Page 71 of We Were Never Lovers
“If ya can’t even shake a fuckin’ tackle, ya should be back in the WAFL,” Sean snapped, closer now. Jack had never played in the state league since he played Colts, same as Sean, so fuck Sean for that, he thought, but didn’t say anything.
Carts snorted a laugh from beside him. “He’s got a point,” he chirped.
“Shut the fuck up,” Sean said to him. “Does it look like I’m talkin’ to you?”
Carts held his hands up and jogged off backwards.
“None of that, Hiller,” the umpire said as he ran by, though he sounded uncertain because in what universe does an umpire have to deal with a fight between teammates?
“Get ya fuckin’ shit together, Jackie,” Sean went on, “or I swear to God I’m gonna—”
“You’re gonna what?” Jack snapped. “You’re gonna what? Come on, fuckin’ tell me what you’re gonna, Sean.”
And Sean smiled at him, quick and bright. Jack stumbled again, wrongfooted, his sharp anger splintering under that smile.
Sean kicked to Jack every time he was open for the remainder of that game, and even though it was too little too late and they got thumped, he gripped Jack on the shoulder after it and ran his hand down to his lower back, lingered for a moment as they walked off the ground together. When they fucked that night, Jack on his knees, hands pulled tight behind his back, arms taut as Sean gripped his wrists in a fist, his other hand in a loose, teasing chokehold around his throat, his thumb stroking Jack’s cheekbone and lips so softly it was a disorientating counterpoint to the way he pounded into his ass with so much force all Jack could do was gasp as each thrust hit his prostate, and Jack didn’t know whether to cry out for him to stop or beg him to never stop, and it was different yet again.
And once again, after, they never talked about it. Sean stared at him across the pillow, traced his fingers over Jack’s throat, the shell of his ear, under his eye, his own eyes staring at Jack intently yet sleepily, relaxed and fond in a way Jack had never seen.
How did Sean expect him to explain any of that?
25
“Medically retiring is onthe table, yes,” their President, Murphy, was saying, he was flanked by their coach, Hurley, Doctor Harris, the head trainer, a representative from legal, and some lady taking the minutes for the meeting.
Sean had the Aboriginal Liaison Officer next to him, a bloke he’d met since coming back, but apparently had met two years before when he took over the position. Sean knew of him regardless; Warren was an ex-player, well before Sean’s time, from the Wadjarri people up near Geraldton. Two blackfellas sitting on one side of the old oak table facing off against a row of white men in suits and a white lady who kept sniffing as she typed.
“There’s nothing wrong with your brain,” Doctor Harris started and Sean tuned him out. He’d heard it all before. The appearance of legal told him everything he needed to know.
“Sean’s agent really needed to be called in for this,” Warren said reproachfully.
“Now, we’re not at that stage yet,” Murphy said, “we’re just talking options. Risks. Want to get everything on the table.”
“He’s still got two years on his contract,” Warren countered immediately, his tone severe under the deceptively soft voice. He knew what this meant, how getting tossed out before he was done wasn’t going to leave Sean with a lot of options, nor much time to plan for other options. Everyone wants to know a blackfella when he’s playing football. After? Not so much.
“And we’re willing to negotiate what that means,” the legal bloke said, sitting up, fiddling with the lapels of his suit. Sean heard the number of discussions they’d already had in his tone; it was prepared, it was ready.
“Sean?” Murphy asked, his voice was kind. He was a nice old bloke, had never been anything but kind to him. Sean didn’t want to believe that’d changed. “Where’s your head at in all this? Do you want to keep playing even if we don’t know if this could make things worse?”
He felt all eyes on him and sat back under the weight of it. His body felt great. Not perfect yet, but he knew he’d get there by next season. What weighed him down was the sense they’d already made their decision. Jack’s face flashed in his mind and he felt a pang at telling him.
“I’m feelin’ good,” he said, clasping his fingers together over his stomach so he wouldn’t fidget, but he knew it looked defensive. “Reckon I got another five, ten years in me.” He took a deep breath. “But I reckon it don’t matter what I’m thinkin’.”
“If you want to keep playing, it matters,” Murphy replied firmly.
The legal dude twitched next to him, eyes darting to Murphy’s profile before he looked down at his notes, head shaking slightly.Sean wanted to cajole him into saying what was on his mind—he’d rather get hit front-on than stabbed in the back.
God bless Warren, because he was leaning forward in his chair, brown eyes sharp on the lawyer’s face. “If you got somethin’ to say, come on out and say it, mate. We ain’t a fan of surprises.”
The lawyer looked up. They’d done introductions, Sean was pretty sure his name was Dennis. He looked too young to be a Dennis, but maybe he had traditional parents or something. He was around mid-thirties, brown hair cut neat, brown eyes flat yet shrewd.
“If you choose to keep playing, we’ll draw up a contract that you’ll need to sign before we allow you back on the field,” Dennis said, his tone as flat as his eyes. “You’ll waive your rights to sue the club and the league if anything happens.”
“That ain’t much of a deal,” Warren said immediately. “What if he gets a concussion, gets some troubles down the line. Ain’t no way you can say it’s related to his accident.”
“Doc,” Murphy cut in calmly.
And Harris was off on one of his long-winded explanations about risks and uncertainties.
