Page 9 of A Match Made In Evan
“Well, colour me intrigued…” Connor leans in, eyes glinting with curiosity and amusement. “Anything that starts with ‘it’s a long story’ is usually a lot of fun.”
I can’t exactly say he’s wrong. Nevertheless, it’s not something I really want to share with people I play soccer with semi-regularly. Especially not an actual gay man who might take offence at what James and I are doing.
Because I can admit it: pretending to be a gay couple to exploit the school’s ridiculous PR scheme isdefinitelydodgy.
Then again, is it really that bad, considering the school’s gross attempt to use minority groups to make themselves seem more inclusive than they really are?
Two wrongs don’t make a right,a voice in my head chides.
Fine. The voice is right. Itisthat bad.
“I promise I’ll tell you at some point,” I answer him, hoping that will be the end of the discussion. “But, for now, if you’reokay, I’m going to head back out there and see if we can salvage this game.”
When I came off the pitch to help, it left us down a player, and I can see Brett getting increasingly frustrated at the lack of support from the other guys on the team. He’s scowling, and even his dark man-bun seems to be wobbling ominously. (He takes his soccer very seriously, even if we are a social team who only play twice a month.)
With only twelve minutes of play left, I take my position on the pitch.
“Connor okay?” Brett asks, his dark eyes tracking the movement of the ball from one of the other team’s players to another.
“Yeah. Just a sprain.”
“Good.” He nods, then barrels towards the other team’s striker, determination etched on his face.
With some fancy footwork, he takes possession of the ball and then starts running it back up the pitch, towards the goal. He passes it to me, and I send it off to Hank, who takes a shot. Unfortunately, the goalie lunges and deflects the shot, but then Brett is suddenly in the right spot to intercept the deflection and kick it to the other side of the goal.
We all cheer and then set up for the goalie to resume play again.
When the final whistle blows, I’m panting and sweaty, and grinning broadly. I enjoy playing regardless of whether we win or lose, but close games like this one —especially where we walk away the victors— are always the most fun.
Plus, this beats running on a treadmill or jogging down the esplanade any day of the week.
“See you in two weeks?” Brett checks after he guzzles his second bottle of water for the night. His long hair is coming free from his bun, sticking to his red face in sweaty strands.
I’m kind of glad I’m bald. That looks uncomfortable and irritating.
“Sure,” I nod. “But I can’t do the game after that. I’ve been roped in to chaperoning my goddaughter’s overnight excursion to Brissie that day. It’s a musical theatre trip.” I smile, thinking of how excited Mia is to go and see a performance of Wicked with her drama class. “How bad can five fifteen and sixteen-year-olds be?”
Brett blinks at me, then guffaws. “Oh,mate,” he wipes tears of laughter from his eyes after doubling over. He’s still trying to catch his breath. “I’d rather take my chances with a herd of three-year-olds.”
“I’ve got two of them if you’re volunteering,” Jack jokes, shouldering both his and Connor’s sports bags.
“I wasn’t,” Brett deadpans. Then he looks back at me. “My sister’s in her early twenties now, but my parents used to make me and my mates keep an eye on her when she was that age…and I’m pretty sure it scared half the guys off the idea of ever having kids, or at least daughters.”
“Don’t you have a kid?” I cock my head, and he nods. “Yeah, but Tom’s six and he’s easy going enough. Plus, his mum has him half the time, which makes it easier. That said, I am dreading his teenage years.” He shudders dramatically.
“These are theatre kids,” I wave him off. “Hardly the type to cause trouble.”
***
Oh, past-Evan, you sweet summer child.
Theatre kids, it turns out, arefiends. They’re loud and quirky and shameless. Their antics got us kicked out of Grill’d. If Iwasn’t so worried about James’ blood pressure, I might actually have been impressed by the young hellions.
“Guys,” I cajole as I herd our group (which consists of Mia, two other girls, a boy, and a non-binary kid) through the winding, bougainvillea-covered path through Southbank parklands towards the Queensland Performing Arts Centre, “we’re going to need you to calm down. If you get kicked out of the show, I’m almost certain we’ll all get kicked out of the school as well.”
There are two other groups here with us tonight, but thankfully neither of those groups chose to eat at Grill’d with us. I get the feeling the other parents —in particular, the snobbish older couple who delighted in telling us they were both surgeons— would leap on any excuse to land us in hot water with Bronwyn.
“As if we’d ruin the show,” Darcy sounds scandalised, widening their bright green eyes at me in horror. “That’s, like, the worst thing any actor could do to another.”
