3. Round 3

3

ROUND 3

Willo

M y time on the sidelines over the last months has given me a greater appreciation of everyone who helps around the club but doesn’t pull on the boots to play each week.

If anything, my injury has given me the gift of time, and I’ve been able to appreciate the people who help keep the club going. As happy as I am to be back training at full pelt with my teammates, it’s the interactions with non-players that inspire me to dig deeper and train harder in the hope I’ll be back on the ground sooner rather than later.

As I stride from the car park to the player facilities, I realise it’s not just my teammates I’m looking forward to being with. Gaz can be cranky at times, but he’s the best coach I’ve ever played under. Our medical staff are second to none, even if I do think I should be out there this week. But it’s those who most of the fans wouldn’t realise are integral to our success that motivates me the most. Training wouldn’t be the same without Jedda. He comes to every session with either his parents or one of his carers. I’ve never thought there’s anything ‘wrong’ with Jedda, but he has an intellectual disability and also hears voices in his head. We did a seminar a couple of years back on mental health, and Jedda came along to tell us about his voices. Since he’s been helping hand out water at training, he’s not had one hospital admission for his psychosis. His dad worked as one of the groundsmen for thirty years before he retired a couple of years back, and he often pops by to pick Jedda up. That he thanks us for letting his son help is wrong to me. It’s Jedda who helps us.

“Morning, Maz.” I stop by the reception desk at the entrance to the club on Tuesday morning. We’ve got a training session this morning.

“Morning, Willo. How are those babies?” Maz takes the headset off her head, tangling it in her grey bun as I stop to have a chat.

“Yeah. Had to pull a calf last night. Glad I’m doing it this end of the season and not the other.” I shake my head, glad the heifer became distressed earlier in the evening rather than in the early hours of this morning. Naturally, Jackson heard the moos as well and was there to watch. No doubt his teacher will give me an earful about him falling asleep in class again this afternoon.

“I meant your kids, you galah.” Maz’s belly shakes as she playfully swats at my arm.

“They’re good.” I sigh. “Spent the weekend with my brother and sister at Lovemore Gap, so they’re full of stories.”

“And how’s Moira?” Maz ignores the light flashing on the switchboard in front of her.

“Yeah, good. Her dad’s doing really well, and it looks like she’ll be home this weekend.”

I’m more than glad about this. Nicola, my mother-in-law, is staying with us for a few nights to help with the kids. Mum gets home later in the week and will stop by on her way home to Lovemore Gap, but it will be good to be back in the routine of things.

“Morning, Lover Boy.” Matty, our captain, walks past and blows kisses in the air.

Maz shakes her head as the switchboard lights up again, and I wave as I leave her to it. I hate being called Lover Boy. When Cara was around, she found it funny, but since she’s been gone, it’s hard to take. Some guys still call me Tank, based on my large physique, but Lover Boy has stuck. Sure, I love my kids and my family, but there’s no one else special in my life, despite getting plenty of hints from Nicola that Cara would want me to move on and find someone else to spend my life with.

It’s hard to take when anyone suggests this, but when it’s your late wife’s mother, it seems almost worse. My mind drifts back to the game last weekend. I had so much fun sitting with the American woman. She seemed to have no idea who I was, which made it so much more relaxing. She didn’t know me as the star player, or the widower, or the single dad. Sure, people may have talked to her and given her snippets of my history, but I didn’t get the impression that she was there to meet players. She didn’t strike me as one of those women.

We get enough of them hanging around the ground. They want to boast they’ve been with a footy player, as if playing footy makes us magical lovers. Maybe it does. Even so,I don’t want to be with someone who wants me because of what I do, but rather who I am as a person. Cara knew me when I played footy with the Lovemore Gap Cats, our team in the local comp. After I became professional, she kept me grounded when I came home after a big win and the media were all wanting a piece of me. Being a young dad helped too, I suppose. I had responsibilities. Fuck, my responsibilities are greater now.

Our training session is brutal. Drills are repeated over and over again. I’m just glad to be back training with the team, and not doing my own thing on the sidelines with physios, trainers, and exercise physiologists, all wanting to ensure my knee does the right thing.

“Lovemore.” Gaz, our head coach, waves me over. He’s standing with Felicity, the head physiotherapist. “You’re looking good. How does the knee feel?”

“Feels great, Coach,” I reply honestly. “I think I’m ready.”

“One more week, son, but if you keep training like this, you’ll be faster than you’ve ever been. I’m proud of the way you’ve come back. Lots of guys your age would give up.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

Felicity leads me from the ground and takes me through to a training room and does some of her voodoo shit on my knee. The machines she uses cost thousands of dollars, and they must do something, but it feels strange to lie there and have a metal disk pressed against you, doing things that you can’t feel.

“You know why we’re not letting you play this week, don’t you?” Felicity is a no bullshit kind of therapist, and her tone is not one of compassion.

“Risk of reinjury.” I huff out a breath. “You’ve told me this.”

“Yeah, but you still don’t fucking listen. You sound just like my wife when I advise her about something.” The left side of my therapist’s mouth rises as her tongue meets her top lip.

We have a great team amongst us. I’ve been trying to work out how to recognise them, even though most of them claim they don’t want recognition, but I’m yet to come up with anything.

After training, I head to the player’s cafeteria. “Silver.” I slump into a seat at the same table as one of our younger players. At twenty-three, Silver is fast and agile and one of our star centre players. His mark last week is already in contention for the mark of the year. He’s also one of the club’s biggest pranksters. When Matty announced he and Bel were expecting their second child, Silver and his coconspirator, Wilson Marks, filled condoms with water and detergent and stuffed them in his locker. When he opened it, they fell out, bursting as they hit the ground. You can fit a lot more water into a condom than a water balloon, that’s for sure.

“Lover.” Silver lengthens the L as he shortens my nickname. “How’s it hanging?”

“Same as usual, low and to the left.” I flick my finger up the screen to open my phone. There are the usual emails, most of which I simply delete.

The cafeteria is a great place to relax after training. The food is designed by our dietary team, and this side isn’t open to the public, although there is a public space on the other side of the kitchen. I open Instagram, where I posted a photo of the calf last night giving people insight into life off the field. There are a few hundred comments, ranging from those gushing about how cute the calf is to animal rights activists who call me out for breeding animals in captivity. There’s no point dwelling on comments from idiots who wouldn’t have the first clue about what happens on the land. If anything gets too out of hand, the club’s PR people will let me know. I pause to contemplate how I’m willing to accept help from people around the club when it comes to my game and helping with social media, but I find it hard to accept help with the kids. It’s a fleeting thought, and I’m soon back scrolling through my feed.

I comment on a couple of friends’ posts. A player for the Mavericks’ has just announced he and his wife are expecting their first child. I played with him as a junior, and he’s a top bloke. It’s not his fault he got drafted by such a weak side. It’s something the fans rarely understand—sure, I’m close with most of my teammates, but I’m also friendly with players from other sides too.

Scrolling through my notifications, I see I’ve been tagged in a reel by a user called YankeePaige. I open the video and can’t help but laugh at the woman whose company I enjoyed at the game last weekend. Paige’s terminology about the sport is all wrong. She talks about catching the ball instead of marking it and makes a huge deal of ball ups, where the umpire bounces the ball—although, she describes it as the umpire throwing the ball on the ground. Despite her errors, she is so animated, and her laugh is infectious.

“Gorgeous eyes. Who’s that?” Silver pokes his head around to look at what I’m watching.

“Just some American who’s out here working. I met her at the function on the weekend.” My eyes don’t stray from the screen.

Paige has two reels about the match uploaded. The second one is funnier than the first. She says it’s an afterthought of things she didn’t mention the first time around and raves about us not wearing any padding or body protection. Silver is right. Her eyes are beautiful. They’re a stunning deep brown that reminds me of the heifer who delivered last night. Fuck. I shouldn’t compare her to a cow, but it just goes to show how much of a farm boy I really am.

I have no swagger with women. I have no idea how to woo or charm anyone. Cara is the only woman I’ve ever been with. I’d like to think Cara and I had a great sex life, but what if I do it all wrong? No one’s been able to tell me differently. I know that fear is one of the things holding me back from getting out on the dating scene again.

My concentration comes back to the table where one of our marketing interns has sat, her chin resting on her fingers as her elbows perch on the edge of the table.

“Kim,” I greet her, leaning back in my chair, crossing my arms across my chest and sticking my legs out in front of me. She’s our coach, Gaz’s, daughter, and famous athletes have no effect on her.

“Tank.” She smiles as she, too, moves her arms to cross at her chest. “Have you opened your Insta today?” she asks, an enormous grin across her face.

“I might have,” I drawl.

“Well, an American woman who seems to work here in town has tagged you in a couple of amazing reels. You know we talked about how you want to praise some of the ancillary staff around here, and I said I’d think about it…” She trails off as she looks at me.

“Hmmm… I might, but what’s that got to do with Paige and her videos?”

“I was told you met her at the function at the game last weekend. I think the two of you should do a weekly podcast. We’d call it The Yank and The Tank , and you could explain football to her and have other guests on who could talk about what they do around the ground.”

Kim clearly has this all planned out. I scrunch my eyes closed and huff out a large breath. “I dunno… ”

“Oh, come on.” Kim kicks my still outstretched legs. “You’d be great.”

“I’ll do it. That girl is damn fine,” Silver chimes in as he scrolls through his phone.

“Sure, Silver. Thanks.” Kim beams at him. I don’t think she knows how big of a crush he has on her.

“No, I’ll do it.” I uncross my arms and legs and stand to head to the other side of the room where food is placed in the bain-marie to keep warm.

Silver’s lips turn up, and he has a twinkle in his eye. I think I’ve walked straight into this one.

I love my mum. She’s always been my biggest supporter. From when I was a little tacker playing in the under-eights to being in the stands with Dad and my brothers and sisters at my first game in the big league, she’s supported my obsession with footy.

As the oldest son, it was probably assumed I’d take over the farm. Fortunately for me, my sister Susie and brother Murray both took an interest in farm life, leaving me to play football. When Cara, Susie, and then Dad died, I thought about quitting football. I wasn’t prepared to return to working the land, having vowed never to return to Caritas Downs, our family property, but I thought I could do something different.

The accident happened in the offseason. Teammates were off gallivanting through Asia, Europe, and America, but I was content to be home in Lovemore Gap. I’m not content there anymore.

Despite wanting to chuck it in after the accident, my contentment comes from football these days. Once again, I’m sitting in the stands cheering on my team. The club president convinced me to go with him to the opposition’s President’s Function.

My mind has drifted to the past, as this game is boring. There’s no Paige here to explain things to. I hate sitting and watching my teammates play. If I’m lucky, I’ll have at least four more seasons in me. I’m contracted for another two, and then we’ll reassess. Of course, my current contract came through before my knee injury.

The injury has given me time to contemplate what I want to do when football ends. I know I don’t want to coach, and I don’t want to head into sports media. My adamance that I won’t become a commentator has me wondering why I’ve agreed to do this podcast thing.

I let out a sigh and try to focus on the match. It’s a Friday night game and was meant to be a close contest, except our opponents didn’t get that memo. They were right up in the mix last season until we beat them by two points in the Preliminary Final. This year, they’ve been pretty ordinary and are yet to win a game.

Once again, the crowd cheers as Silver kicks his sixth goal.

“Who are they going to drop to bring you back?” The club president nudges me with his elbow and shakes his head, his smile a mile wide. “It’s not a bad position to be in.”

I know his question is rhetorical. The thing is, if I play next week, it means someone out there today will miss out. That’s the nature of the game, though. I make a mental note, however, to have one of the selectors on our podcast to talk about how they make the decisions as to who is in and out of the team each week.

Our podcast. Shit. Paige hasn’t even agreed to it. I told Kim where Paige works and left it to her, but haven’t heard back. For all I know, Paige said no. I hope she hasn’t, though. Her excitement was contagious, and I can still feel where she would brush her hand against my bicep after we kicked a goal, as if she was checking I’d seen it too. She’s quick witted, as I’ve seen on her Insta feed, and, yes, I’ve been checking for new material. Her socials have been quiet since her reels were posted, and I find my mind drifting to her, almost begging her to give me something else through her feed as if she’s speaking directly to me, not to the millions of people who could see how interesting she is. To an outsider, it might look like I’m obsessed with this woman, but she’s stirred something within me. I’m not freaking out yet, but I know I have a low-key obsession with this woman which is, well, different.

She posted some quote or something about change being the only constant yesterday, which got me thinking about change and difference. Our team changes every year. Players retire or move to another team. Fresh blood arrives in younger players and others who’ve had experience elsewhere. Sure, Gaz has been at the helm for nearly twenty years now, but assistant coaches come and go.

Footy life brings change, but my personal life has been a Groundhog Day for years. Since Cara died, I’ve not sought any adult company outside the club, and definitely not sought women for sex. Women have no issues in approaching me and offering themselves, but I wonder if they want me for me, or for the chance to bang a footy player, or even the chance to bang someone who was forced to publicly grieve the death of his wife seeing he is a public figure of sorts.

The crowd cheers as we kick another goal. There’s still at least fifteen minutes to go in the final quarter, but I excuse myself, shaking the president’s hand before I head down to our rooms to greet the boys when they come off the field. As I pass the rows of seats on my walk down towards the rooms, I see a woman who reminds me of Paige. She’s up on her feet, cheering and bouncing with excitement. She turns to the man next to her, and the two embrace in a quick kiss.

My heart hitches thinking Paige is with someone else, but of course, it’s not her. I shake my head, shocked by my reaction. Thinking back to change and difference, Paige couldn’t be any more different to Cara if she tried. She’s an American, she’s curvy, and her breasts look at least four times the size of Cara’s. I couldn’t help but notice them. She’s louder than Cara was, too. I don’t think Cara would ever have willingly talked to a camera about her experiences at a game. Maybe she might have talked about something on the farm, but even then, I doubt it. I won’t lie and say I’ve never contemplated moving on from the life I had with Cara, and now, it’s refreshing to find I’m attracted to a woman so different.

At the end of the season is the Brownlow Medal count, the award given to the best and fairest player in the League. It’s black tie and super flashy. Cara hated walking on the red carpet. The only time she came, she looked stunning in a red satin gown and could name the designer when asked, but for most of the evening, she hid behind me.

I knew she was glad to be with me, but she hated the spotlight.

My memories of Cara are interrupted when I almost crash into Kim as she exits the rooms as I enter. “There you are, Tank. Looking forward to next week?”

“Yeah. If there’s room on the side for me.” I try to make it sound like a joke, but really, I hope Gaz and the selectors won’t use our form as an excuse to make me wait another week.

“He’ll make room. Hey, I haven’t been able to get onto Paige. I mean, I ran out of time on Friday. Shit. Sorry.”

“Leave it to me. I’ll have time Monday.” I try to sound nonchalant, but I want to talk to her and convince her to do this podcast with me. There’s something about her that’s different. I haven’t felt this way in so long. Maybe I’m selfish in that I like the way being near Paige makes me feel, but I have to admit that I want to be around her.

“Thanks, Tank. You’re the best.” Kim turns and heads up the race towards the ground.

I may not be ready to date anyone or anything, but spending time with people other than my family or the guys around the club can’t be a bad thing. Perhaps I just need a friend, and perhaps that friend can be Paige.