Screw Loose (15 page)

The long walk back to the rooms and the doc. Head down. Blood dripping onto his shorts. At least it looked good. He let it drip, leaving a trail of drops in the grass. The trainer was walking beside him. The stands roared and jeered. Cute girls would feel sorry when they saw the blood. He hoped Zeynep was watching.
Kiss it better, Zey, please.

He'd been a star in this final quarter! He'd run on fast and nervous, and the crowd had boomed. He was just a pocket, but who cared. He was on some gorilla he hardly knew, but he'd still managed to run all over the guy for most of the quarter, and he'd even scored a goal. A goal! Four possessions. His name might have ended up in the footy book of legends, but then – then – he'd spat on his mouthguard to get the mud off, let down his guard, and
bam
.

They were going to crucify him. The fans, Vasilevski, the news, replays,
The Big Sticks
. First the little finger, and now this. Why him? There were drops of blood up the race; cameras and noise. This would definitely make the front page, the six o'clock news.
Show a bit more pain. Bit of a quiet groan. Into
the rooms.

He was in and out of the shower in a blur, and next thing he knew he had a stitch in his lip. It was still throbbing as he sat on the floor feeling like crap fifteen minutes later. They were going to give him hell. The game was over, they'd won, and the guys were all coming back into the rooms, yelling and laughing.

They formed a circle. The team song.

Roaring:

We're the Cockatoos and we're all right
We'd like to make the finals, and we just might.

Angelo stood up and pushed into the circle. Put his arms around the other guys.

The team for the crown
From old Hobart town…
But it hurt too much to sing.

…
We love the Cockatoo story, we'll struggle for Cockatoo glory
.

He sat on a bench. Omar came up. ‘Ang.' He was muddy and still puffing. ‘What's going on?' He sat too and put an arm around Angelo. ‘Great goal.'

Angelo shook his head. ‘Where'd the ball come from?'

‘You gonna miss next week?'

He nodded gloomily.

‘Crap luck, mate.'

Omar was getting to be his best mate in the club. They'd trained together in Hobart this week, because it was an even week. Odd weeks they trained on the mainland. He'd had to piggyback Omar around the ground at a jogging pace, then Omar had had to do the same thing with him. Good bonding stuff.

They both gazed around the room. Guys were singing and slapping each other on the back. There was mud everywhere.

Later, Speckles, one of the trainers, came up. ‘They want to see you upstairs, Ang.'

‘How come?'

Specks shrugged. ‘See how you're travelling.'

This was not good. It would be this mouthguard fiasco. Or
Cinderella
. Or Zeynep. Whichever they chose, they would not be happy.

After packing his bag, Angelo jogged to the meeting room with trepidation. He looked round the door and saw them all waiting. ‘Angelo, enter!' Paul Vasilevski called out. Man, this guy was a joker. The coach, Davis Beck, was there too. He was a big bloke with a really mean face as if he'd been in heaps of punch-ons in his youth, and he made Angelo tense. He beckoned him in. Ashley Waugh, the assistant coach, was sitting alongside Davis. He was the opposite – small tanned face, friendly. All three of them had their hands clasped on the table as if they were about to fire him. It was good cop, bad cop, with Paul Vasilevski as the dobber and general psycho.

Angelo sat down and let out a long and unexpected whistle.

They all looked up at him.

Paul spoke first. He was shaking his head slowly. ‘What's the matter with you, Angelo? I'm starting to wonder if we've made the wrong draft pick. What was all that mouthguard cleaning? A serious footballer sticks it right back in, mud and all – delicious.'

Angelo was silent.

‘Nice goal, mate,' Ashley said. ‘How's the lip?'

‘It's just a stitch,' Angelo said. ‘It's fine.'

‘Goooood!' Coach Beck exhaled as he flipped in a preoccupied way through a folder in front of him. ‘We've got your personality test – Myers Briggs; the psychologist's update; a report from your school…' He patted them. ‘We're impressed, Angelo.' He nodded and looked over the top of his glasses. ‘And we're
not
impressed! A few concerns. A few…' He seemed to hold his breath. ‘…concerns.' This was his intimidating style.

‘How are you liking the club? Good club? Happy club?'

Ashley hunched his shoulders and leant forward. He looked supportive.

‘Very happy, thanks, Ash. Really happy.'

‘No need to tap your foot, Angelo. We're your friends,' said Coach Beck. Angelo grabbed both his knees. ‘Happy with yourself in the calendar shoot?'

He nodded and tried to look positive. ‘I looked okay. Pretty funny playing footy without any clothes on, but.'

Paul Vasilevski frowned. ‘It's called publicity, Angelo. It's called income. Remember that.'

‘Melanie told us you had a few problems with the makeup,'

Coach Beck said. ‘Bit of a panic about the eyeliner, we heard.

Screamed a bit with the hair removal?'

Angelo cracked his fingers under the table. He had refused to put the makeup on, and he'd screamed quite a bit during the Brazilian.

‘It's okay. I'm just not used to that sort of stuff.'

‘You'll need to get used to it if you want to play footy.' Coach Beck scowled, pressed his lips together and seemed to hold his breath again. His face reddened.

‘Don't mind the travel up and down to Hobart?' Ashley asked.

‘No worries. I like flying.'

‘But not charity performances? You still don't want to be in the Cockies' production of
Cinderella
, I hear?' said Coach Beck.

The wrinkles in his face made him look evil. His glasses were at the end of his nose.

‘Sorry, I can't.'

‘
Can't
is not a Cockatoos' word, Angelo,' snarled Coach Beck.

Paul interrupted. ‘One minute, Davis, before you get into that. Angelo, have you been using Manlee?' Paul was peering at Angelo's face.

He nodded. ‘Sure.'

‘Daily?'

‘Sure, Paul.'

‘You don't look moisturised at the moment.'

He'd forgotten to put it on after the shower. ‘I was worried about the lip. Normally I would. I missed a few times at school.

The other guys comment.' He could tolerate Manlee because it was invisible. But how could he explain his problems with makeup to these guys without losing his place in the team?

Paul's face was dark. ‘Moisturise twice a day. Got it? We've got a major sponsor to keep happy.'

Paul had it in for him. ‘I know.' He kept his eyes lowered.

‘Back to you, Davis,' said Paul.

Coach Beck was still frowning. ‘You told the psychologist that you have a hang-up about clowns … and drag queens.'

He was holding his breath in again, looking ready to blow up.

Angelo nodded.

Beck exhaled loudly and snapped, ‘This is fruitloop stuff, mate!'

‘If guys are dressed up like clowns or ladies I can't look at them. I kind of lose it for a bit.'

‘Lose it?' said Ashley.

‘I hyperventilate,' said Angelo.

‘You hyperventilate?' Coach Beck was shaking his head.

‘But you don't mind the ladies dressed up like ladies, I hope?'

Ashley asked.

‘No, I like that.'

‘What about ladies dressed up like men, then?'

‘No, I like that too?'

‘Just men dressed up like ladies are the problem?'

‘Yes. It's the makeup.'

‘You don't like makeup on guys?'

‘No. Not too much.'

‘But you moisturise?'

‘I do. It's different. It's okay if it's invisible.'

Ashleigh was looking at Coach Beck. Coach Beck was looking at Paul.

‘That's pretty weird stuff, old chum,' said Paul. ‘Pretty weird stuff indeed. Most blokes like to dress up like ladies: it's a sign of mental health. You a bit low on testosterone or something?'

He started flicking through the reports. ‘Medicals ...' he mumbled.

Angelo shrugged and looked down at his hands. It was best to get it all out on the table and 'fess up about all the others so they'd know what they were getting with Angelo Tarano.

‘I don't really like Santa, either!'

Coach Beck whistled very slowly. He leant right back in his seat and put his hands behind his head.

Paul sat up very straight and gripped the edge of the desk.

‘Are you saying you
believe
in Santa Claus?' He spoke quietly.

‘No way! Of course not. But I don't like fake beards.'

Paul scoffed. ‘Scared of
hair pieces
as well, are we?'

Angelo glanced at Paul's hair. It looked real, but you couldn't always tell. He laughed. ‘No way. Hair pieces are cool. But not ladies' wigs on guys, or fake beards.'

‘Hmmm!' Coach Beck looked down at one of the reports.

‘Well …we're expecting you to start seeing the team psychologist more regularly.'

‘Daily,' interrupted Ashley.

‘Hourly,' sneered Paul.

Coach Beck's eyes glared. ‘You can't be a professional footballer and refuse to dress up like a woman. That's out of the question. We have players' reviews every year. It's a bonding thing. We want well adjusted young lads in the Cockatoos, not fruitloops!'

Vasilevski interrupted. ‘Angelo, Candibelle what's-her-name, you're going to drop her? Or have you dropped her?'

Angelo nodded: ‘Dropped her.' He felt sick. That was an outright lie. He was such a coward.

‘Good thing,' Paul said.

‘You rejected all our girls, though?' Coach Beck was scratching his cheek.

‘Not really.'

‘Not really? We were told you said no to the lot,' Vasilevski snapped.

‘Um, no time?'

‘There's always time for a nice girl, Angelo. Always,' said Coach Beck.

He smiled nervously. ‘After my exams, maybe?'

Coach Beck leant right back in his chair. He grabbed the edge of the table suddenly to stop himself from toppling over backwards. ‘This Candibelle, the ex, she had you straightening wheelie bins along her street, we heard. What a great sight that would be if a TV van just happened to be in the vicinity!'

They knew everything.

‘She's an obsessive-compulsive.' Coach Beck was looking down at his folder.

‘Fruitloops attract,' Paul mumbled to the other two.

Coach Beck smirked.

‘You go to school with Candibelle?' Ashley asked gently.

He nodded. ‘Zeynep's her name, actually.' He shifted around in his seat. ‘It's hard for her. The publicity. She's Muslim. Her parents are traditional – strict.'

‘She's Muslim? Not that it's a problem,' said Ashley. ‘Some of the Cockies are Muslims: Hakan, Omar. Great blokes.'

Angelo nodded. ‘Great blokes.'

Coach Beck raised his voice. ‘So this is the current state of play: you've now dumped the girlfriend; you're attending training regularly; you're the May recruit in the forthcoming
Afl
calendar; you're moisturising; and you'll have a bit of psychotherapy so that you can wear makeup without hyperventilating.' He paused. ‘The world's a perfect place – but maybe we'll drop you from this year's review.'

‘Thanks.' Angelo tried to look grateful.

Ashley cleared his throat. ‘We've got to be tough on you, Angelo, for your own good. You're a young bloke and you've got a bit to learn about the Cockies' image.'

Paul interrupted. ‘We need to do some work on you to bring you up to scratch. We've arranged a new girlfriend for you.'

‘Really?'

Coach Beck was firm. ‘Your contract stipulates we can declare it null and void if you bring the club's name into disrepute. We've drawn up a contract with the mother. It'll cost us a pretty penny, but it'll be great for publicity and involves a very interesting marketing synergy. The mother's pretty keen on the whole idea.'

‘What? What's going on?'

‘It's Matilda Grey – Dingo Girl. She attends your school. It will generate huge publicity and, as a result, much-needed revenue for the club.'