18. 18

18

S ean woke up on his birthday, rolled over for his phone to check for the message from his mum. She always texted before it was even light out, the same message about the ringneck parrots that’d been calling to each other outside her hospital room while she went through labour, her laugh when they laid him down on her chest and he blinked up at her, not crying, just a pissed-off stare that seemed to say, what the hell? I was comfortable in there.

And then he remembered. She was gone. And he was turning twenty-seven, not twenty-four, and Jack probably didn’t know it was his birthday. He still got days like this and wondered if he’d ever not get them. A part of him was still stuck back there and always would be.

He could wallow in it, or get up and treat it like another normal day.

“Morning,” Jack said brightly when he came out of his room. He was showered and dressed and looking alarmingly awake for six in the morning.

Sean rubbed his eyes and murmured a greeting.

“Happy birthday,” Jack said in a rush and held out a wrapped package, rectangular in shape.

Sean blinked at the black and grey patterned wrapping, the silver bow and a card tucked underneath it. He took it and stared at it.

“It’s not much, but I reckon you’ll like it and you know…”

Sean blinked up at him. Jack was gripping the back of his neck.

Maybe it was because he was still sleep-addled, or maybe it was because he’d spent so much time with Jack now that the barrier he’d put up in his mind had been steadily crumbling, but he looked at him shy and unsure and saw him again in his memory when they’d first met, that first time they played against each other.

He was less of a space cadet on the field back then; he was focused, a powerful midfielder who only had eyes for the ball, tore down the middle of the ground, his boots thundering on the wet grass, ripping up mud and splashes of water in his wake, his shaggy blonde hair whipping behind him as he bounced the ball before executing a textbook kick straight through the middle. His teammates mobbed him and Jack roared, high and bright, and Sean had thought— that whitefella’s sure got tickets on himself. But he couldn’t argue with it—Jack was that good.

It wasn’t until that night that Sean realised he was someone else entirely underneath the facade. When they snuck out and passed the evening with their six pack, the moonlight illuminated Jack’s face as he snickered at Sean’s stories, asked Sean seriously about his favourite player, favourite game—his and one he’d watched—who he’d want to get drafted by, so many questions, all peppered at Sean and then left open to the space and quiet around them for Sean to answer as he looked at him like he really wanted to know. But when Sean asked him back, Jack would duck his head, mumble some of his replies, like, “I kinda wanna go to the Lions. I know Queensland’s got no footy fans and I should like, wanna go to Melbourne, but man, I love the beach.”

He’d looked up as if checking if Sean would laugh at him—Sean hadn’t thought it was that weird of an answer, but he supposed most boys dreamed about playing for a big Melbourne club, home of footy and all that—but he’d made sure to do Jack the solid and replied as seriously as he could for a seventeen-year-old, “I reckon that about makes perfect sense. Melbourne’s so fuckin’ cold.”

Jack’s smile had taken over his face, the shyness washed out just by Sean’s words, the reassurance he needed and didn’t seem like the kind of guy, even back then, who was going around trying to get it. There was a quietness about Jack off the field that’d been unexpected. It still was.

So when Jack trailed off now, blush deepening, Sean was back there, wanting to make it better, wanting to make sure Jack knew he could tell him anything, and Sean wouldn’t laugh, Sean would always catch whatever he was throwing down. Except that had only lasted for a day and then everything had gone to shit, and he hated to think of that night, less because of the disappointing asshole Jack turned out to be, and more because of how it embarrassed Sean he’d fallen for it.

“Are you gonna open it?” Jack asked, his eyes darting up, a strained smile on his face. “Twenty-seven, eh? Gettin’ old. Where does the time go?”

Sean rolled his eyes and slid his finger under the ribbon, pulled out the card. “It ain’t like we’re ancient. And you’re the same age as me.”

“Not yet,” Jack said.

Sean glanced up at him. Jack was still smiling, but polite now. Right, because Sean probably knew when his was birthday was. Before-Sean would’ve known. Well, if this fucker was going to go around getting him gag gifts, he’d have to find out and repay the favour. He knew it was around the end of winter—djilba, the tail end of winter and start of spring; Noongars knew this Country had six seasons, not four—and he remembered someone saying happy birthday in the locker room around that time during the first season Jack was back.

He pulled the card out. It was thick, one of those classy cards they sell in expensive book shops tucked down the laneways in Fremantle, a painting of a dog on the front it, the eyes shining and alive-looking. He opened and read Jack’s sloping and ornate handwriting: Dear Sean, Happy 27 th Birthday!!! We can’t wait for 27 more, and more. Love, Jack and Lola . He’d drawn the love heart next to the word. Sean stared at it.

“Thank you,” he said insufficiently. He didn’t know what to say, it was thoughtful in a way he still couldn’t get used to from Jack.

“You’re welcome,” Jack replied.

Sean slid his index finger under the sticky tape and opened the gift. It was a book. He turned it over and raised both eyebrows.

“How…”

“I got him to send me an advanced copy, comes out in a couple of months. Open it,” Jack said, his voice excited but still unsure.

Sean opened to the first page. It was an autobiography by the greatest footballer of all time in Sean’s opinion, but he might’ve been biased since they were both Wiilman Noongars, which meant Sean could get a copy of his book if he’d known he was writing one, but it meant something that Jack had gotten in touch to get this for him.

It was signed and addressed to Sean.

Sean smiled, it felt watery, which was kind of stupid—he knew what this book would be about, they all knew, the level of racism those earlier players endured and the way they’d fought back in the 1990s was legendary. But it meant something that Jack knew how much this would mean to him.

“Thank you,” Sean said. “This is… Shit, Jack, yeah…”

“Open it up,” Jack said, “I got you a bookmark too.”

Sean flicked it open to the creased page and now he was going to cry. How in the fuck did Jack know? The bookmark was adorned with ringnecks. He blinked his eyes to stop the tears. He needed to thank him, but he didn’t know how.

Jack, who didn’t know how to read a room but seemed to know how to read Sean, even if his response drenched the atmosphere with further awkward it at least the broke tension, clapped his hands and said, “Awesome, well, I’m gonna make you pancakes. It’s your birthday, so, can cheat the diet a bit.”

And he went into the kitchen, giving Sean a moment to get his fucking shit together. He traced his forefinger over the green and blue ink of the bird’s feathers, the yellow ring around its neck. His mum said the ringnecks were sneaky little buggers, “Not like the galahs,” she’d smile and wink. The galahs who waited until it was warm to get up, who took flight in pairs and shrieked on their way to their feeding ground, rousing their mates from the other trees on their way until the sky was full of pink and grey, filled with their excited shrieking. “The ringneck, he gets up at dawn, makes the most of it, and he always keeps his secrets,” his mum said. “You might see ‘em fly in flocks, but they spend most of their day hidden in the tallest trees with their partners, whistling to one another.” You didn’t see them as much in the city, but if you went out to the bush, you’d hear them, the rhythmic low-high whistle, and if you looked up, you’d get a peek of their sleek green wings catching the sunlight through the canopy, the honkey nuts thudding on the ground after they’d eaten them. Furtive with quiet chatter, they’d dart out and take flight, then glide, flap a little bit, and glide again before disappearing into another tree. All he had to do was hear a ringneck and think of his mum, of home, to, “Feel ya secret strength,” his mum used to say. “Ya ain’t ever gonna be as big and loud as a galah, but ya don’t need to be.”

He tucked the card inside the book, ran his finger down the bookmark again, got it together enough to join Jack in the kitchen.

“Thank you,” he managed to say again once he was across the bench in front of Jack, the room lit in a warm glow from the lamps in the living area and the globe over the range covering the stove, the sun yet to makes its appearance for the day but promising to with the way the clouds were lightening from below outside the sliding glass doors.

“Yeah, course,” Jack shot him a quick smile, but Sean didn’t miss the pleased flush to his cheeks, the sincerity in his eyes.

“No, really,” Sean tried again. He wanted to say this. “I guess ya really do know me, eh?” It was meant to be a joke, but it came out too serious.

“Yeah,” Jack straightened, his white shirt stretching over his shoulders as he rolled them back, met Sean’s eyes and nodded. “I know you,” he said before faltering, “we’re best mates.”

It should’ve been reassuring, even if they were apparently best mates who fucked, but it sliced through Sean with the blade of a lie.

“Yeah, but,” Sean didn’t know why he wanted to push this now, but he knew himself and he wouldn’t have told just anyone about the birds. He’d never told anyone. It was just between him and his mum, Jayden and his dad, his family.

“But how did you know?” he asked.

Jack shrugged like it was no big deal. “Ben told me about the book, so I just called around—”

“No,” Sean said. The book wasn’t a stretch—the most famous, or infamous depending on how you looked at it, player wrote an autobiography, a guy from Sean’s hometown, one of his mob—of course Sean would read that book.

“How’d ya know about the birds,” he said. It felt like throwing down a gauntlet and it surprised him how it was this, not the fucking, not even the weird cuddling they did after—that was intimate, but this was personal. This crossed a line.

Jack turned, giving Sean his back, his head down as he flipped pancakes.

“You told me,” he said like he was trying to make it an unimportant fact of life about their past and missing that mark completely.

“When?” Sean asked, the urge to push burning inside him.

“Ah,” Jack said, holding his spatula up but not turning back. “Last year, I think?”

He was lying. Sean didn’t doubt it’d been last year, but he wasn’t saying everything. He tried to formulate the follow-up. Lola pressed herself against his leg, reminding him that he wasn’t getting to the most important job of the day. He reached down to pat her. Jack slid pancakes onto a plate, went for the fridge, pulled out the margarine, placed it next to the sugar bowl and freshly squeezed lemon juice on the bench. Because he knew if Sean was ever going to eat pancakes, which he rarely did, but if he did, he took them drenched in margarine, sugar, and lemon juice.

“Where?” Sean asked as Jack slid the plate to him.

“Umm,” Jack looked at the pancakes, stalling for time. “Here?”

“Where here?” Sean watched him closely.

“Probably like,” Jack waved his hand at the couch, eyes darting around.

“What were we talking about before that, what were we doing?” Sean slid onto the kitchen stool.

Jack went back for the pan, huffed a fake laugh. “I dunno, man. Just chilling, I guess.”

“You’re lyin’,” Sean told him. What he didn’t get was why.

“Lying about what?” Jack asked, his voice going high. He turned back. “I just want you to have a good birthday, not get into all this.”

“All what?” Sean had him.

“All that stuff,” Jack replied dismissively and started getting stuff out for a smoothie. Sean thought he’d try and get away, but all he had to offer was taking Lola out but Lola didn’t want Jack now she had Sean back; Sean saw it in the way she’d hesitated, looked between them, confused, the one day Jack had taken her because Sean’s leg was hurting too much for it. And since Lola’s happiness seemed to be Jack’s top priority, he wouldn’t take that from her even if he was desperate.

“What stuff?”

“Eat or the butter won’t melt,” Jack focused on shoving frozen banana, berries and kale in his blender.

Sean obliged, opening the margarine and slathering the pancake stack, but he wasn’t going to stop. “What stuff?”

“Jesus, you’re relentless,” Jack huffed.

“Yeah, and if we’re such good mates, you should know that,” Sean replied, which wasn’t entirely fair. Sean could be relentless with Jack, but he wasn’t like this with anyone else. Of course, no one else had fucked him up as much as Jack so it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it.

“Yeah,” Jack nodded, more to himself. He turned on the blender, the roar cutting out all conversation. Sean ate, chewed carefully around the incredible explosion of sweet, bitter and fat in his mouth on top of the perfectly fluffy and crisp pancake.

He kept his eyes on Jack and knew he couldn’t blend that fucking thing all morning. The noise cut out.

“What aren’t you tellin’ me?” Sean asked immediately around a mouthful.

Jack shook his head, poured his smoothie into a glass. He was red, twitchy. “Nothing, I’m not like keeping some massive secret from you—”

“Bullshit!” It burst out of Sean.

Jack looked up, his blue eyes flashed with the first hint of real emotion Sean had seen in a while, longer than that. He looked as angry as he did in the locker room when they fought.

“You want me to tell you it was after we fucked?” he yelled. Sean sat back, riveted. “You wanna know it was just after your mum died? You wanna know you were so fuckin’ mad you fucked me so hard I could barely walk? And I took it ‘cos I knew you needed something to do with it? How you cried after and told me all that shit? Is that what you wanna hear?”

“Yes!” Sean cried and stabbed his fork in Jack’s direction. “Fuck’s sake, yes! I want you to tell me who we are!”

Jack shook himself, he looked shaken up but before Sean could prod him further, he saw him retreating.

“I told you,” he said, withdrawn. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“Why not?” Sean didn’t get it—if he was mad, he should fucking get mad. Sean was fucking mad.

“Because it’s your birthday,” Jack mumbled.

Sean laughed. “It’s not like you’re yellin’ at me on the other three hundred and sixty-four days.” The fight had left him in the wake of the bomb Jack had just dropped—now that was intimate, that was personal, that was a lot to process.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

“Huh?” Jack gave him a bewildered look.

“When we fucked, when I was mad,” Sean asked.

Jack flushed and focused on his smoothie. His voice was so quiet when he spoke, Sean had to strain to hear him. “Not in a way I didn’t like. I could give you that much at least.”

Sean had so many questions.

“You cool to take her?” Jack asked as he came around the bench.

“Yeah, course.”

Jack nodded. He gripped his smoothie with one hand, reached out with the other like he was going to touch Sean’s arm but then drew back.

“Sorry. Happy birthday,” he mumbled and before Sean could ask any more questions, he went outside, the glass door closing softly behind him.

Sean watched him as he ate. Jack stood beyond the patio, the first tendrils of sun catching the gold in his hair, his smoothie gripped in his hand, but he didn’t drink it. His black tracksuit pants were loose, but they showed the swell of his muscled ass just fine. Sean had always been, and probably always would be, viscerally attracted to Jack; he didn’t think there’d ever be a day he’d look at that ass and not want to bend him over and fuck him. But right now, the defeated posture, the stillness of him, made Sean want to do nothing more than go outside, wrap his arms around him from behind and tell him he was sorry. Except he didn’t know what he was sorry for and he wouldn’t have to be this way if Jack told him these things without Sean having to drag them out of him.

He left with Lola once he’d finished eating, hesitating too long at the threshold of the door, wanting to say something but coming up empty. It felt like when they were boys, sitting on the cricket pitch in the middle of the night, belly full of just the right number of beers to make it seem like whether or not he should lean forward and kiss Jack was a reasonable question. Jack had looked down at his lips and Sean didn’t know if he should lean in, if Jack would fall forward to meet him, or if he should look away and pretend the moment hadn’t happened.

“C’mon, girl,” he whispered to Lola, turned from the door, and headed out.