2. Vincent
VINCENT
I’m finally a premiership winner… well technically I guess.
It doesn’t feel the same as when I was a player, but coaching a team to victory definitely has its own ego boost. I had worked hard to get into the big leagues.
Training every day after school, coaching AusKick teams, and umpiring games on weekends, but nothing can prepare you for a career ending injury.
I was playing in my second professional season, just a normal game like any other.
Tackled low from two sides, I landed at the wrong angle, and it resulted in breaking my right leg in two places, tearing my ACL as it went.
I was out for the rest of the season. Nine months of recovery later, I started reconditioning, only to find I didn’t have the same range of motion or ability that I did before.
I’d planned on playing this game for the next decade or so at least, and it hit me hard when my contract was medically terminated.
Retiring had never even occurred to me before I was injured—but afterwards I knew I needed to accept that if I wanted to keep the ability to walk on both of my own legs, I wouldn’t be able to play the game I love any longer.
Doing the only rational thing that I could think of, I sidestepped in a direction that kept me close to the game, even if it was a little too close sometimes.
It meant leaving my team behind, moving a state away, and helping a newly formed team find its footing.
I loved it, hated it, and couldn’t live without it all at the same time.
No one ever said that a man’s brain made sense.
I still kept in touch with a few of my old team members, but it’s been hard keeping my loyalties in line.
It’s been two years now since I played a game—Assistant Coach Anderson.
That was who I was now. No longer Vince or Vinny, or even just one of the boys.
I was Coach Anderson, the title came with respect I never felt I’d earned, and with responsibility I wasn’t sure I was ready for, but I was doing it anyway.
And look at me now. All the hard work has finally paid off. I might not have my own medal, but I was there, I am a part of the team—and we won the fucking premiership today. It’s been hours and I am still processing it.
I’ve been celebrating the night with the team at the party, so many families, friends and fans around sharing in our joy—my eyes constantly scanning the crowd for even a glimpse of him.
Fuck, stop that, Vince!
That’s the last thing I need to be indulging in my drunken state, but apparently I couldn’t help myself. I watched as he hugged his dad, clearly saying goodnight or something I couldn’t hear from this far away.
When was the last time I hugged my dad? After my injury, maybe?
He certainly didn’t hug me when I told him and Mum that I was gay, or when I told them I was moving to Orlo to coach.
For a minute, I wish my parents were here to celebrate with me—but to them, playing the game is different from being the man on the sideline directing the plays.
But I shake the thought away. I don’t even remember the last time they were happy for me.
Dad even sent me a ‘Congrats’ text after the team made it to the Premiership—which is saying something, because he barely watched the sport when I was a player, let alone afterwards—but they weren’t interested in coming down to Melbourne for this game, apparently.
Even when I offered to organise it and cover the cost, there was always an excuse.
My older sister Valerie needed them nearby in case she needed help with her kids, or Dad wasn’t able to get time off work.
I’d gotten used to only seeing them when I visited Sydney—and that is rare nowadays, it has been ever since I came out to them.
My eyes find their way back to Tate, like they always do whenever he is in my vicinity. Like a creeper, I watch as he falls into a seat at an empty table, and I fight the urge to go to him, sit with him, just be in his orbit.
I’ve spent months fighting this. Months trying to put it behind me and be professional.
Thankfully, Jonesy makes his way over to him, ending the tormenting ‘What if’ thoughts raising through my head?
Maybe I need to call it a night too, I’m way too drunk to be out here letting my heart and lower head make errors my brain will have to fix in the morning.
I finish off the rest of my beer, then with a quick nod to the people around me, I make my way through the crowd.
It not my fault that I need to walk towards him—he is the one sitting next to the exit.
Well, near the exit. One of the exits. Whatever.
My feet carry me towards him, and I drop my empty bottle on a table nearby.
“That you offerin’ to take me to bed, Cap-i-tan?” Tate asks, his voice slurring.
Caught between surprise and laugher, I choke trying to breathe, coughing to clear my throat. Tate turns and looks at me and having those pale blue eyes on me. Holy shit. They pierce through every layer of me.
He’s going to go to bed with Jonesy? I think the fuck not! If he is going to swing this way, then he is mine. I’ve been dreaming and fantasising about this man for months—stereotypical gay dude lusting after the straight jock.
I am about to interrupt and turn into Katniss screaming, ‘I volunteer as tribute’, when Jonesy keeps talking.
“No 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,” Tate jokes, and my gut twists at the reminder he doesn’t want me.
Needing to get away before I can see what guernsey chaser he chooses to spend the night with, I walk away and head to the elevator.
I have always needed to have a shower before bed, no matter the time or how exhausted I am, otherwise I just can’t switch off.
The moment I get back to my hotel room, I stagger through undressing and having a quick shower before collapsing in bed naked.
I toss and turn, unable to get comfortable.
I normally crash pretty easily in a hotel bed, but my brain just won’t switch off, thoughts churning about who he could be with and what he could be doing with them.
Fuck. I pick up my phone and start scrolling, needing to unwind.
Photos from the night flood my screen, fans before the game and more of them covered in confetti congratulating the team on their win.
There were photos from the parties, from the sidelines, and even footage of the final winning goal that Tate kicked—and just like that my mind is back on him, like always.
I linger over the video, just like I always do these days, watching his expression morph from concentration to pure joy. He kicked the final goal with seconds to spare in the last quarter, taking us from being four points down to winning the game by two points. It was an amazing goal.
It started with game footage before we drafted him in the off season, then it got worse when he joined the team.
I made excuses in the beginning, that I needed to watch him in action to be able to organise plays and critique his game.
I believed the lies I told myself for a while, but eventually I accepted that I wasn’t telling myself the truth.
If I was, I would watch the other players just as much… but I don’t.
My phone dings with an alert that he has posted on Instagram. It’s not creepy that I get notifications for him—I did it for the whole team. Did I do it for the whole team so I could justify following Tate? Well, we’ll never know, will we?
He has posted a bunch of photos from tonight.
His blue eyes lit up, a huge smile spreading across his face.
He had looked at me with that smile tonight—it had made my heart skip a beat.
But now, he is in this photo looking exactly the same as when I left the party half an hour ago, in his post-game outfit, premiership metal around his neck, and his arm around a woman I saw skirting the edges of the party.
The woman he chose to take him to bed, no doubt.
A heavy feeling in my gut heats, getting worse and worse until I just can’t stop myself.
I click on the photo, then open a direct message to him.
[@vincent_anderson
You trying to make me jealous, Tate? Mission accomplished.
Who is she?
I bet she never stayed up all night and studied your game footage or organised a whole team around your strengths.
But sure, post her picture, not mine. ]
I glance at the time to see it’s almost 3 am in the morning. I am too drunk to be awake, and this photo has pushed me over the edge.
Chucking my phone on charge, I roll over and hug my pillow, wishing it was a hunky auburn haired man with the blue eyes that I haven’t been able to get out of my head for months, knowing it never will be.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Ding. Ding. Ding.
My phone is going psycho enough to pull me out of my lust filled dreams. Groggy, hung over and just overall grumpy that cannot continue to live in my delusional world, I roll over and grab my phone.
It’s not ringing, but there’s a million notifications.
Instagram. Google alerts. News sites. It’s going crazy, the notification number continues to grow, singing more and more in my hand.
I know we won the premiership last night, but this much attention seems crazy.
I start scrolling, trying to find the oldest notification so I can get an idea of what is happening, when the knocking on my door starts.
Fuck me. I need coffee, Panadol, and like a million more hours of sleep—but I guess this is happening.
I drag myself out of the hotel bed as the pounding on my door gets louder and louder. Staggering to the door, I yank it open.
“Someone better be dying!” I call into the hallway, leaning against the door frame, needing its support to keep me upright.
“Uh. No one is,” Tate says. Tate is here. He stands alone in the hallway, shaggy hair, piercing blue eyes. In the two years I have been a coach, no player has once come to my hotel room. “At least, not that I know of.”
His eyes drop from my face, taking in my appearance, then widen flicking back to meet my eyes.
“Uh… uh… uh…” he stammers, eyes flicking everywhere but at me.
“What do you want, Stone? With the force you were knocking, I thought the whole team was out here.”
“Um.. Ah…”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, It’s too early for this shit, mate. What is going on?”
“Coach… you’re naked!”
Well… fuck.