Page 52 of We Were Never Lovers
“Because it’s your birthday,” Jack mumbled.
Sean laughed. “It’s not like you’re yellin’ at me on the other three hundred and sixty-four days.” The fight had left him in the wake of the bomb Jack had just dropped—now that was intimate, that was personal, that was a lot to process.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
“Huh?” Jack gave him a bewildered look.
“When we fucked, when I was mad,” Sean asked.
Jack flushed and focused on his smoothie. His voice was so quiet when he spoke, Sean had to strain to hear him. “Not in a way I didn’t like. I could give you that much at least.”
Sean had so many questions.
“You cool to take her?” Jack asked as he came around the bench.
“Yeah, course.”
Jack nodded. He gripped his smoothie with one hand, reached out with the other like he was going to touch Sean’s arm but then drew back.
“Sorry. Happy birthday,” he mumbled and before Sean could ask any more questions, he went outside, the glass door closing softly behind him.
Sean watched him as he ate. Jack stood beyond the patio, the first tendrils of sun catching the gold in his hair, his smoothie gripped in his hand, but he didn’t drink it. His black tracksuit pants were loose, but they showed the swell of his muscled ass just fine. Sean had always been, and probably always would be, viscerally attracted to Jack; he didn’t think there’d ever be a day he’d look at that ass and not want to bend him over and fuck him. But right now, the defeated posture, the stillness of him, made Sean want to do nothing more than go outside, wrap his arms around him from behind and tell him he was sorry. Except he didn’t know what he was sorry for and he wouldn’t have to be this way if Jack told him these things without Sean having to drag them out of him.
He left with Lola once he’d finished eating, hesitating too long at the threshold of the door, wanting to say something but coming up empty. It felt like when they were boys, sitting on the cricket pitch in the middle of the night, belly full of just the right number of beers to make it seem like whether or not he should lean forward and kiss Jack was a reasonable question. Jack had looked down at his lips and Sean didn’t know if he should leanin, if Jack would fall forward to meet him, or if he should look away and pretend the moment hadn’t happened.
“C’mon, girl,” he whispered to Lola, turned from the door, and headed out.
19
Sean watched all theirgames from the bench in his suit, clapped his teammates on the back, told them they looked good, offered some pointers on the players he knew from the other teams. Talking to Jack after a game was another story. Man couldn’t buy a point. Normally, Sean would tear him a new one, but ever since his birthday, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Jack had salvaged the day—he’d had everyone round for dinner, cooked a nice roast, ordered a cake—but he’d withdrawn into stilted politeness afterwards, as if the explosion he’d had at Sean had made him even cagier.
He watched him now from the sidelines, the sun shining down on the grass in Melbourne, warm if you were in it, bone chillingly cold if you weren’t. Sean leaned out of his huddle to catch some sun, rested his elbows on his knees, cupped his face in both hands and watched Jack lining up for a kick on goal from the side angle. He’d taken the mark and had the stop in play to takethe shot. Les, the ancient defender, was doing his best to jump up and down and windmill his arms to put Jack off.
“C’mon,” Sean murmured. It was a tight game—they should’ve been better with the Kelly brothers and Tampu, but the Freo curse was going strong, assuring that even the best player lost a gear once they arrived, and while the other guys had Lacy, they’d never really come back from losing Finn and George in the epic trades Sean couldn’t remember. The loss of Finn, George, Scotty and Jack in the course of a few years had cumulatively left a hole that even a preternatural superstar like Lacy couldn’t entirely fill.
Jack needed to fake the run up, dart to the side and take the shot. Sean knew he could do it, had seen him do it; the angle was too tight for him to kick it from the mark. Instead, Jack jogged forward, booted it and it sailed right across the face of all four posts and ended up out on the full on the other side.
“Fuck’s sake,” Sean muttered, hand over his mouth. A goal would’ve put them one point in front. Now they were going into the break five points down with zero momentum.
Jack didn’t meet his eyes when he came off the ground, but then, he rarely met his eyes anymore.
The first time they’d played against each other after they’d both been drafted, Jack tried to talk to Sean after the game. It’d been one hell of a game, the kind of game no one expected between a bottom side—Sean’s—and a rising top side—Jack’s. But Sean had been on fire that day and even though he’d barely admit it to himself, never mind anyone else, it was because of Jack. He wanted to shove it in his face.
At eighteen years old, it was his fourth game in the league and people were murmuring that he looked good, he’d been a good choice for Freo even with the injury at the Under 18s carnival that’d potentially put him out of contention to ever play. “Freo had taken a chance on him,” was the narrative. “He waslucky,” was the common refrain. “His pedigree helped,” they’d remark as if excusing Freo’s decision and talk about his uncle, his brother. Never mind he’d been a top prospect before that hit, never mind he’d have been the star player in that under 18s carnival if it wasn’t for Jack’s dirty hit.
Sean hadn’t seen him , hadn’t replied to his numerous texts, and when he ran through the banner onto the rain soaked Melbourne ground that day and caught sight of him looking his way, like he’d been waiting to see Sean emerge from the pack, close enough to catch the smile that lit up his face, Sean had burned with rage, but, unexpectedly, his stomach had fluttered and his heart rate had kicked up. It made him furious, embarrassed. And he’d played the best game of his short career so far—he kicked six goals, evaded defenders and got the ball clean into the forward line again and again, kicks landing on chests in the forward pocket. No one expected it because they were from the West—they sucked in the wet. But Sean didn’t, he’d made a point of practicing on the rain-soaked grounds after every downpour when he was a kid, Jayden with him. And in the drier months they’d drench the lawns with a hose in order to get the practice in.
They won by a savage sixty-three points and the talk about him turned around. He was mobbed by his teammates, took the handshakes and backslaps from the opposition players, relished in the little spike of awe on George Creed’s face as he congratulated him and shook his hand and slapped him on the back, laughed into the effusive hug from Lacy as he grinned and said, “What the fuck, cunt?”
He saw Jack jogging towards him, his smile so wide, eyes shining; he looked proud, barrelling towards Sean like he was going to lift him into a hug. The smile wiped off Sean’s face so fast that Jack stuttered in his step but didn’t stop coming at him. At least he had the good sense not to touch him.
“Sean,” he breathed out, “great game. Just, incredible, man.”
Jack was still eighteen, but he’d managed to fill out more in the year since Sean had last seen him. Sean knew that from the pictures on his socials and in the media, but it was something else in person, something more up close and not in the thick of a game. He towered over Sean, his chest heaving, shoulders glistening with sweat, his eyes still the same watery blue—a little bit unsure but still warm. Sean didn’t want to notice it.
“Fuck off,” Sean said under his breath, but Jack caught it and recoiled.
“What?” he asked stupidly.
