1. Tate #2
“I can’t believe it!” I pant, clinging to him.
“You played such a good game, son! And that final goal? Holy shit, Tate! I am so proud of you!” He says, pulling back to look me in the eye. “So proud of you!”
“Thank dad!” I grin at him. He releases me and I bounce off, so full of adrenaline and joy I can’t help myself, greeting other teammates and team staff. Dad stays close to me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I wouldn’t be in the position I am today without him and his guidance over the years.
Time blurs, moving so fast that before I know it, we’ve finished the award ceremony and official photograph, and I’m rushing through a quick shower and change before heading to the celebration party.
If someone told me a year ago that I would be here, a rookie, one year into my professional career and in the premiership match? I would’ve called laughed in their face, then told them to shut up cause saying something Ike that would have for sure jinxed it from happening.
Me? Suspicious? Never.
To be here now, and not only to have been in the match, but to have been the player who scored the winning goal? That’s next level. Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed this would happen to me.
The after party starts with little to no formality. Most of them were left on the field, and whatever else needs to be done isn’t the focus for tonight. There will be time for that tomorrow or in the days following the win. Tonight is all about the celebration.
I have a drink with Dad, and one with the team, one shot for the fun of it, and another with a fan.
Before I know it, I have lost track of the number of drinks that I have had, and hours have passed.
The combination of free-flowing alcohol, celebrating with Dad, fans, teammates and their families, has me buzzing.
I drank way more than I should have but all it’s done is leave me feeling queasy and uneasy.
Hey that rhymed. Fuck. I am so wasted.
“What are you doing over here all by yourself?” Jonesy asks. He is the team captain and, even though he is only ten years older than me at nineteen, he’s like a father figure to the whole team. Or a big brother, maybe.
“I’m by myself?” I ask, looking around at the party. “Where’d everybody go?”
There are still heaps of people in the room, but I can’t really make out any of their faces. Double vision or whatever.
“I think most people are starting to make their way to bed,” Jonesy says. “Maybe you should too?”
“That you offerin’ to take me to bed, Cap-i-tan?” I ask. Wow, my voice is slurring a lot.
Someone nearby chokes on a cough, and I turn around to see Coach Anderson watching us.
“No Tate,” Jonesy says, exas… exaspa… wait what is Jonesy?
“How do you say exaaspa.. Ted?” I ask with a hiccup.
“Exasperated?”
“That’s it!” I say, snapping my fingers together.
“Seriously, Tate. I was just telling you that I think you have had a big enough night and it might be time for you to hit the hay.”
“But I haven’t figured out what girl I am going to take back to my room yet, old man,” I tease.
Coach Anderson walks away, and I feel… dismissed? Maybe he is a bit like Coach Graham there and doesn’t want to know the ins and outs of his players sex lives.
“Consent is a two way street, Stone,” Jonesy says, clapping me on the shoulder. “If you’re so drunk you’re seeing two of me, then you are too drunk to consent to sex.”
“Oh, but I want to… I mean, I really, really want to!” He has a point, though, even if I don’t want to tell him that. I’m honestly not even sure if I could get it up in this state.
“I’m sure you do, kid, but Mrs Palmer is gonna be your only friend tonight.”
“Ugh, even my dad wouldn’t be this controlling… oh hey, where is my dad?” I ask looking around the room for him.
“Yep, you’re wasted. Mate, he went to bed hours ago, don’t you remember the big goodbye you made us all give him as the ‘AFL Daddy’ of the team?”
“Fuck… did I do that?”
Maybe I am way too drunk to still be here.
“Ok, ok,” I relent, standing up. “Imma Irish goodbye this bitch and go pass out for the next few months.”
“Yeah, mate, you earned it!” Jonesy says, somewhat escorting me to the elevators. Thank God the team was able to host this party in the same hotel we are staying in, so I only needed to travel a few floors to be back to my room.
After fumbling and dropping my room key twice, I finally make my way into the hotel room and collapse onto the bed. The room is spinning as I manage to kick off my shoes and wriggle out of my jeans.
“This would’ve been sooo much easier if I was still standing,” I say to myself, as I squirm around on the bed. My phone falls out of my jeans and tumbles onto the floor. I roll over with a groan to look at it. Wowza. So many notifications.
Fuck, I know I should sleep, but I can't help myself.
I scroll through so many photos from today—well, uh, yesterday?
There are photos of me kicking the winning goal, pictures of me embracing dad with the confetti falling around us, and there're heaps from the party tonight too. Realising I haven’t posted anything since the win, I select a bunch of random photos and repost them with the caption ‘What a game, what a night’ and chuck some hashtags on there before I pass the fuck out, half undressed, and my phone still in my hand.