17. 17

17

J ack watched Sean saunter back inside, the planes of his back shifting as he pulled his shirt over his head, the brown skin sleek and shining with sweat, the rivulets running down the column of his spine stopping at the top of the swell of his ass, soaking into the fabric of his white shorts. He had an incredible body—an athlete’s body, lithe and muscular but not bulky; his limbs were long and his hands and feet and fingers and toes elongated in a way that was graceful. He’d filled out a lot since he was a teenager, but he still had the same lissom, almost elegant way about him that Jack had been attracted to when they first met. His quick smiles, white teeth against his dark brown skin, wide brown eyes that lit up when he played, when he shot Jack a smile—he’d had Jack on the hook from the first day they met.

There were rumours recruiters were at that carnival, which included the country boys like Sean playing in a Great Southern team that’d formed from the best players from all over the country regions south and east of Perth—the Great Southern Twenty. Jack was playing for the Claremont Colts, the under 19s state league development squad, and he’d been told since he’d started with them at fourteen that he’d probably get drafted, but this was the first time actual scouts were (probably) at a game. He’d been nervous, more nervous than he’d expected to be, a panicky feeling travelling up his legs, in his arms, his mouth dry in a way that’d made it hard to speak. He hadn’t heard a word their coach said in the locker room, had heard his own voice like it was someone else’s as their captain telling them to get out there and show these country hicks how it was done.

They’d played the same positions they’d go on to play in the league—Jack was a solid midfielder and even as a kid he could shake off tackles; and Sean was a winger, the best kind of winger—he’d wait outside the scrum, easily scoop up a loose ball, or wrap those long fingers around a desperate hand ball before accelerating with incredible speed into the forward line and pass it off or take the shot himself. Jack never saw him kick a point in that game—it was like there was only the middle. And his elusiveness, even back then, made you sit up and take notice; it wasn’t simply that you couldn’t catch him once he bolted, the way he danced and weaved in and out of guys charging for him, it was also the way he sat outside the pack. Jack would see him get a feed and wonder where the hell he’d come from. His nerves, that first game, dissipated in wonder and then in pissed off anger—there was no time for nerves when you were playing against a guy like that. And he wasn’t the only one—they were a strong side, peppered with guys who’d all go on to make the league, a strong contingent of Aboriginal players, and for guys who’d only pulled the team together to play this game, didn’t play regular season together but against each other in the country, they flowed together as if they were in each other’s heads.

Jack was angry about the loss, but when Sean jogged over to him to shake his hand, reached up to clap him on the shoulder, smiled up at him, his eyes warm and appreciative, as he said, “Good game. Tough luck, eh? But shit, ya can play, yeah?” Jack cracked a grin back, said, “Yeah, you too,” tapped Sean’s lower back and held his eyes until they both laughed, breathless from the game.

“Might see ya in the finals?” Sean said.

“Definitely,” Jack replied, his hand still resting on Sean’s side. Guys were milling around, doing the same with other players from the opposition as the sound of the people watching from the suburban stands wafted over them like a buzz of noise, the winter sky blanketed with low, grey clouds, and Jack could still remember how Sean smelled—sweat over deodorant, something leathery and musky in his scent—still remembered the feeling of warmth against his hand where he pressed it against Sean’s footy jumper. His eyes were warm on Jack’s, even a little awed. It’d made Jack drop his gaze, his heart rate kicking up even though it’d already been going pretty hard after the game.

“Ain’t like ya’re gonna win it,” Sean said.

Jack looked at him again, the words cocky but the smile still warm.

“But, ya can try.”

Jack laughed and Sean’s smile widened. “We were just gettin’ warmed up,” Jack told him.

Sean cackled and his teammate clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. Sean stepped back, and Jack didn’t want him to go. But it’d be weird to tell him to stay so he said, “See ya,” after Sean did, and watched him jogging off.

All the teams were staying at the empty boarding school near the stadium, trying to give the boys the feel for travelling or for team morale or something. Jack wasn’t sure what the logic was, he was just excited to be away from home, even if he was only thirty minutes from his family in Peppermint Grove, and when he walked into the hallway to find the bathroom and saw Sean walking towards him, his smile growing when he saw Jack, he was even happier.

“Wanna get outta here?” Sean asked after they’d exchanged a greeting, and that feeling of giddiness he’d felt on the oval ramped right back up again. Jack agreed immediately, and followed him down the stairs, waited behind him while he cracked the door to check the coast was clear before they darted into the night, racing each other to the lights of the suburban street on the other side of the oval, the feeling of exhilaration in Jack’s chest only half because of the rule they were breaking. The other half belonged entirely to Sean and probably always would.