’t know the words, I play air guitar in the passenger seat. The other motorists must think we’re crazy.

Ricky manoeuvres through traffic easily. I have no idea where we are, but marvel at the houses that look like they’ve been here for well over a century. There are larger ones made of stone, and weatherboard cottages with bull-nosed verandahs. He pulls down a back laneway, dodging rubbish bins, and presses a button on a fob that is attached to his sun visor.

“In the olden days, the dunny carts used to come down these lanes and empty the lavatories,” Ricky explains, as we wait for a garage door to rise. “I think that would be the worst job in the world. Imagine telling people you collect shit on a daily basis?”

Ricky pulls into the garage, and the door closes behind him. I open my door and go to reach for my case, but Ricky is already on it. “Welcome to Casa Faith.” He extends his arm with a flourish as he opens the side door on the garage into a neat rear yard.

My eyes are drawn to pots filled with what look like citrus trees, a large paved area with a built-in grill, and an undercover seating area that could probably seat at least twelve people. The path from the garage to the house is covered with the same tin that’s on the roof, and there’s a vine growing up trellis on the side of the path.

The rear of the house looks like a wall of glass, but I can imagine the wall concertinaed to bring the inside out and vice versa. Ricky pulls a key out of his pocket and unlocks a side door.

“I thought you’d have electronic locks, at least,” I joke.

“Thought about it.” He shrugs. “Maybe one day. Now, I’m bringing you in the tradesman’s entrance so you know where you stand.”

“Like that, is it?” I can’t help but laugh.

“This is the door I use ninety percent of the time, and I think it’s only fair I bring my good friend through here, too. Unless you want to walk around to the front?” Ricky isn’t fazed by my comment, and he holds the door open, ushering me into the laundry area.

“The rest of the place better be cleaner than this,” I say, one side of my mouth tilted up in a grin. “Look at all the crap you’ve got in here. Do you need to do some laundry, Faith?”

“Shut it, Larson.” Ricky chuckles.

It’s so easy to be with him.

Ricky takes me on a tour of the house. It’s been fully renovated with top-of-the-line appliances. I marvel at the old stained glass panels in the front door and the moulded ceiling roses that have light fixtures hanging from them.

Our conversation continues over pizza. Ricky can’t understand how I only want pepperoni on mine, whereas he has a pie that is covered in everything. It looks dreadful, but I have to admit, it tastes alright when we swap a slice. Ricky admits he has a fondness for eighties and nineties rom-coms, and I let him choose one of his favourites for us to watch. As the opening credits for Sleepless in Seattle play, I’m reminded of how little I’ve seen of my home country. I think I’ve seen more of Australia.

We both sit cross-legged on his comfortable settee, a bowl of popcorn between us. It’s friendly and comfortable. My mind isn’t on the movie though. I wonder what Willo and the kids are up to. Nicola has probably cooked up a feast for dinner. I saw the affinity Billy and Gio have, and I hope Billy can open up to his Pops and perhaps tell him what he really thinks of me. Maybe he’s done this already, but no one seems concerned with Billy’s coolness towards me.

Willo is convinced he’s fine, but I really don’t get that vibe from the kid. If, and that’s a big if, something is to come of my pseudo-relationship with Willo, then I need to ensure all the kids are okay with it. I’m still not entirely convinced I’m the sort of woman Willo really is interested in, despite what others try to convince me of.

I’m not focussed on the movie, but I’m too wound up to simply fall asleep.

“Hey, Ricky,” I ask as I play with a dried bit of skin on the side of my fingernail.

“Yeah.” The movie’s still playing, but I know he’s seen it plenty of times before.

“Have you ever been with a fat chick?”

“Sorry?” He presses pause on the movie and turns to face me.

“I mean, I look at all the players’ wives and girlfriends at the club, and they’re all skinny, and then there’s me. I don’t really fit the mould.” I bite the side of my lip, still focussed on my hands in my lap.

“Hey, Larson, look at me.” Ricky shoulders me, and I can’t help but look up at him. His face is soft, his eyes smiling at me. “I’ve fucked plenty of women of all shapes and sizes. If you’re asking me to fuck you, Paige, I mean, I will, but I didn’t think we had that kind of friendship.”

“You didn’t answer my question, doofus.” I swat at his shoulder, and he dodges my attempt to slap him.

“Probably.” Ricky shrugs his shoulders. “I mean, I’ve lost track of all the women I’ve been with. Not all have been skinny.”

“Tell me about your last girlfriend, then,” I ask, not wanting to focus on him heaping praise on me. I don’t take that well at all.

“I haven’t really had a girlfriend since I started playing.” Ricky is suddenly pensive, his turn to drop his head, and bite his lips.

“What, no one’s good enough for the great Ricky Faith?” I try to lighten the mood.

“Nah, I let her get away.” Ricky sighs. “You know the story, young, dumb, and full of cum.”

I can see he’s trying to brush it off, but it’s clear there’s pain in his past. There’s a photo of an older couple, who I assume are his grandparents, on the sideboard, but none of any other family members. Willo has photos everywhere.

“It’s late.” Ricky looks at his phone, but puts it straight back down again. “I need my beauty sleep before this game tomorrow. Now, you better not ask me the same stupid questions you ask Lovemore each week.”

“I’ll try,” I tell him, intentionally ambiguous with my reply.

“You got enough blankets and quilts?” he asks as we make our way down the hallway, and he stops at the door to my room.

“I think so. You told me that there’s an entire chest of them at the end of the bed.” I laugh.

“And Paige”—he looks at me with that devilish glint in his eye he’s known for—“thanks for offering to have sex with me, but I don’t sleep with other guy’s girls, and I’m pretty sure you’re Lovemore’s. Sleep well.”

We catch the tram to the game. It’s full of footy goers with a decent mix of both Panthers and Monarchs supporters, judging by the colours. I’m in black, but I have my Monarchs scarf tucked away in my bag.

I couldn’t get over how noisy it was last night. Ricky lives a block from the tramline, but I heard their bells and lots of traffic noise. I woke to people walking past the house having loud conversations in the middle of the night and smiled when one woman was telling whoever she was with exactly what she was going to do with his cock. There were no moos or baas, and no birds to herald the dawn.

Ricky has a cap and sunglasses on, trying to hide his identity. A couple of people stare at him on the tram, but no one approaches for anything.

“Nah, she’s awesome.” I hear a conversation in the seats behind me, and my ears prick up. Nothing like eavesdropping. “She’s not afraid to ask the dumb questions. I mean, I didn’t understand the whole concussion thing until they talked about it this week.” Surely they aren’t talking about our podcast? “I hope one of the networks picks her up. She’d be great with specialist comments.”

“She’s going back to America, isn’t she?” his friend asks. They are talking about me. This feels surreal.

“Dunno. I thought she and The Tank had something going, but he keeps denying it.”

“You know she’s the one that got that Lyle dickhead on the radio in trouble, filled in for that chick on maternity leave, and then he told the world he wouldn’t be seen with a fat chick. Useless piece of shit.”

“Didn’t know that. Sydney can have him, though. We’ll keep The Yank.”

The tram stops to let people on. It’s almost full, and Ricky stands to let an older woman sit next to me. “Who are you rooting for?” she asks me as she grips her bag to her chest. I’m not sure if she thinks someone will steal it .

“The Monarchs,” I mumble.

“Good on ya, love. Although I don’t have a good feeling. Even with that Ricky Faith out of the side, the Panthers have been playing well. Here’s hoping though.”

I pull out my phone. There're no messages from Willo, not that I was really expecting any. I have no idea when he has to hand his phone in, but there’s an hour until the bounce, and he might still have it with him.

Hey, good luck today, not that you’ll need it. Kick those Panthers’ butts!

There’s no reply.

We step off the tram near the MCG and make our way over a bridge leading to the ground. This arena is called the home of football, even if it is named a cricket ground, and the atmosphere around here is electric. It is the match against the top two sides in the League, and the fans have turned out in force.

Ricky has eschewed corporate boxes and secured seats in one of the grandstands. It means we queue with the other fans waiting to get into the ground. Kids waiting near us have their faces painted in club colours, many carrying flags and placards with slogans on them cheering on players. I smile when I see the sign ‘We love Willo more!’ and try to surreptitiously snap a photo to show him later.

Eventually, we’re in the ground. Our seats are on the middle level of the ground, just down from the private boxes.

“It’s so they can monitor me,” Ricky jokes when he catches me looking behind us to see who is sitting there.

I see the President of the Monarchs, who would have been a guest at the Panthers’ function. We’ve only met a couple of times, and I doubt he’ll recognise me. Ricky is still in his cap and sunglasses, but fans are recognising him and approaching him for autographs. It probably doesn’t help that he’s sitting on the end of a row.

The speakers blast out the unofficial song of The Panthers, “Back in Black” by ACDC. The Panthers Cheer Squad hoists the banner, which the players run through, the music morphing to the official Panthers team song that is set to the tune of “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

Soon, the Monarchs banner is hoisted, and Matty leads the players through. My eyes are drawn straight to Willo. His knee is taped as it always is, but it draws my eyes to his legs, and more importantly, his amazing thighs. Sitting here, I can almost feel those thighs move between mine. My body remembers too, and I rub my legs together, trying to dull the ache between them.

The players are warming up. Various shots of the crowd are shown on the big screen. “They don’t do Kiss Cam, do they?” I ask Ricky.

“Ew, no, thank fuck.” He chuckles into my ear.

I can see a handful of spare seats in the stadium, but not many. “How many does the ground hold?” I ask.

“About 100,000,” Ricky replies, his hands clapping as his teammates warm up in front of us.

The captains meet in the middle, and the coin is tossed. The Panthers win the toss and are kicking to our left. Players get into position. The umpire holds the ball aloft, blows his whistle, and the siren sounds to start the first quarter. It’s a fast-paced game. The Panthers score the first goal, but the Monarchs respond. For ten minutes, the ball is in The Panthers’ half, but the Monarchs’ defence means they don’t get near their goals, until someone snaps, but it’s offline and through for a behind, or one point.

Basha kicks the ball out, and Willo marks near the centre square. He handballs it off to the running Silver, who turns the ball over with a sloppy kick. The Panthers score another two goals before the Monarchs clear the ball towards their goals, and Willo snaps it through the posts for a much-needed goal. At quarter time, we’re seven points down.

The second quarter is a disaster, and we head into halftime, or the long break, as Willo likes to call it, twenty-eight points down. I’ve seen teams come back from worse positions before, but the Monarchs are off their game. The Panthers are teasing, niggling their opponents. I wish I could read lips, but there’s shoving, and the umpires always seem to notice when a Monarch hits back. I don’t want to know what the free kick tally is, because it is clear the umpires think they’re wearing Panthers’ guernseys.

Ricky grabs me a pie at halftime. It’s lukewarm, but I’m hungry. He told me not to ask what was in it. I was expecting apple or blueberry, but it’s a ground meat concoction that Ricky eventually tells me is lips and arseholes. I don’t believe him. Ricky is elated at how his team is playing. I’m feeling down.

The players return to the ground for the start of the third quarter. Willo looks all fired up, and both he and Matty talk to the players as they stand in a ring, their arms around each other, before moving to their positions.

The Panthers clear the ball from the centre bounce, but the Monarchs’ defence is strong, and they cannot score. Willo has shown glimpses of the outstanding form he’s been in this year, but he has also had some clangers with balls coming off the side of his boot. He may have kicked the opening goal, but at three-quarter time, he’s kicked one goal and four behinds. I know he won’t be happy with himself.

I wish I could run onto the ground and shake him and tell him it’s going to be alright, but, yeah, that’s not going to help, nor be acceptable. The crowd cheers, and I look up at the video scoreboard to see an image of Ricky and I sitting together. Ricky throws his arm around my shoulder and laughs before waving with his other hand. I look like a deer in the headlights, my eyes wide, and my lips parted.

What’s worse is when I look to the ground, the players have broken away from their team huddles, and Willo is staring straight at the scoreboard. His shoulders deflate, and I know he’s seen it.

Willo’s opponent has clearly seen the image too, and I watch as he laughs as Willo heads to him before Willo grabs the front of his jumper and pulls him towards him. Matty is there straight away, along with some other teammates. A scuffle breaks out, with players from both sides pushing and shoving their opponents.

One of the Monarchs’ players has a torn jumper. The umpires are not at all happy. Eventually, the skirmish breaks up. The ball is bounced, and the Panthers clear it, scoring another goal. There’s no way the Monarchs are coming back from this. They’re almost fifty points down and look like a bottom side, not the team that’s spent most of the season at the top of the ladder.

The coach drags Willo from the ground, and I can tell he’s not happy. His arms are crossed in front of him, his head shaking from side to side. Eventually, he’s subbed back onto the ground, but he doesn’t get a touch of the ball. The Panthers win by sixty-three points.

Monarchs’ fans started leaving midway through the last quarter. Panthers’ fans are acting like they’ve just won the Premiership. I feel bad for the team, but more than anything, I want to give Willo a hug.

“Your man didn’t have the best day.” Ricky chuckles.

“Tell me about it.” I sigh. “I don’t suppose you can get me down there at all to see him?”

“Unlikely.” Ricky has a wry grin on his face.

“Ricky. How’s the head?” A tall, skinny blonde woman in a grey pencil skirt, heels, and a blazer with the Panther’s logo on it comes up to him and kisses him on the cheek. I think she does it to prove a point, but I really don’t care. Anyone can kiss Ricky for all I care.

“Um, Trudy, this is Paige, The Yank from The Yank and The Tank podcast.” Ricky introduces me, and Trudy holds out her hand, giving me a handshake that reminds me of a wet fish.

“Yes, I know. I saw you on the screen at three-quarter time.” She smiles, her pink lipstick looking as if it’s been freshly applied and not a hair out of place. I must look like a disaster, especially compared to her.

“Trudy’s the head of marketing at the club,” Ricky explains.

Most of the crowd around us has either left or headed down to get closer to the boundary fence to greet the Panthers players, who are lapping the ground, signing autographs, and handing out miniature footballs to fans.

“Nice to meet you.” I smile, but I know it’s forced.

“I’ve been wanting to track you down, Paige.” Trudy smiles. She must be a good ten years older than me, but there are no wrinkles on her face. She probably has fillers. Maybe I should look into that, even though the fat does a great job of smoothing out my skin.

“What, why?” I jut my head back in surprise.

“Well. I’ve seen what you’ve been able to do with your podcast, and the Panthers are looking for someone young and dynamic to join us next year. I’ve even got permission to go to immigration and let them know we’ll sponsor your visa. And with you and Ricky getting on so well, you’ll have somewhere to live, obviously.”

I don’t know what to make of Trudy. She stands with her hip angled towards Ricky, but he seems oblivious to her.

“Oh. Wow.” I don’t sound excited, but I don’t think Trudy picks up on my tone.

“Here’s my card.” She slips a sleek black card with silver writing towards me. “Call me, and we can grab a juice this week.” Her lips point up, but her face doesn’t otherwise move. “And Ricky, darling, call me whenever.” She extends her thumb and pinkie finger and raises them towards her ear and mouth in the sign of the telephone, before winking at Ricky and walking away.

My life would be so much easier if I was up here working for a Melbourne-based club, but I wouldn’t be any closer to Brittany, and I would be further away from Willo.

“Be careful of her,” Ricky whispers in my ear. “She’s a bit of a snake. And remember, the media is full of stories of me being traded at the end of the season, so don’t come to the Panthers thinking I’ll be here.”

I don’t know what to think. I feel like I’m being pulled in different directions. There is no direction that will give me all that I want, but I don’t know what I’m willing to sacrifice. It seems I have some decisions to make, and some people to talk to. But first, I desperately want to see Willo.