Tigers & Devils (44 page)

I tried to lose myself in my book but couldn’t concentrate and ended up resting my head against the cool glass of the window as the tram rattled its way past Parliament Station.

The girl opposite was staring at me, and I was starting to feel unnerved. Finally she leaned in and whispered, “Hey, are you that guy going out with Declan Tyler?”

I gave her a tired smile. “If I was, do you think I’d be catching this tram?”

She looked disappointed. “I guess not.”

And she left me alone after that.

“SO, has he called you yet?” Fran asked.

“You know I would have told you by now if he had,” I told her, nursing my beer. She frowned and then her look turned sympathetic. “Simon, have you tried calling him, or are you being stubborn?”

I wanted to pretend that I was being my usual self, all aloof and confident despite the fact that everybody close to me saw right through it anyway, but I was too tired.

“I’ve tried. A few times, actually.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the background noise of The Napier take over in lieu of conversation. Finally, I asked her what I had been wanting to ever since I sat down. “Have
you
spoken to him?”

She looked at me sadly and shook her head.

“Oh,” I said, defeated. “He must still be… calming down… then.”

“He’s probably more embarrassed by the fact that he lost his cool for once,” Fran said. “He always keeps things pretty close to his chest. To be so open about it, and lose face… well, he
is
a man.”

“On behalf of my sex, I say ‘Hey!’!”

“Come off it,” Fran protested. “Stupid, bloody, men.”

“Yeah,” I agreed before I could stop myself.

We both laughed, and it was the first time I had done so in days.

I DRUNKENLY wove my way from the tram stop back to my house and saw that Dec’s car was sitting in my driveway and the windows of my house were lit. Instead of being relieved, I was mad. Stupid, bloody alcohol, being in my system. I felt that this wasn’t a situation that should be fuelled by malt and hops.

I fumbled with my keys in the door and walked in to find him sitting calmly on my couch with Maggie in his lap.

“Maggie, you traitor,” I slurred.

“I let myself in,” Declan said unnecessarily.

312 | SEAN KENNEDY

“Then you should know the way out,” I said grandly, kicking off my shoes.

“Simon….”

I stumbled into my bedroom, feeling sick to my stomach although it wasn’t from the alcohol. I lay on my bed, as I could no longer stand. I heard Maggie’s bell sound; Declan must have lifted her off him, because I heard him coming down the hall.

“You’re going the wrong way,” I called out.

The mattress dipped sickeningly as he sat next to me.

“Have you been drinking?”

“Amazing,” I said. “How could you tell?”

He rested his hand upon my side, and I twisted out from under it.

“Simon, please.”

I dragged myself up into a sitting position although the room was spinning uncontrollably. Declan was looking at me with concern. Maybe he thought I had turned alcoholic out of despair.

“‘Please’,” I snorted. “I think I said that in one of the hundreds of messages I left you.”

“Can’t we talk?”

“I tried talking to you on Saturday. You didn’t want to. Now I don’t want to.”

He didn’t answer; he just sat there. And I could tell he was chewing on the inside of his cheek. And just that little thing made me collapse internally. I gave him a quick hug. “I lied. I do want to talk to you. But I think I’m going to vomit.” I lay back down, glad that the room stopped moving when I did so. Declan lay beside me, and his arms pulled me in closer to him. And strangely enough, I began to feel better.

MERCIFULLY, I didn’t have a hangover when I woke up hours later, but I was cold even though Declan was still holding me. So the events that had seemed like a dream actually
were
real. We had fallen asleep on top of the covers, and Maggie was nestled between our legs.

“I’m sorry,” Dec murmured, sensing I was awake.

“Me too.”

We decided not to press the issue. We both knew how we had stuffed up, and there was no need to rehash it. But I just had to let him know one thing.

“I’m a big boy, Dec.”

“You have tickets on yourself,” Dec smiled, not being able to resist.

“I mean it. I can deal. It won’t stop you from worrying about me. It won’t make me stop worrying about you. But we’ll deal.”

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His lips found the crook of my neck. I turned so we were face-to-face, eager to feel his mouth against mine again. We kissed deeply, slowly, savouring each other. Making up for what had been missed over the past few days. Maggie, disturbed by the shifting bodies, took off for safer ground.

My doorbell rang.

“Who the hell is that this early on a Sunday morning?” I groaned.

“It’s Monday,” Dec reminded me.

“Public holiday,” I corrected him. “It’s a Sunday by another name.”

I gave him another kiss, glad he was there to receive it, and made my way to the door. I heard Declan following me.

Fran and Roger stood on the doorstep. Roger looked slightly green; Fran was wearing sunglasses, despite the fact that it was overcast. She held up a couple of greasy brown paper bags, and Roger was holding one as well.

“Hangover cure,” she announced. “Don’t say we don’t love you.”

She then lifted her glasses to reveal two bloodshot eyes as she stared past my shoulder. Declan had just appeared behind me.

“Well,” Fran said, lowering her glasses again. “Good thing we brought extra.”

Roger tried to give me an intimidating stare as he walked in. It failed, so he tried it on Declan. It failed again.

I turned to follow Roger into the kitchen; behind me I heard a muffled thud, and Declan protesting. I looked back and saw him rubbing his shoulder.

“She hit me!” he said, an injured expression on his face. Fran gave me a wink as she continued on into the kitchen. “You’re lucky it wasn’t your knee.”

“It means she loves you,” I told Declan.

He continued rubbing the inflicted area. “Doesn’t
feel
like it.”

“Can we
eat?
” Roger moaned from the kitchen. “I’m starving.”

“You go first,” Declan whispered. “I don’t think my shoulder can take another hit.”

Trying to hide my smile, but failing miserably, I led the way.

AND that was how it was for us. Ups and downs. Sometimes more downs than ups. It was funny, though, because we experienced everything differently. He got flak on the field, but none from the fans. I, however, got it all from the fans. The needling at the games maintained a steady level rather than dying down as I had hoped it would. Dec got to the point where he wanted me to stay away for my own sanity, but I stubbornly took my place in the players’ box at every away game that took place in Melbourne. Away from the field I had also become more recognisable in the public eye, and it meant that certain members of it now thought they were well within their right to start calling

314 | SEAN KENNEDY

me out whenever and wherever they saw me. I took to wearing my iPod every time I was out and about by myself, but sometimes I could still hear them above the music. If I were with Dec, they never tried it. They wanted to be his friend, so by default I was treated to their politeness.

Fran and Roger got to see it every now and again, though.

“How can you stand it?” Roger asked.

“I just have to.”

“I want to hit them for you,” Fran snarled.

“If you want to go ahead, I didn’t hear anything, so I can’t be responsible,” I said. I kind of meant it, even though it was unwise.

The only face-to-face negativity Declan experienced was on a radio interview when one of the DJs asked him if he was a top or a bottom. When Dec had asked him if he was serious, the DJ told him he didn’t have a sense of humour. Declan walked out of the interview early, the managers of the Devils went ballistic at the radio station, and battle lines were drawn. The more bozo-ish of the footy shows on TV admonished him as being a sook, yet Dec knew if he had actually gone on their show they would have been kissing his arse.

He was almost glad when the Devils didn’t make the finals, as it meant he could have a longer break away from it all. I don’t even want to discuss how the Tigers did. Dec and the rest of his team went on their end-of-season holiday early, but would be back in time for the Brownlow ceremony.

The Brownlow. That was another thing I didn’t want to think about, being in the same room as a large group of people who would sledge me on the field to try and provoke my partner every week. I know sledging wasn’t meant to be personal, but that didn’t help me.

“You’ve lost weight,” Fran told me critically, while Declan was away.

“Good, I can go shopping in the petite section for my Brownlow dress,” I replied sourly.

Fran gave me a small smile. “I heard what they said on that show. I don’t know why Roger watches that crap.”

“He says it’s just because he wants to know the in-house goss.”

“It’s not worth it. Especially when they make fun of your friends.”

“They did say I would look good in a dress, though. Y’know, because I’m a
girl
.”

“There are worse things than being called a girl.”

“That’s true.” I shrugged. “They also called me
the little lady
.”

“Wow, so they’re misogynistic and homophobic. They’re trying to tick every box, what else is new?”

“You’re not helping.”

“I could go dress-shopping with you.”

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“Shut up, Fran.”

“What are you wearing to the Brownlows, anyway?”

“Have you turned into Roger all of a sudden? I’m surprised you even know what they are.”

She shrugged. “It’s amazing what you can learn when you actually care about it.”

“You care about the Brownlows?” I asked with surprise.

“Two of my friends are going,” she pointed out. “It was a huge controversy last year. I’m not that forgetful.”

I breathed deeply. “I hope it’s not that controversial this year.”

Fran looked at me; her expression was strangely indecipherable. “I hope so too.”

“ARE you sure that’s what you really want to wear?”

Practically the first thing Declan had made me do when he returned to Melbourne was to go shopping with him and finalise my wardrobe for the Brownlows. I had to laugh at Declan being so concerned about clothing, and wondered if he just wanted some dumb movie montage in which we just paraded around with various costume changes to some sprightly music track.

“What’s wrong with it?” I looked at his reflection in the mirror as he walked up behind me and rested his hand upon my shoulder.

“It’s just—”

“What?” I asked, grumpy and tired. I had tried on about seven different outfits, and I hated shopping at the best of times. I was the kind of shopper who wouldn’t try anything on and would just chuck clothes at the register and get out of there as soon as possible. I would then hope that they actually fit once I got them home.

“It’s not very
you
.”

Was that a twinkle in his eye? “What’s
me
, anyway?”

“It’s just so plain.”

“It looks kind of like what you wore last year,” I pointed out. It was a perfectly nice, traditional black suit with white shirt and bowtie combo.

“Exactly,” Dec agreed.

“So it’s good enough for you, but not for me?”

“Stop fighting me on this. Traditional suits me. I’m traditional.”

“Says the gay footballer.” I turned to face him properly. Declan laughed. “Okay, you got me there. But I’m talking fashion-wise.”

“Just because the papers keep printing that picture of me in the lime-green suit—”

“You love that suit.”

316 | SEAN KENNEDY

“It’s not Brownlow material.”

“Oh,” Declan said, as if that explained everything. He moved to go back and sit on the couch and pulled me along with him.

“Weren’t they meant to be bringing us coffee?” I grumbled. “They offered it. I’ve never been in an upscale store like this before. I want the perks.”

Declan wisely ignored me to focus upon the real issue. “I want you to be comfortable at the Brownlows.”

“And?”

“You’re not going to be comfortable if you don’t go as yourself.”

I sagged against the back of the couch and into him slightly. “I’m not going to be comfortable if I go as myself either.”

“You’re never happy.”

“I just mean, I know I’m going to be on edge. And to be truthful, I don’t want to embarrass you. They’re going to be watching us enough, even before I turn up looking like Maria von Trapp dressed me in the venue’s curtains.”

“Even
your
taste isn’t that bad.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Simon, you don’t embarrass me. You’ve got to get over it. I want you to go as you, because you’re who I go out with.” He realised how badly structured that last sentence was and shook his head. “See what you do to me?”

“How about we compromise?” I suggested.

“How?”

“That longer-style black jacket, and I’ll wear one of my crappy band shirts under it.”