Chapter 19
VERO VOLTO
ZEKE
Right before footy training on Tuesday night, I find myself in a seventh-circle-of-hell queue of seventy punters lining up for a home open in Dianella.
The two-by-one flat is all seventies cream brick, cracked driveway, russet stains on the walls from the bore water, and it’s still attracted a crowd.
The people either side of me in the queue whisper that a similar place sold for nearly a million dollars last week.
That’s cold water on my face: if I don’t move in with my parents, and I don’t move back in with Sabrina, what will I be able to afford to rent? A rotting shoebox under a bridge in Midland?
The queue moves at a snail’s pace. I’m gonna be late to footy.
Just to make being my parents’ proxy even more annoying, they insist on me video-calling them and holding up my phone to show them the house virtually.
As I finally get to shuffle through the flat with the other punters, my mother coos over features she likes (‘Ooh, the mosaic tiles on the kitchen splashback are very quaint!’) and tsk-tsks over detractions (‘That window doesn’t look like it opens fully, does it, Zeke? Can you test it?’).
Not only are there randoms overhearing this, but the property manager keeps throwing me judgy looks. I want to sink through the floor.
While I’m doing the walkthrough, my phone keeps buzzing with notifications I can’t get to: everyone wants a piece of me all at once.
I see two missed calls from Charlie, which I can’t answer, but we both avoid phone calls like the good little Gen Z kids we are, so this must be something major.
Then messages from Mason, Sabrina and – holy hell – Hammer.
‘Mum, can I call you back?’ I ask.
‘Not yet, darling – zoom in on the entrance to the sunken lounge. Are those French doors? Ooh!’
Despite my thorough, cringeworthy inspection of the house, my mother instructs me not to grab an application from the property manager. ‘I love the place, but I really can’t get past that window …’
Cool. I missed out on half of footy training for no reason. Although if my mother stays this fussy, she’ll never be able to move to Perth because nowhere will be good enough for her.
When I get back to my Nissan, I race through my messages.
Mason’s text tells me he can’t make it to training and could I let Brick know, as he’s not answering his phone.
Bit late now as I’ve missed footy too, and also couldn’t manage to tell Brick.
But teammates always have each other’s backs – even more so after our footy trip bonding in Lancelin. No worries, Firetruck, I gotchu.
Charlie’s left me a voicemail: he broke up with Mason. He says he was a dick and he doesn’t know how to fix it. Guess that explains why Mason pulled out of training. I text him that I’m at training but I’ll debrief with him when I get home.
Sabrina’s next. I’ve never felt so popular. She has a half-day off work tomorrow and wants to get lunch with me so we can talk things out. I’m glad she made the first move. I agree to lunch.
Last is Hammer with a classic Hammer message – no preamble, no caution, just a cocky, When we gettin that beer?
I tell him we can meet on Friday. I give him Curtis and Ahmed’s address, because I want him in a place where I have a bed accessible. I know that’s stupid, but I don’t care.
As I start the Nissan’s engine, my mother phones me back.
‘Darling! Look! I changed my mind. Your father pointed out we can get that window fixed if we buy the flat. Can you get an application after all?’
‘Sure, happy to,’ I say, putting on a positive smile even though she can’t see me. ‘No worries.’
A little radioactive pill of rage dissolves in my stomach, destination unknown.
‘And don’t forget we’re in Perth this weekend for your little cousin’s christening and to look at some home opens ourselves. We’ll come see you for coffee again on Sunday morning after the christening.’
‘Awesome,’ I lie.
I hang up the phone call and stare at my reflection in the rear-view mirror. My eyes, always dark like charcoal, have no light left in them, deadened and over it all – but my mouth is determined to shine on, fixed in a permanent customer-service smile.
I miss almost all of footy training.
The night air is cold and my breath mists as I walk onto the oval, cold needles of rain stabbing my face. I hate getting wet in the rain – whoever romanticised that notion is a blithering idiot – but footy guys power through the elements, no matter what.
The boys are gathered in the usual circle of duffel bags and sneakers, panting after the end of their latest drill.
Brick’s pumping up some footies; Dom and Rogan are slugging back Powerade; Tommo’s smoking a dart which is surely getting wet; Jack’s hammering out a text on his phone, his face thunderous; Fergus is shivering; and everyone except me was smart enough to wear a jacket or hoodie over their footy gear.
‘Fudgy!’ Tommo booms. ‘Look out, here’s trouble.’
‘Only an hour late, mate!’ Brick says sharply. ‘Bit shy to show your face after your antics on the footy trip, ay?’
The heat from my cheeks is almost enough to warm me up.
I throw a sidelong glance at Fergus, but he doesn’t look awkward after our encounter in Lancelin; in fact, he bounds over and throws his arms around my shoulders, squeezing me, but not affectionately – just as a teammate.
His way of letting me know nothing has changed between us.
I’m relieved. ‘Sorry I’m late – had to run an errand for my parents,’ I tell Brick. ‘Firetruck also messaged me to say he was late – he couldn’t get through.’
‘Noted,’ Brick says curtly. His mood is off. ‘I switched my phone off to stop getting pestering phone calls from our new least favourite person.’
‘It hasn’t stopped him, but,’ Jack says, holding up his phone to show Brick a message. ‘Now he’s contacting me instead. Is this prick for real? The fucken nerve.’
‘Ignore him,’ Brick says. ‘We’ve been polite, we’ve been civil. Enough’s enough.’
I go to ask what they’re talking about, but Fergus interrupts me.
‘I thought Australia was meant to be warmer than Ireland,’ Fergus mutters, bulging his eyes at me. ‘It could freeze the balls off a brass monkey tonight. Fuck me, Fudgy!’
Tommo snorts. ‘Pretty sure Fudgy already did that in Lancelin, Potato Boy.’
Dom and Rogan both piss themselves laughing.
‘Fucken fraternising with a teammate, that’s gotta be in breach of the team rules, surely,’ Rogan mutters, poking his tongue out.
Because he’s our token straighty, I feel like I did the wrong thing drunkenly hooking up with a teammate and made him uncomfortable. Were we supposed to not fuck each other?
I look to Brick, who thankfully just snorts. ‘We’re all grown men. What happens on footy trip stays on footy trip.’
Rogan winks at me. ‘Ya cheeky bugger, Fudgy. Always the quiet ones you gotta watch out for.’
He was joking about the team rules. Of course he was. Why did I jump straight to the assumption that everyone would turn on me and kick me out of the team?
Fergus goes on to talk about some guy who barebacked him last night, and the conversation moves on without burning my reputation down. Nobody cares.
‘Orright, let’s finish off with some mini match sim. Three on three, one forward, one mid, one back. Ten minutes and let’s call it a night. Off youse go, then.’
I join Dom and Rogan’s team – I’m the forward – and we run out into the cold against Jack, Tommo and Fergus.
With each needle of rain that slices my leg, I think, This is making me tougher.
And each time I mark the footy, I think, I love this.
The mystery of who Jack and Brick were beefing with is solved after training.
Brick lets us into the Coolies clubrooms – all dirty lino and trophies and pennants on the face-brick walls – for a drink after training. We can’t use the club’s cash bar but they let us store our booze in their bar fridges.
The seven of us are sitting around sinking piss when the clubroom door opens, and a familiar but unexpected face steps into our space: Xander Sullivan. He’s wearing a blue denim sherpa jacket and fawn-coloured chinos, all as streaked with rain as his face.
Jack lowers his can of Woodstock from his mouth and screws his face up in rage: he looks like he’s gonna unleash every swear word in the dictionary.
Thankfully, Brick puts a hand on his shoulder and says, ‘G’day Xander, is there something we can help you with?’
Xander glances at the rest of us leaning on the bar. ‘Xavier, I’d like to speak with you,’ he says stiffly. ‘You can’t ignore my calls forever.’
I look around, confused about who this Xavier is, until the penny drops that Brick can’t be his actual name.
‘We’ve said all there is to say,’ Brick says firmly. ‘And I told you, call me Brick.’
‘You turned your phone off,’ Xander snarls. ‘I had to try to contact your vice-president, who is extremely rude and homophobic.’
He glares at Jack, who smiles way too widely, showing his teeth in a gesture that makes me realise he might have a violent streak to him.
‘What did you say, bro?’ Brick asks Jack out of the corner of his mouth.
‘He said I was a “stupid fucken poofter”,’ Xander cries.
Brick gives Jack a death stare of Why would you make this worse?
‘What?’ Jack says. ‘He is!’
I don’t know how to explain it, but in that moment, I want badly to be Jack. That he could insult someone and look him right in the eye is some ballsy shit.
‘I apologise for Jack’s temper,’ Brick says.
‘But Xander, time for some hard truths. You don’t own other gay people.
You don’t tell us what to do. You asked us if we’d make a comment about the AFL’s Pride Round, and even if we agree with you to some extent, we don’t want to pile on.
You asked us to make a comment against the Shed, and none of us wants to join a public attack on a venue run by a same-sex couple themselves. ’
‘That’s problematic,’ Xander rebuts.