Page 30 of We Were Never Lovers
Sean didn’t want to acknowledge how much better that made him feel, but it did.
The guys did come and meet him in pairs, always a face he knew with a face he didn’t, and it was easier with the brothers—the other Indigenous players—even the new ones. He felt his shoulders drop each time one came in and they did a blackfella handshake—a handshake only the way mob do—and smiled knowingly at each other in a way that transcended whether or not they’d met before. Fremantle had always had one of the strongest contingents of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander players in the league, and now they were nine, two more on the seven Sean remembered, with two of his old teammates traded out and so four new brothers in total.
Ben grinned at him when he came in with the Kelly brothers—Minang Noongars from down south Albany way, Bobby and Jimmy—and Sean cracked a laugh in surprise. How in the shit did Freo score them?
Bobby gave him a good handshake, “Kaya, cuz,” he winked, his voice soft yet brazen, much like his brother who clapped Sean’s elbow as he shook his hand, repeated the greeting, “Kaya,” and asked him how his head was doing. But Sean wanted to know how they’d ended up here—no way Essendon was making that trade. Bobby and Jimmy were two of the most dangerous forwards in the league with an uncanny ability to find each other from anywhere on the ground.
“Bobby ‘ere wanted to come home, eh,” Jimmy said and Sean knew wherever Bobby went, Jimmy went, and what a get for Fremantle.
Harry Bleaker came in next—Wongi Mob out near Leonora, desert Country—he was one of Freo’s senior players and Sean’smentor when he was a rookie. He turned their handshake into a hug and told Sean it was bloody good to see him, voice gruff, backslaps punctuating his speech like he’d been really worried for a second there. Sean stayed in the hug for as long as the big fella let him.
The others filed in—James Cooper, Yorta Yorta Mob from the Murray and Goulburn Rivers; Jordie Davey from the Kokatha Mob on the west coast of South Australia; and Andy Long from up north, Wardama Mob near Katherine on his dad’s side and Wargamayagan Mob from the Torres Strait on his mum’s.
When Matty Tampu came in Sean’s eyebrows flew up in surprise. Tampu was a superstar Tiwi Islander and not a player Carlton would’ve traded. He was black as night, his hair a riotous mass of curls and his white teeth shone as he grinned big and bright at Sean and gave him a handshake.
“What’re ya doin’ over ‘ere?” Sean asked.
Tampu’s smile turned smug. “Nobody gonna get that one outta me.”
“Matty Tampu?” Sean said to Ben after he’d left.
Ben shrugged. “Dunno, just requested the trade, everyone’s been wonderin’. Ya feelin’ alright?”
Sean nodded and meant it. And Ben smiled at him like he knew it too. Ben was a Wudjari Noongar from Gnowangerup—Ngowanjerindj in their language, land of the malleefowl—and they’d played together on the Great Southern Twenty team when they were teenagers, had been drafted together, and up until Sean’s last memory, had lived together with an open-door policy for the other brothers on the team, and anyone from their mobs coming up to the city.
It was one of the weirder things about living with Jack. Just him and Jack. Ben had visited, and Jayden, but no one else. He’d felt isolated in a way he never had. He’d had moments ofloneliness living with Ben, seeing him with Lara and knowing he’d never have that, but he’d never been alone.
“Hey,” he asked Ben as they left the locker room later to go to the team meeting. “How come no one’s comin’ round? Does Jack not like it?”
Ben looked surprised. “Not at all, we all just decided to give you a bit of space. Harris said it’d be too much with your head all,” he made a hand gesture at Sean’s temple, fingers waggling. “But you normally have everyone over every couple of weeks for a meal, drinks. All the brothers, the rest of the mob in town. Your mob stays with you when they’re in the city. Jack loves it.”
“Oh,” Sean replied. He could not imagine Jack there, loving it.
“His sisters and all their kids always come too,” Ben went on.
Sean hadn’t even met Jack’s sisters. Did this mean Jack had been keeping everyone away?
They were in the meeting room before he could ask. He’d met everyone by this point and the players he knew—who all looked the same but different, which freaked him out, but he was dealing with it—all smiled over at him, the new fellas grinning reassuringly. Sean had a newfound appreciation for dementia patients. It was nice, everyone trying to make him feel okay, but it was disconcerting too.
He went to follow Ben to the back of the room, but Jack stood, the chair next to him free, his smile not the smile he gave Sean at home. This was friendly enough, but it was professional too, cordial.
As he took a seat and Jack took his crutches and propped them against the wall, Sean saw with fresh eyes how intimate Jack was with him at home. He sat back down, gave him another quick smile—professional, reassuring—and turned his eyes to Hayes, their captain, kicked his long legs out, crossed them at the ankles, rested his hands over his stomach and listened. He was the guy Sean knew from two years ago but more settled inhimself. But he wasn’t the guy Sean had been getting to know at home.
Hayes welcomed him back—“Nice to see you not slackin’ on the couch and decided to come join us, Hiller”—and everyone laughed, Ben jostled his shoulder from behind and Jack gave him another friendly yet distant smile.
The meeting was mainly about the semi-final they’d lost the year before, which Sean didn’t remember, and how they needed to move on. They watched the video review and Sean marvelled at a version of himself—one he had no recollection of—playing an incredible game of footy. He was good, just as quick, skills more honed, but then he saw himself miss a mark off a kick from Jack, the fumble creating a turnover then a handball to bloody Finnegan Flynn who exploded down the centre of the ground, dodging their players like he was made of Teflon and kicking a beauty from fifty metres out on the run. If it wasn’t against his own team, he’d admire the hell out of it. He didn’t remember screwing up the play, but the amount he hated himself in that moment, it was as if he did. He was such a fuck-up.
Campbell, their coach, was another guy Sean had never met but at least knew of with Campbell being an ex-league player from West Coast, a three-time premiership winner there and at Melbourne. By the sounds of his speech on moving on, learning from their mistakes, don’t hold onto it, he was about the same as most coaches. He needed to ask Jack what happened to Hurley, but the thought of it, another question on his ever-growing list, exhausted him.
Jack had barely shut the door back in the car when Sean said, “Man, I am such a fuck-up.”
Jack chuckled, got his seatbelt on. “Nah, we all lost that one. Plus, you were under a lot of pressure and we were givin’ you nothin’.”
“Yeah,” Sean nodded. “I noticed, what the fuck, where were you?”
Jack glanced at him to gauge how serious he was. He was serious.
“Tagged,” he said but like he knew Sean wasn’t going to allow that as an excuse.
