4. Vincent
VINCENT
Looks like the biggest drama from last night's AFL premiership win didn't happen on the field, but rather on Instagram.
Under Tate's victory post, Anderson dropped a series of comments that eagle eyed fans have sent footy fans into overdrive.
"Are 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 an entire team around your strengths."
“But sure, post her picture, not mine.”
Yikes. Someone's feelings might have left the locker room.
Fans were quick to pounce, screenshoting the now-viral comments and asking the obvious: what exactly is going on here?
And it didn’t stop there.
The story gets even juicier, as fans have started digging through footage from games, which reveals several shots where Anderson gazes at Stone as if he were the only player on the field. Training sessions, post-game hugs, "proud coach" moments—each a little too tender considering what we now know.
So far, radio silence from Stone, Anderson, and the Outlaws’ camp. No statements, no denials—nothing.
But with the internet already running wild, one thing’s clear: this story isn’t going away anytime soon.
What will this mean for the new Premiers? The boots are off, but the heat’s been cranked right up. Off-season? More like open season.
Stay tuned to find out more as this story develops. We have a feeling it’s just getting started.
Holy shit batman.
Dropping Tate’s phone back on the table, I hang my head in my hands—I can’t look at him, but fuck, I need to see his expression. I need to know what is running through his head.
Does he hate me? Does he think I am some creep for feeling this way about him? I’m technically one of his bosses… sort of. That’s the hard line I have always told myself why I can’t act on these feelings. But holy shit did my drunk brain betray me.
I don’t want to know what’s going through Tate’s head.
I wish I could just get up and walk out of here, act like nothing had ever happened.
But I can’t. Not only because my stupid self-plastered my devotion all over the internet, but because…
well, I NEED to know. That small kernel of hope inside me pulses that maybe—maybe—I have a shot at this…
“I… I don’t know what to say,” I finally get out, peeking at him between my fingers and breaking the tense silence lingering in the room.
“I don’t really know either,” Tate says, his pitying look stabbing me in the chest. “All I knew was that I had to be the one to tell you.”
“Why?” I finally drop my hands, leaning back in my seat and meeting his eyes. As much as I want to hide from this situation, I don’t see that being a possibility any time soon.
“Why don’t I know what to say?” he asks, his face scrunching in confusion. God, he is so cute.
“No, why did you have to be the one to tell me?” I say with a smile.
“Well… I guess I thought it was something that involved both of us, so it should be something we talk about?” He says, his voice rising in question as he shrugs his shoulder. He shrugs, like, eh no biggie that my coach is in love with me. What am I in for with this man?
“Now that the season’s over, we won’t see each other much until we start training again,” he continues.
“And you didn’t want to just ignore it?” I ask, still shocked that he would rock up here and, well… confront me about it.
Tate meets my eyes, only a hint of pettiness seeping into his gaze, “I don’t think it is something that can be ignored, Vince.”
I gasp like a fucking high schooler, my brain sounding like one too with ‘OMG he said my name’ racing through my mind.
Why am I like this?
“Ugh. Fine,” I groan, picking up my mug and taking a big sip before continuing. “Be the mature one and not let me just sweep this unexpected proclamation of my love under the rug.”
“L-love?” Tate stammers, eyes widening.
“Fuck. Um. No. Not love love,” SHIT. SHIT. SHIT. “I just like you a little bit, and last night clearly wasn’t a great night for me, ah, emotionally, I mean. Like it was a great night for the team and everything. But yeah. Those feelings were never meant to see the light of day.”
I totally did mean it. But by the look on his face, he is not open to that idea. That hope that had been blooming in my chest slowly fizzles out.
“Wait. You… actually have feelings … for me?”
“You don’t have to say it as if you’re disgusted about it,” I exclaim, standing and starting to pace the small space.
“I—”
Cutting him off, I continue, “I didn’t mean to, ok? I didn’t mean to post those comments. I didn’t mean to come across as some creeper. I didn’t mean to fall for you.”
“I—you—wait,” Tate stays seated, but turns to face me fully. “Two seconds ago, you said you just liked me, and now you have fallen for me?”
“Figure of speech…” I mutter.
“I thought this was just some ribbing or something, I was coming to tell you the internet thought you were in love with me, not that I thought you were.”
“Well… I guess it doesn’t matter if I am or if I’m not. Not if the media has already decided that I am,” I say, throwing my hands up.
“That’s not the point here!” He exclaims, standing up and stepping towards me.
“Isn’t it!? I totally fucked everything up.
None of this was meant to happen,” I say, caving into myself, and leaning against the wall behind me, cool against my bare skin, reminding me I am half naked right now.
Exhaustion flows through me. All I want is to go back in time to yesterday and stop myself from ever messaging him.
“Well. It has happened now. The whole team knows—fuck the world knows,” he says, taking another step towards me. I can’t watch him any longer, so I drop my head and watch his feet as he inches closer and closer to me.
“Yeah. But you didn’t even say anything all that intense.
It’s not like you propositioned me or anything.
You couldn’t have known it was going to go crazy like this.
Far out, you just said that you thought you direct messaged me.
This is a PR Nightmare, yes, but it’s not the end of the world.
It’s not like we can’t just move on from this. ”
“What does ‘moving on’ look like to you, Tate? Does it look like you changing teams to get away from me? Does it mean that management will ask me to resign or leave the team because I’m no longer unbiased?
” I say, looking at him again. He is only a few steps away from me now as I lean back against the wall.
“I was never going to act on my feelings. I knew that I couldn’t.
That it was a bad idea. That you wouldn’t feel the same way.
But how exactly are we meant to go forward from here? ”
It looks like it’s game over for me, and the final siren is calling it on my career and my life here.
“I don’t know. Maybe we could talk to Coach Graham about it and the PR team, see what they want us to do to clean this all up?” Tate says with a shrug.
And while I don’t relish going to tell my boss about all of this, apparently he already knows, if the number of articles I saw pop up on Tate’s phone are any indication. Everyone knows.
This conversation couldn’t be over fast enough. I can see a termination letter in my future, and with a scandal like this, the result of my sacking, I can kiss my coaching career goodbye. I just got back into the sport that I love, I’m not ready to leave it again so soon.
Tate pats me on the shoulder, and while I want to lean into his touch, I know it doesn’t hold the affection that I long for from him. He just views me as a mate, as a coach, as someone he doesn’t have any attraction or romantic inclining towards.
Man, I sure can pick them.
“Alright, let’s go get this over with,” I lament, standing up and shuffling back to my luggage.
Quickly going through the motions of pulling on a shirt, I step into a pair of slides, grab my room key and glance at my phone.
It hasn’t stopped buzzing the whole time that Tate has been here talking with me.
Not wanting to look any further at it, I decide to leave it behind.
If I am going straight to Coaches room, there’s no one else that I will need my phone for in that time.
I walk back to Tate, to find him cleaning up our coffee, collecting the empty cups from the table and rising them before leaving them in the kitchenette sink.
“Thanks, you didn’t have to do that,” I say.
That gorgeous smile of his breaks across his face, and it almost makes this whole situation better. Almost.
“My dad raised me better than that,” he chuckles, walking over to meet me by the door. “After you, Coach.”
“Tate, with all this shit going on, I think you can just call me Vince,” I say, running my hand over my face. Muttering under my breath, I add, “fuck even Vincent would be better than Coach.”
Especially because I don’t know how much longer I will truly be ‘Coach’ for.
“Alright, Vincent. After you,” he says, smiling up at me, indicating that he was close enough to hear me.
I open the door to the hallway, surprised to find it empty.
I don’t know why I was expecting a thousand paparazzi here or something, but for it to be empty has shocked me.
Thankfully, it means that we have a quick and uninterrupted walk to Coach Graham’s hotel room.
The team isn’t flying home until tomorrow morning, knowing that we would’ve need a whole day to recover after the premiership—no matter if we won or lost, the after party was going to be boozy—management booked our plane home for tomorrow day so everyone had time to recover, and for all the press junkets to be sorted.
Graham’s room is only seven down from mine, with the hotel having placed most of the staff on one floor and the players on another.
Standing in front of his door, I take a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for what is going to happen.
“It will be ok,” Tate says behind me, resting his hand on my shoulder again.
He has never touched me so many times… ever.
Like, sure, there have been a few pats or hugs here and there, but they were a ‘bro-hug’ or encouragement while he was heading out on the field.
It’s hitting me now just how many times I was the one who instigated the contact with him.
Fuck, how no one picked up on my attraction to him before all this is insane.
At that moment, Coach Graham opens the door without us knocking, eyes narrowing on my face and where Tate’s hand is resting on my shoulder.
“I was wondering when you were going to show your face,” he says, and the weight in my gut sinks deeper.
The part of me that hates confutation wants to turn tail and run away, hide my head in the sand until all of this blows over—like I did when I was injured.
Rehashing everything for the media a thousand times was the last thing on my mind, so naturally I hid from the world, recovered alone and emerged back out of my bubble to find that the world had moved on without me, as did my team and my mates.
Sure, there were a few that I still kept in touch with, but when you have no family and no friends, it’s easy to just go through life without anyone noticing if you’re there or not.
“Sorry, Coach,” I say, reluctantly shaking Tate’s hand off me. “I only just found out about all of this,” I gesture around like that can sum up the clusterfuck that drunk me started.
“Come in, come in. Let’s get all this straightened out.”
We walk into Coach Graham’s room, he has a larger lounge than I do, and seated on it is Silvia, the head of PR, John, the General Manager of the team, and I double take at Tate’s dad sitting next to them.
“Dad? What are you doing here?” Tate asks, noticing him at the same time.
“Where else would I be, other than where you need me, Son?” he said. Tate walked over to him and pulled him into a hug, I’m sure there were whispered words, but I couldn’t hear them.
A pang of longing hit me. I’d come to terms with my family situation a long time ago, but seeing him be so open and supportive of his son makes me long for something I’ve never had.
“Alright, Vincent, come sit down and we can have a talk about everything,” John says.
Hands sweating, nerves buzzing, I all but collapse onto the two-seater couch closest to me. The anxiety and overwhelm of this fuck up starting to get to me.
“I don’t think we’ve officially met, mate,” Tate’s dad says to me, “I’m Frank Stone.”
“I,” I clear my throat, “I know who you are.”
WOW, I just said that. Fuck. I sound like a pretentious arsehole.
“Sorry, I um, I watched your games when I was a kid, and obviously Tate talks about you all the time. I’m Vince, well, you know that. I’m so sorry about all this mess,” I babble on, unable to stop the word vomit.
“Don’t be son, shit happens, it’s how you handle it that matters.” Frank says with a soft smile that is an exact replica of Tate’s.
Fuck, I am going to cry. Resting my elbows on my knees, I cover my face with my hands, needing a minute to let my emotions settle.
“What I want to know,” Frank continues, “is why you didn’t feel like you could tell me you were dating Tate. You know I love you no matter what, gay, bi, whatever, sure dating your coach is a bit… well, anyways, that’s for these guys to talk about. But why didn’t you tell me, Tate?”