19. 19

19

S ean watched all their games from the bench in his suit, clapped his teammates on the back, told them they looked good, offered some pointers on the players he knew from the other teams. Talking to Jack after a game was another story. Man couldn’t buy a point. Normally, Sean would tear him a new one, but ever since his birthday, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Jack had salvaged the day—he’d had everyone round for dinner, cooked a nice roast, ordered a cake—but he’d withdrawn into stilted politeness afterwards, as if the explosion he’d had at Sean had made him even cagier.

He watched him now from the sidelines, the sun shining down on the grass in Melbourne, warm if you were in it, bone chillingly cold if you weren’t. Sean leaned out of his huddle to catch some sun, rested his elbows on his knees, cupped his face in both hands and watched Jack lining up for a kick on goal from the side angle. He’d taken the mark and had the stop in play to take the shot. Les, the ancient defender, was doing his best to jump up and down and windmill his arms to put Jack off.

“C’mon,” Sean murmured. It was a tight game—they should’ve been better with the Kelly brothers and Tampu, but the Freo curse was going strong, assuring that even the best player lost a gear once they arrived, and while the other guys had Lacy, they’d never really come back from losing Finn and George in the epic trades Sean couldn’t remember. The loss of Finn, George, Scotty and Jack in the course of a few years had cumulatively left a hole that even a preternatural superstar like Lacy couldn’t entirely fill.

Jack needed to fake the run up, dart to the side and take the shot. Sean knew he could do it, had seen him do it; the angle was too tight for him to kick it from the mark. Instead, Jack jogged forward, booted it and it sailed right across the face of all four posts and ended up out on the full on the other side.

“Fuck’s sake,” Sean muttered, hand over his mouth. A goal would’ve put them one point in front. Now they were going into the break five points down with zero momentum.

Jack didn’t meet his eyes when he came off the ground, but then, he rarely met his eyes anymore.

The first time they’d played against each other after they’d both been drafted, Jack tried to talk to Sean after the game. It’d been one hell of a game, the kind of game no one expected between a bottom side—Sean’s—and a rising top side—Jack’s. But Sean had been on fire that day and even though he’d barely admit it to himself, never mind anyone else, it was because of Jack. He wanted to shove it in his face.

At eighteen years old, it was his fourth game in the league and people were murmuring that he looked good, he’d been a good choice for Freo even with the injury at the Under 18s carnival that’d potentially put him out of contention to ever play. “Freo had taken a chance on him,” was the narrative. “He was lucky,” was the common refrain. “His pedigree helped,” they’d remark as if excusing Freo’s decision and talk about his uncle, his brother. Never mind he’d been a top prospect before that hit, never mind he’d have been the star player in that under 18s carnival if it wasn’t for Jack’s dirty hit.

Sean hadn’t seen him , hadn’t replied to his numerous texts, and when he ran through the banner onto the rain soaked Melbourne ground that day and caught sight of him looking his way, like he’d been waiting to see Sean emerge from the pack, close enough to catch the smile that lit up his face, Sean had burned with rage, but, unexpectedly, his stomach had fluttered and his heart rate had kicked up. It made him furious, embarrassed. And he’d played the best game of his short career so far—he kicked six goals, evaded defenders and got the ball clean into the forward line again and again, kicks landing on chests in the forward pocket. No one expected it because they were from the West—they sucked in the wet. But Sean didn’t, he’d made a point of practicing on the rain-soaked grounds after every downpour when he was a kid, Jayden with him. And in the drier months they’d drench the lawns with a hose in order to get the practice in.

They won by a savage sixty-three points and the talk about him turned around. He was mobbed by his teammates, took the handshakes and backslaps from the opposition players, relished in the little spike of awe on George Creed’s face as he congratulated him and shook his hand and slapped him on the back, laughed into the effusive hug from Lacy as he grinned and said, “What the fuck, cunt?”

He saw Jack jogging towards him, his smile so wide, eyes shining; he looked proud, barrelling towards Sean like he was going to lift him into a hug. The smile wiped off Sean’s face so fast that Jack stuttered in his step but didn’t stop coming at him. At least he had the good sense not to touch him.

“Sean,” he breathed out, “great game. Just, incredible, man.”

Jack was still eighteen, but he’d managed to fill out more in the year since Sean had last seen him. Sean knew that from the pictures on his socials and in the media, but it was something else in person, something more up close and not in the thick of a game. He towered over Sean, his chest heaving, shoulders glistening with sweat, his eyes still the same watery blue—a little bit unsure but still warm. Sean didn’t want to notice it.

“Fuck off,” Sean said under his breath, but Jack caught it and recoiled.

“What?” he asked stupidly.

Sean shook his head and turned for the tunnel. He didn’t want to do this in front of fifty thousand people and all their teammates.

Jack grabbed his bicep. Sean shook him off quickly and he hoped subtly, and jogged away.

“Didn’t you get my messages?” Jack called after him, his voice horribly young for a football field, for a place not meant for boys, but men.

Sean had got his messages. All of them. He’d debated blocking him, but he took perverse pleasure in reading them and feeling angry. The first messages were Jack checking in on how he was after the hit, but they were insulting in how much they downplayed the seriousness of what he’d done.

U all good? Didn’t see ya , accompanied with a smiling emoji was the first one and it took everything in Sean’s arsenal not to reply: how do you miss someone you’re looking right at? How do you miss landing a deliberate fucking hit to someone’s fucking head?

But then he realised Jack must’ve been joking. He thought this was funny?

And later Jack sent, Was hoping to catch u afta but ur not in the rooms. Let me know where u planning to stay for the TAC cup .

And that was the end of the messages about the hit. Sean had almost been impressed by the nerve of it—Jack really was the white boy with tickets on himself Sean had pegged him for the first time he’d seen him, and not the guy he’d hung out with that night.

Jack had kept texting—random thoughts about a game, his nerves before the draft, memes—seemingly undeterred by Sean’s lack of response, although there was a nervous energy to the texts. The night after the first time they played against each other in Melbourne, he’d told Sean, stilted even over text, that it wasn’t him, that he’d never say that, that it was his friend but if they’d known that, his friend would’ve been expelled. He couldn’t let his best mate get expelled. Sean had wanted to ask what the fuck he was on about—Sean had plainly seen Jack hit him, so was he really trying to palm this off onto his mate? But then what did he mean “say that”? Say what? Sean hadn’t replied, but then he’d gotten a series of texts from an unknown number.

Hey, Tony Strano here, Jack gave me your number. Jack never said that shit, it was me. I was just tryin to get a rise outta you before the game. Gotta shut you down.

Ended with a laughing emoji. Sean frowned—he remembered the guy; he was the defender. Curly brown hair, pale skin, Italian looking dude. He wasn’t much of a player and Sean handled him easily.

His phone buzzed again.

Jack’s a top fucking bloke. He’d never say that shit. And he only said he did to protect me. So give him a rest, alright?

Sean had better shit to do than gossip with Jack’s wanker friend so he’d shoved his phone under his pillow and gone and done just that. His mum was visiting since Jayden was in Perth for another game, and he’d gone out into the living room to find Jayden and Ben on the couch, Jayden instantly ripping into him for being on his phone. He’d been teasing him about having a girlfriend since the footy carnival because he was always checking it. Sean deflected his embarrassment by tackling Jayden to the ground and wrestling until his mum told them to knock it off, berating Jayden about Sean’s head and, once Jayden let him go, telling Sean his girlfriend was more than welcome to visit. She’d always put a strange emphasis on ‘girlfriend’ and now he wondered if he’d ever said anything to her, if she’d always known.

He’d gone back to his room after a carefully regulated hour, fished his phone out to a message from Jack, sent just after Tony’s.

Tony said he texted. I gave him your number. Don’t worry, he won’t text again. I shouldn’t have taken the fall for him. But I swear, it wasn’t me. I’d never say that shit and not just cos I’m not like that, but cos I’d never say that to YOU.

Jack had looked like a stone-cold asshole before that game. Sean could still picture it—the clench of his jaw, the fury in his eyes as he stared past the coach and the other players on his team as some discussion happened that Sean couldn’t hear. He’d put it down to Jack ignoring him because of the night before, but now it seemed like Jack was saying he’d taken the fall for this dude for saying—

He tapped over to the messages from Tony, heart pounding.

What the fuck did u say?

Typing bubbles appeared.

I called u an ape.

He felt like the asshole reached through the phone and throttled him.

And Jack said it was him?

Yeah, cos I woulda been expelled, but Jack had no strikes so he just got suspended.

So, Jack stuck up for a racist cunt.

Sean’s head buzzed, adrenaline coursing through him. He glanced up at the previous text, Jack apologising again, saying it wasn’t him, asking Sean to please talk to him again.

He looked at the “YOU” in all caps and hated the swoop in his stomach.

A new message popped up. Sean wondered what else he had to say, the first message was practically a novel. But he was getting used to Jack texting long messages, so he didn’t know why he was surprised. Didn’t know why he opened the thread every other day to read over them.

Please tell me what I can do. I really want to be friends again. I wish I’d never done it. I wasn’t thinking.

Another message popped up while Sean traced over the words again and again.

I know you’re reading these. I know you’re awake. Talk to me. Please.

Sean threw his phone across his bed, yanked it back and stuffed it under his pillow. Of course Jack knew, Sean had been leaving him on read for a year. It must be three, four in the morning in Melbourne. Either Jack hadn’t slept yet or he got up really fucking early. Maybe he was drunk. It didn’t take much.

He scrambled for his phone again. He knew how to put this to bed and get Jack to stop texting him. He opened his messages, went to Tony’s and typed a reply.

Ur a fuckin dick, but whateva, it’s in the past. Don’t wanna talk about this again. Tell Jack to stop bugging me on it. And if youse neva message again that’d be too soon.

He hit send and held his phone. An hour must’ve passed, his phone silent. Sean didn’t understand why that made him feel shittier than the messages. He lay in the dark, the exhilaration from the game completely gone and replaced by this awful feeling that Jack might never text again, that Jack still didn’t think he needed to apologise properly for that fucking hit. Never mind what happened between them the night before.

Jack never had texted him again. Sean missed his texts like he’d lost something precious. He never deleted them, still opened the thread and read over them every few days, his eyes tripping over that YOU again and again.

They had the next day off after catching the red-eye back from Melbourne. They’d lost, Jack as quiet and withdrawn as he’d been since Sean’s birthday, but somehow worse. There was quiet and then there was the black hole Jack was circling the bottom of. It felt a lot like depression and Sean knew he’d never get his form back if he kept this shit up.

It still took him another week to do something about it.

“‘Kay,” he said to Jack after barrelling into his hotel room in Brisbane. They had a game the next day and if he had to sit there and watch Jack play like a zombie one more time, he was going to march onto the field and punch him in the face.

“Hey,” Jack said, surprised but tired. “What’s up?” He closed the door and came into the room.

Sean looked around the generic hotel room—Queen sized bed, TV on the cabinet, a mirror behind it, Jack’s suitcase open on the floor, suit hanging up in the closet, shoes lined up neatly beneath it, his phone screen lit up on the bed.

“Who you texting?” he asked.

“Was just checking on Lola,” Jack replied and sat down on his bed, started texting again, his hair falling over his face, the shell of his ears peeking out. He’d already changed into trackies and an old Billabong singlet to sleep.

“Yeah? She all good?” Sean asked.

“Yeah,” Jack smiled down at his phone. “Getting used to it again, maybe.”

Sean nodded, a lump forming in his throat because the next words were hard.

“Look,” he began, squared his shoulders, stood tall above Jack on the bed, cleared his throat. “You’re playin’ like shit.” Well, maybe not so hard.

Jack huffed a laugh and winced at the same time. “Thanks.”

“Like you don’t know it,” Sean willed Jack to look away from his phone and up at him.

“Glad we got that cleared up, thanks for coming by to state the obvious,” Jack tapped away at his phone.

Sean grabbed it out of his hand.

“Sean, what the fuck,” Jack finally looked at him.

“That wasn’t what I came in here to say,” he took a deep breath and Jack looked away.

Sean had watched all their games now, the ones from the two years he’d missed. He’d been surprised he’d copped a one game suspension and even more surprised when he watched the incident—he’d elbowed Jay Cully, a West Coast defender, hard in the chest when they were off the ball. It was an aggressive move and not like him at all—he’d been done for ‘intentional conduct, low impact, high contact’ and been handed the suspension and fine on the Monday by the tribunal. He watched the game closely, trying to see what’d set him off, expecting to see Jack somewhere before realising he wasn’t playing. A quick search told him Jack was out—reinjured, he’d undergone surgery, and from what Sean could put together, this would’ve been the week Jack got sick. He then went to Jack’s games since he’d come back after he recovered, ostensibly to see if it’d affected his game, but noticed a new pattern. In the year prior, before the injury, Jack was good, then he wasn’t, and Sean hung him out to dry sometimes, not giving him the pass when he was wide open, even if it meant he missed the shot himself. It’d been like that the year Sean could remember too, though with less open fighting. His eyebrows had raised when he watched them have a screaming match on the field—they were fucking teammates and while he’d give his left nut to know what they said, especially the time Jack snapped back at him and Sean smirked like he was pleased, he was more concerned by the commentators focusing on it so much. He didn’t need that kind of attention. But in the last year, there was something else going on, a pattern—Jack could be off his game one week, but then he’d be in top form the next, carefree, totally out of his head. And they lived together, so Sean must’ve known what they did to get Jack there, Sean knew he must’ve helped somehow, but he didn’t know how.

“You never play this consistently shit,” Sean said.

Jack winced, looked up and tilted his head. “Is that supposed to be better than what you just said?”

“I’m not sayin’ this right,” Sean rallied. “Last year,” he started slowly and watched Jack tense. “You’d be bad but then good again. What … helped? Or is it like, me, am I the problem now?”

It occurred to him he’d been thinking about this all wrong and felt himself gathering momentum. “That’s it, isn’t it? I’m a distraction, like when a guy gets with a chick who’s no good. Bad comparison, but—”

“No,” Jack shook his head. “It’s not—”

“It is,” Sean went on. He’d come here thinking he could help. And actually, he could. “I should move out.”

“No!” Jack stood up. The sudden movement forced Sean to step back and crane his neck up to meet Jack’s eyes. “No, that would make everything worse.” He said this like he didn’t want to admit it but clearly needed to.

“So it is to do with me then?” Sean knew this was the reason on some level, had known, but he didn’t think he’d squared up to look it in the face until right now.

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Jack gripped Sean’s biceps like he needed to make sure he stayed put. He opened his mouth to say something before closing it again.

“I wish you’d stop doin’ that,” Sean said, distracted by Jack squeezing his arms, his fingertips skirting under the sleeves on Sean’s shirt to press down on the delicate skin.

“Okay,” Jack agreed, nodding his head. “Okay, I can tell you… I can tell you that when you were in the hospital, they thought…”

Sean jerked his chin for him to keep going. He knew they thought he wasn’t going to make it at first. That would’ve been the first thing Jack heard when he got there.

“I don’t want to lose you… I can’t, I can’t feel like that again. It’d make everything so much worse if you moved out,” he fumbled.

“It’s not great now, but,” Sean said. He knew he was fucking Jack up and for once, it didn’t feel good. It felt like he was this massive burden and he could excise himself and he wanted to.

“It is,” Jack insisted.

Sean groaned. “But, you suck.”

Jack laughed, released his hold. “And if you leave, I’m gonna suck more.”

Sean fiddled with the drawstring on his pants and thought about it.

“Alright well, what’s your slump buster then? What’d you do last year?”

Jack stepped back, his legs hitting the back of the bed as if the question had forced the movement.

“Umm,” he waved his hand, looked out the window. Brisbane twinkled around them, the city lit up under the black sky. “You know…”

Sean closed his eyes so he wouldn’t yell at him. Clenched his fists so he wouldn’t punch him. He didn’t know. That was the point. And the anger was too much, talking to Jack was like trying to solve a riddle with no answer and his moodiness from the injury still flared up and he’d learned it was better to walk away. The sight of Jack’s sad face no longer thrilled him, no longer made him feel vindicated—it was starting to hurt him, and he couldn’t fucking stand it.

“Right, well, good talk,” he turned to leave. He was reaching for the door when Jack pushed him against it, spun him around and kissed him.

It was a messy kiss, lips not connecting properly, too much teeth as Sean opened his mouth to ask what the fuck; but he got with the program quickly and shoved Jack against the wall, held him still and took control of the kiss.

He had to lean up to do it, but Jack slumped down and let him take over. Sean gripped Jack’s hips and held him against the wall, kissed him with all the anger he was feeling. And Jack just took it, moaning quietly as he met him. Sean felt Jack’s dick hardening against his thigh.

“Fuck,” he broke away and whispered against his lips, “ya love it, don’t ya?”

Jack made a broken sound and tried to press forward for more. Sean leaned away.

“Is this what you need? Need me to fuck ya?” Sean asked. Jack’s eyes were closed, but his breath shuddered out of him.

“Say it,” Sean pressed.

Jack’s eyes slid open, his expression stripped bare, completely at Sean’s mercy.

“I need it,” he whispered, ashamed.

Sean hesitated. It felt like this was a game they played, and Sean could get onboard with it, liked it, fucking loved it. But not if Jack didn’t feel good about it.

He sobered and asked Jack seriously. “Do you really wanna do this?”

Jack nodded. “This is how we do it,” he said, eyes down.

“And it feels good? For you?”

“Yes,” Jack said quietly.

Sean wasn’t convinced, except Jack’s dick was rock hard between them, his hips trying to push out of Sean’s grip, to get friction on his thigh.

“Just don’t,” Jack said, voice cracking. “Don’t be like, an asshole about it.”

Sean frowned. He let go of Jack’s hip and brought his hand up. He cradled Jack’s face, brushed his thumb underneath his eye.

“I ain’t gonna be an asshole to ya,” he whispered, traced Jack’s bottom lip with his forefinger. “I never wanted to be an asshole to ya.”

Jack opened his eyes, the breath shuddering out of him.

“Me neither,” he said and it was the most heartfelt thing Sean had heard from him. He believed him.

Sean couldn’t fully deal with this other conversation they seemed to be having, but it occurred to him that maybe Jack didn’t like it as rough as he’d made out, as Sean had assumed.

“So you want me to be like, gentle or somethin’?”

Jack’s lips lifted at the corners. “No.”

Sean smiled at him, not mean, not mocking, a real smile as he met his eyes. He reckoned he was finally getting it.

“Ya like it when I’m in charge,” he said.

“Yes,” Jack whispered.

“But I’m never mean about it.”

Jack’s expression changed, he looked pleased. “Never.”

And Sean got it then. Jack liked it when Sean figured him out; it was probably why he wasn’t coming out and telling him all this shit. It was deeper than simply being evasive. He needed Sean to get him. He wondered how the hell they got here before but since they weren’t going back, he needed to figure it out now. And he finally felt like he was.

He kissed Jack softly but tightened his grip on his hip, on his head, and Jack groaned into his mouth like it was exactly what he needed.