Page 42 of We Were Never Lovers
He squeezed Jack’s hand and Jack tightened his hold in response.
13
They were sitting inthe waiting area at Fiona Stanley Hospital, first to arrive for the afternoon session of appointments, Jack antsy beside him. Sean had told him not to take the afternoon off training, said he’d get Ben’s missus, Lara, to take him, but Jack had been adamant he come along. It was a big day, he’d said, he wanted to make sure everything went right. Sean wasn’t sure what could go wrong getting a cast off, but he’d discovered Jack wasn’t easily dissuaded and knowing him, he’d already organised the afternoon off.
Sean mentioned he had a pretty fucking important game that weekend in Adelaide and so far this season the team sucked, and Jack should be focused on that. But Jack had shrugged and muttered about doing his own thing later and so here he was, leaning against the wall with Sean, the doctors and nurses slowly making their way back down the corridor, into the long rooms on either side, after, Sean assumed, their lunch break.
More people trickled in—a kid with a cast on his arm, an old lady in a wheelchair with a boot on her foot—and did a double take when they saw them. Jack was signing an autograph and patiently listening as the kid’s dad told him what he thought about their chances against Adelaide—not great with “this one out”, a grin and wink for Sean—when a nurse stepped into the corridor.
“Sean Hiller?” he called, but he was already looking at Sean, the announcement a formality he probably couldn’t shake.
“Nice to meet you,” Jack said to the man and stood with Sean’s crutches, helped him up. “Fingers crossed,” he leaned down and said quietly to Sean, the words whispering over the shell of his ear.
They did the X-ray. Waited again. Got called in to the plaster removal area.
Harris was already there with the team’s orthopaedic surgeon, grinning widely.
It didn’t take long to get the cast off, the saw unsettling as it skirted the inside of his groin, and then his leg was revealed—a skinny, glossy mass with flaking skin and patchy hair protruding from his body.
“Let’s see how the walk looks,” the ortho said.
Sean swung his legs over the edge of the bed, pressed his feet to the cold floor. He stood.
He listened to Harris talking, the ortho murmuring about how the gait looked good, always a worry with a femur fracture, discussed leaving the plate in, and then Sean and Jack were sent on their way with a boot the length of his leg and the physio plan that’d involve sessions at the club and some home sessions with Jorge.
“How’s it feel?” Jack asked as Sean hobbled into the wide thoroughfare of the hospital, people still doing double takes as they passed.
“Dunno, weird, like I haven’t used my leg for six months,” Sean replied.
“That’ll pass, quicker than you think.”
“Hmm,” Sean said and didn’t bother to sit while Jack went and got the car. He wanted to stand. He never wanted to miss the opportunity to stand again.
As he watched the people coming and going in the drop off zone, the autumn sunshine penetrating the wide walkway like it was still summer sunshine, he thought about how he’d lived without two years of his life for six months. He got regular brain scans, had regular appointments, and Harris had pretty much said this was it—they’d monitor for any symptoms of post-concussion syndrome, but his memory was a lost cause. There were still no guarantees he’d play again. New concussion protocol was seeing some players never play a league game after sustaining a serious concussion in preseason. But there was no protocol for memory loss. For a perfectly healthy brain—they kept saying it, “A perfectly healthy brain”, nothing to see, time to move on.
The Range Rover pulled to a stop and Jack leaned over the console to push the door open as Sean hobbled over.
“All good?” Jack asked as he got in, smiling like he had since the cast came off, smiling like Sean was that much closer to being back; but not without that guard, never without the flicker of hesitation. Because his Sean was never coming back.
“Yeah,” Sean breathed out and got in, shutting the door with a soft click.
Sean fucked Jack for the first time after the game in Adelaide. He travelled with the team, watched from the interchange bench as they got absolutely destroyed, the black and yellow and blue jumpers leaping for hugs around the dejected figures in white and purple, the flight home right after the game subdued. Jack stared out the window at the pitch blackness, the thick clouds below perceptible only if you pressed your face against the fibreglass, his reflection a haunted picture of blonde hair and hollow eyes.
“You actually played alright,” Sean said once they were home, Jack taking his time cuddling Lola on the floor.
Jack snorted. “Thanks.”
“Seriously,” Sean said, “not a space cadet moment in sight.”
Jack laughed, buried his face in Lola’s fur. “You hear how he talks to me?”
“She knows ya deserve it,” Sean replied and continued his break down of the game as he puttered around the house turning it down for the night the way he’d been watching Jack doing for months. He took extraordinary pleasure in it, being able to do it without huffing around on a pair of crutches and dragging a dead leg behind him. He hobbled with the boot, but he could walk and so he was going to walk whenever he could, even when it twinged, even when it hurt, and Jorge had told him to rest.
“And I reckon, and ya know this,” he went on as Jack extricated himself from Lola on the floor and Sean came back into the room, his voice dropping from the volume he’d given it when he was in the other room, “you gotta work on using your body more, actually gun for it, tear through ‘em. Where’s the energy for the ball?”
Jack ran a hand through his hair, smiled indulgently down at him. “Haven’t we been saying that for years?”
Sean balked and Jack realised his mistake in the same moment. Before he could apologise, Sean said, “It wouldn’tsurprise me,” his tone clipped but not enough to hide the hurt at the reminder.
