14. 14

14

S ean wanted to kill Jorge. He was used to working hard; hell, he’d played footy from the moment he woke up when he was a kid, during recess and lunch at school, then ran home with Jayden and played again with all the brothers in the neighbourhood until his mum or one of the aunties came and told them to get inside and eat something, “It’s pitch black! Whaddya boys think you’re doin’?” In high school, it’d been training, running, playing. The years took on a memory of motion—boots hitting grass, worn out sneakers hitting bitumen, always running, the memory of his dad telling him when they’d watch every game from Friday to Sunday, Sean tossing the ball up and catching it as they watched, “Skills will get ya so far, but if you’re the fittest, ain’t no one gonna catch ya.” Before he died, Sean had a distinct memory of him smiling approvingly when Sean came inside from the black streets, his body flushed warm against the cold, his dad ruffling his hair; he knew the work would be worth it. His dad had been a brilliant footballer and with an uncle in the league, Sean knew he was going to make it too, but not without “bloody hard work,” his dad said as his mum chastised both of them, “Not if he gets sick!”

So, Sean knew how to work hard. And normally, he followed his coaches, the trainers, the physios, without complaint. But Jorge was really pushing it since Sean got the cast off. He worked Sean in the gym, ribbing him in Spanish and making him do one more set, now one more, and how about one more? until Sean’s lungs burned with a lack of oxygenated cells, and his muscles screamed with the lactic acid they were struggling to expel.

“Problem,” Jorge said with his perfect, white teeth grin, “is you been sitting on your ass for six months, sí?”

Sean would have liked to put him on his ass.

The truth he didn’t want to acknowledge was that Jorge wasn’t doing anything a physio shouldn’t be doing. The program was designed to get him back in shape and strengthen his leg in time for preseason, nothing unusual about it. But Jorge had also decided to flirt outrageously with Jack during the home sessions. It was Jack’s fault. Jorge had been mildly flirtatious when Sean was in the cast, but the Monday after they’d fucked, Jack had gone red and laughed to hide it, his gaze dropping to the floor, the chuckle emanating from that big body in a way that was endearing, a neon sign that might as well have said he liked it.

Sean had looked between them, noted the way Jorge clocked the reaction with surprise, with knowing, grinned with delight, and Sean had seen it unfolding before it happened—Jorge was going to torment Jack with this. For a laugh? Because he thought he had a shot?

Why the hell had Jack given him the in? A vicious part of him thought now Jack had gotten a taste of dick again, he was prepared to flash that neon sign like he was willing and available; he wanted to get fucked, he was gagging for it, he didn’t give a shit who the dick belonged to, so long as he got some dick.

Sean had squeezed the dumbbells until his knuckles turned white. He was pissed off, but hurt too; he’d never fucked anyone like that, and alright, he was hardly about to propose because of it, but he’d have thought the dick in question might’ve been an important part of the equation.

Yet in the weeks that followed, Jack hadn’t asked him to do that again, please and thank you, and Jorge flirted while Jack blushed and fumbled and tried to make himself scarce, and Sean wanted to kill both of them.

“I think maybe,” Jorge said as Sean finished his lunges, hand weights dangling at his sides, chest heaving, “one more. Sí, uno mas!”

Sean swallowed down his groan, thought about the feel of the grass under his boots, the stadium around him full, the collective voices so loud they made no distinct sound, just a rising crescendo as he ran towards the goal posts. The leather of the ball caressing his hands before he dropped it to meet his boot, all eyes following it sail through for a perfect goal as the sound reached its peak, erupting around him as Jack swooped in and lifted him off his feet.

“Oh, hey, sorry,” Jack said as he came into the living area. “Thought you guys were done.”

“No,” Jorge said, turning his smile and glee on Jack. “How can we be done when I have not seen you yet, Jack? Sean is a prisoner to my goal.”

Jack laughed, head shaking, eyes down, his blush radiating up his throat as he excused himself and headed outside.

They both watched him as he scooped up Lola’s toy rope and flung it across the yard. She belted after it, his smile following in her wake.

“He is one… how do you say in English?” Jorge asked.

“Dunno,” Sean bit out and finished his reps.

“Stretch,” Jorge said absently, eyes still on Jack. He was leaning down to give Lola a big cuddle, celebrating her success with fetch like she wasn’t born to do literally that. It made Sean smile—secretly anyway—he liked celebrating everything she did too.

“Hmm,” Jorge said, tapped his chin with his finger. “Joder, que bueno estás, la virgen.”

He glanced at Sean. Sean hadn’t understood what that meant, but he got the gist from the tone. But in case he didn’t, Jorge went on, “Handsome, hot.”

Sean seethed, looked at Jack—he was tossing the rope again, Lola flying for it as Jack laughed, his white shirt stretching over his bicep as it flexed and released the toy.

“He’s a footy player,” Sean said, arm over his chest as he pushed down with his other arm, stretched his groin with spread legs, the bad leg twinging.

Jorge looked at him, head tilted in confusion. Sean hoped he wasn’t expecting an explanation beyond that. George and Finn, he’d learned, made this line of argument moot, but it was still the best defence Sean had, the only line of defence. He’d never even dared to dream he’d have a boyfriend—it’d be suicide.

But Jorge must’ve read something in Sean’s tone because he replied, “I have a boyfriend. Why do you think I’m living here?”

“Ah, for ya job?” Sean asked.

Jorge laughed as if this was a ridiculous assertion. “Is much better for me in Spain. I used to work for Barcelona. More money, much more. Big stage, much bigger. Injuries less colourful,” he gave Sean a pointed smile, winked, “but still. Much better.”

And well, Sean couldn’t deny that was true, so he said nothing.

“Sean,” Jorge said, his voice more gentle than usual, “I am just teasing your boyfriend.”

“Jack’s not my boyfriend!”

Now Jorge looked really surprised. He scanned around the house pointedly, then back at Sean and shrugged. “I will stop teasing.”

“No, it’s not,” Sean huffed. “What does your boyfriend do?”

Jorge grinned and his eyes lit up as he talked about his boyfriend’s job as a KC—King’s Council—which was still weird; the Queen had died? He had no time for the monarchy, obviously, they were public enemy number one to his people, but the old hag had been a fixture of life. Apparently, the boyfriend couldn’t retrain and work as a lawyer in Spain or give up this “wonderful position”, so Jorge had moved here. They’d met at a nightclub in Barcelona two years ago and “fell madly in love, as you say in English.”

Sean rolled his eyes, but did so more to hide how nice that sounded. He wouldn’t mind falling madly in love with someone; he’d thought he’d had that when he first met Jack. He was still pretty sure the only person who knew he was gay was Jack. And it wasn’t just being a footballer; he hated the thought of his Elders if not outright rejecting him, looking disappointed, askance, taking time to process it. Jayden. The brothers. His mob. Not to mention being a black and gay footballer.

He’d realised he’d liked boys when he was ten. Watching footy all weekend on TV had given him a hint he’d been appreciating more than their form on the field, but it was confirmed when a new boy came to his school—Harry Miller. The son of a divorced farmer, the missus had shipped the boy back to the farm to live with his dad because Harry didn’t like her new boyfriend, according to Harry. The first day, he’d turned around in his seat, one of the fourteen of them in the fifth grade, and asked Sean, “Hey, can I borrow a pencil?”, his curly blonde hair was shiny above his blue, mischievous eyes, and Sean had taken a second to process the question. Mrs Campion had told Harry to turn around, “Eyes on the board”, before Sean snapped out of it.

He’d leaned forward, fingers outstretched nervously as he’d tapped Harry’s shoulder and handed over the pencil. Harry smiled over his shoulder, “Thanks”, and Sean had a pretty good idea that this explained why he wasn’t trying to look at any of the eight girls in their class. He murmured his agreement when Jayden said Sally Beattie was hot, her overdeveloped chest already encased in a white sports bra you could see through her shirt, but he didn’t feel anything other than pity for her—how much must that suck? How could you play sport with those things?

As the year progressed and he’d become mates with Harry—his stomach fluttering when Harry came and found him on the oval before the first bell went every morning to kick the footy—he’d known he liked boys. One boy in particular. But he was never going to get to kiss Harry—Harry also marvelled at Sally Beattie’s chest—and he’d known his dad, his mum, Jayden, they’d be horrified. So he’d focused on footy. Said all the right things about Sally’s tits. And when he moved to the city, he’d managed to lose his virginity after psyching himself up to go home with a skinny guy he’d met on an app, fucked him in the dark of his bedroom he shared with uni buddies, a fumbling encounter over before it’d really begun.

He’d had two more encounters with men since, events he preferred not to think about, especially the final one, but it wasn’t until the other night with Jack he’d felt like this was how good sex could be.

The door slid open and Jack poked his head in. “All done?” he smiled over at Sean.

“Yeah,” Sean breathed out; he’d use the roller, Jorge would leave, and they’d have another pleasant evening not fucking.

“All done,” Jorge replied efficiently, his smile turned down. “Sean, I see you in the gym tomorrow. Jack,” he nodded and headed down the hallway, whistling.

Jack watched him go, which dialled Sean up again.

“He’s got a boyfriend,” Sean said.

“What?” Jack asked.

“Jorge. He’s got a boyfriend. Some hot lawyer, so if you’re thinkin’ about hittin’ that, don’t,” he snapped.

Jack looked like he’d been punched. “What?” he asked again, voice faint.

“I’m pretty sure I’m speakin’ English,” he got himself down on the mat and focused on angrily working his back muscles with the roller.

He heard Jack coming closer. He came into Sean’s line of sight, towering there in his soft, black tracksuit pants and white shirt, face pinched like he was somewhere between confused and pissed off.

“He’s fucking with me,” Jack said.

Sean scoffed. “Like you’re not gaggin’ for it.”

He expected anger, but Jack took a step back, expression devastated. He immediately wanted to take it back, but Jack was spinning away, disappearing down the hall before Sean could say anything.

He felt like an asshole, but he was right. The sound of Jack’s door clicking shut—not slamming, just closing softly—made him feel worse. He didn’t know why he wanted to shut that down so fiercely—Jack could fuck whoever he wanted, or get fucked by whoever he wanted, since it appeared he was a total slut for taking it up the ass. And that thought made Sean furious and horny—a confusing combination—but he understood at least part of the anger. If Jack wanted to get fucked so bad, Sean was right here. Did Jack think he hadn’t done a good enough job? He’d come untouched!

Lola came over to lick his face. He patted her and murmured about her being a good girl until she padded away and he got up. He felt like shit, but he didn’t know how to apologise. Apologising to Jack was not in his repertoire. He’d have a shower and make dinner. He wouldn’t take it back—Jack could get fucked by whoever he wanted, of course he could, but he could have a bit more consideration for how flirting in front of Sean after they’d just fucked, just fucked intensely like that, well, that was just fucking insensitive. Especially since Jack hadn’t said anything since, the bed empty but still warm beside him when Sean had woken up the following morning to the sound of the shower running in Jack’s ensuite. His body had been reaching for Jack’s, wanting to tuck him in and do it again, but Jack was gone, and apparently, Jack was done.

“Hey,” Jack had said, voice clipped when he’d stepped back into the room, the grey dawn light filtering in, his face as closed off as his voice.

“Hey,” Sean had replied gruffly and rolled onto his back, waited until Jack was dressed and gone before he got up, saw the jocks and pants Jack had left for him at the end of the bed, the brace beside them. He’d dressed and crept back to his own room, shut the door so he could breathe, get a hold of the mess in his head.

So how dare Jack act all hurt now after he’d shut down any talk the morning after. Not that Sean wanted to talk about it, he just wouldn’t mind doing it again. Wouldn’t mind Jack keeping it in his pants when hot guys flirted with him.

He got himself in the shower, still stewing over it as the hot water cascaded over his shoulders and steam billowed around him and he thought about that day, more than two and a half years ago now, the last thing he remembered. The slap of Jack’s feet approaching and then the unexpected absence of that sound, the feel of that body standing behind him. Sean had held his breath, years of rage colliding with the loss of the game and the sudden need to let it all explode out of him. No more of these leaks, the snide remarks and criticisms, but really let him have it. But as he remembered it now, he felt as well the heartbreak he’d been trying to bury, to pretend never existed. He’d liked Jack. Really fucking liked him. And they’d had that one great day at the footy carnival when they first met, that night when they snuck out.

He remembered the way they raced each other across the oval, before jogging the rest of the way to the Midland shopping centre. Sean had twenty bucks, but Jack told him, “I got it,” with a wolfish smile on his face as he jogged over to a young-looking chick heading into the bottle shop. She stopped, listened to Jack putting on the charm to buy booze for them, had given him a once over before laughing and leaving him there. Jack had been red-faced, head shaking as he lumbered back over to where Sean was cackling at him. “She’s probably worried about gettin’ in trouble,” Jack said, still trying to put some bravado into the words, but clearly embarrassed.

Sean saw another blackfella heading in and he ran over to him. “Hey,” he said, breathless. The guy glanced back suspiciously but his face slid into a lazy grin when he saw who’d called.

“Get us a six pack, eh? Keep the change?” Sean asked and handed over his money.

“Yeah,” he’d replied easily, “Emu Export alright, eh?”

“Yeah, whatever, ta.”

He’d brought their beers out, given Sean a blackfella handshake and smile before wandering back into the dark abyss of the Midland shopping centre car park with his own six pack.

They’d walked back to the oval, talking the whole time. Sean still remembered the buzzing feeling under his skin as their arms brushed together, the sound of Jack’s low voice as he talked non-stop about the game they’d played, narrating Sean’s play, waving his hand around and marvelling, “I’ve never seen anyone move that quick. Like, you’re not there and then just, like, there .”

“Ah, shut it,” Sean laughed and bumped him. “Ain’t like you’re an amateur yaself. Not as good as me, but ya know.”

Jack had laughed, delighted, his head thrown back before slanting down to grin. Sean remembered the sight of his teeth—the slight overlap of the front two lit up under the orange glow of the streetlights—the way that smile made his stomach swoop.

He’d sat with Jack in the middle of the oval, drinking beers and laughing, talking shit, and he’d kept thinking— I could kiss him, I could just lean over and kiss him. Maybe he wants to kiss me as bad as I want to kiss him . He never let himself think about what happened next. Sometimes he thought about how his mind had gone and fucked off the last two years when what he’d wanted desperately since that night was for that particular memory to fuck right off, to never have happened.

Because the next day everything went to shit. Jack avoided him—of course he did, Sean had been the embarrassing one, the one who had taken that chance. And the hit had been the final nail in the coffin; it’d been the pain that’d ignited the hatred. But no matter how many times he tried to get rid of it, he could still see Jack sitting in the middle of that cricket pitch so their asses wouldn’t get wet on the grass, his face fuller than it was now, a boy’s face, his eyes dancing as he laughed when Sean told him stories about his dad making him shear sheep back home, the absolute nightmare that was grabbing them, wrangling them, holding them down, all the while trying not to get a hoof in the face. Sean had leaned in when Jack paused in his laughter, his face sobering; he’d held Sean’s eyes like he was welcoming it. But Sean had misread the situation the same way he’d completely misread Jack. And after he woke up in the hospital with his first concussion the next day, all he thought was how much he wanted to punch Jack’s fucking lights out, how he’d have to hold back tears when he did it.

So, no, he wasn’t apologising to Jack now. Jack, who let other men flirt with him. Jack, who didn’t stay in bed until Sean woke up. Jack, who had the audacity to look hurt.