by Sean Kennedy
“That’s true.” I shrugged. “They also called me the little lady.”
“Wow, so they’re misogynistic and homophobic. They’re trying to tick every box, what else is new?”
“You’re not helping.”
“I could go dress shopping with you.”
“Shut up, Fran.”
“What are you wearing to the Brownlows, anyway?”
“Have you turned into Roger all of a sudden? I’m surprised you even know what they are.”
She shrugged. “It’s amazing what you can learn when you actually care about it.”
“You care about the Brownlows?” I asked with surprise.
“Two of my friends are going,” she pointed out. “It was a huge controversy last year. I’m not that forgetful.”
I breathed deeply. “I hope it’s not that controversial this year.”
Fran looked at me; her expression was strangely indecipherable. “I hope so too.”
“ARE you sure that’s what you really want to wear?”
Practically the first thing Declan had made me do when he returned to Melbourne was to go shopping with him and finalise my wardrobe for the Brownlows. I had to laugh at Declan being so concerned about clothing, and wondered if he just wanted some dumb movie montage in which we paraded around with various costume changes to some sprightly music track.
“What’s wrong with it?” I looked at his reflection in the mirror as he walked up behind me and rested his hand upon my shoulder.
“It’s just—”
“What?” I asked, grumpy and tired. I had tried on about seven different outfits, and I hated shopping at the best of times. I was the kind of shopper who wouldn’t try anything on and would just chuck clothes at the register and get out of there as soon as possible. I would then hope that they actually fit once I got them home.
“It’s not very you.”
Was that a twinkle in his eye? “What’s me, anyway?”
“It’s just so plain.”
“It looks kind of like what you wore last year,” I pointed out. It was a perfectly nice, traditional black suit with white shirt and bowtie combo.
“Exactly,” Dec agreed.
“So it’s good enough for you, but not for me?”
“Stop fighting me on this. Traditional suits me. I’m traditional.”
“Says the gay footballer.” I turned to face him properly.
Declan laughed. “Okay, you got me there. But I’m talking fashionwise.”
“Just because the papers keep printing that picture of me in the lime-green suit—”
“You love that suit.”
“It’s not Brownlow material.”
“Oh,” Declan said, as if that explained everything. He moved to go back and sit on the couch and pulled me along with him.
“Weren’t they meant to be bringing us coffee?” I grumbled. “They offered it. I’ve never been in an upscale store like this before. I want the perks.”
Declan wisely ignored me to focus upon the real issue. “I want you to be comfortable at the Brownlows.”
“And?”
“You’re not going to be comfortable if you don’t go as yourself.”
I sagged against the back of the couch and into him slightly. “I’m not going to be comfortable if I go as myself either.”
“You’re never happy.”
“I just mean, I know I’m going to be on edge. And to be truthful, I don’t want to embarrass you. They’re going to be watching us enough, even before I turn up looking like Maria von Trapp dressed me in the venue’s curtains.”
“Even your taste isn’t that bad.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Simon, you don’t embarrass me. You’ve got to get over it. I want you to go as you, because you’re who I go out with.” He realised how badly structured that last sentence was and shook his head. “See what you do to me?”
“How about we compromise?” I suggested.
“How?”
“That longer-style black jacket, and I’ll wear one of my crappy band shirts under it.”
“Still a bit understated for you, but at least it’s better than what you’re wearing.”
“I look that bad in this?” I asked.
Declan sat back to fully take me in. “I don’t think you do at all. I think you look brilliant.”
“And yet you’re making me wear something else?”
He kissed me. “Shut up, Simon.”
“But….”
The coffee finally arrived, and it was now Declan’s turn to play model.
LOOKING back, this might have been the moment when it all started turning to shit. Or maybe it was the Footballers’ Wives and WAGs and FAGs posters that started it. Anyway, everything escalated so quickly there was hardly time to even recognise what was actually going on. Of course, with hindsight you can say that everything could have been handled better on all sides, but it had been building up for a while and a few experiences just made it explode.
But as I started getting ready for the Brownlow ceremony I still felt good, despite the expected nervousness. Declan and I were getting dressed together, and I was feeling a little bit of déjà vu from the year before except this time I wouldn’t be watching Declan get into the limousine with someone other than me.
“Have you decided on your shirt yet?” Declan asked as he buttoned his over his chest.
I threw open the wardrobe again and pulled out a few. “Patty Hearst, Kimba the White Lion, or should I show my true allegiance and wear my Richmond shirt?”
Declan snatched the black and yellow shirt away from me and threw it back into the wardrobe with distaste.
“Okay,” I drawled.
Declan pounced on me and started pulling at my clothes. “Get dressed!”
“You’re actually undressing me,” I pointed out. “But I like it.”
I let myself be manipulated like a doll as he yanked my arms up and pulled my shirt off. I shivered slightly as it was cold in the bedroom, but kept my arms in the air as Dec chose the Kimba T-shirt and pulled it over my head.
“Well, we’re halfway there.” He grinned. “Think I can leave you to do the rest?”
“You can do my pants if you like.”
“Piss off. Get ready.”
He disappeared into the lounge room, and I opened up the robe again to pull out the new shirt I had bought especially for tonight. It was a plain button-down, federation green, and I thought it would look good with the black tie I had also bought. I never thought I would have owned a tie in my life, but there was a first time for everything.
Declan came back into the bedroom just as I was smoothing the jacket down, and he pointed at me. “That’s not… wow. You look good.”
So did he. I felt bizarrely like I was going to the school ball. Except finally I was going to the school ball the way I wanted, with a date. A boy date. Well, a man.
“You look really good,” Declan said.
“Try not to sound so surprised.”
“Don’t be so surprised if you end up on the best-dressed list this year.”
I laughed. “Flatterer and liar! I need to look good when I’m going with tonight’s medallist.”
“Don’t jinx it,” he winced. “I don’t think I’ll win. In fact, I hope I don’t.”
Anybody else, I wouldn’t have believed it. But Declan hated the attention, even more so after the past six months. Before I could say anything, the sound of a horn came from outside.
“That’ll be the limo,” Dec said. “Ready?”
He held out his hand, and I took it. “Sure.”
My voice sounded steadier than I was, though.
WE HAD agreed to share a limo with Abe and Lisa. Lisa was rather raucous when Dec and I climbed into the back of the car with them, and said we both looked delicious. She had already raided the minibar, and I was only too happy to help.
“Try and save some room for the open bar at the ceremony,” Abe said affably.
“We’re jus
t steeling ourselves,” Lisa said. “So, Simon, who are you wearing tonight?” She easily slid into the role of the blue-carpet presenter.
I leaned into the nonexistent microphone in her hand and said rakishly, “Well, I plan to be wearing Declan later, if you know what I mean.”
Dec shook his head while Abe sniggered. “Don’t encourage him.”
My overexaggerated sense of bravado was quickly extinguished when the limo pulled up to the foyer of Crown Casino.
“We are not going after you,” teased Lisa. “We’ll be overshadowed.”
I was glad they were getting out first, although I worried it gave me a few extra moments to consider jumping out the other door and taking off anonymously into the night.
My thoughts must have been transparent to Declan, as he watched me with concern.
“See you in there,” Abe said jovially, although he knew we were shitting ourselves. Lisa gave us both supportive hand squeezes and then was helped out of the limo by Abe.
“You ready?” Dec asked.
“You don’t need to help me out,” I told him, before his chivalrous side took over.
He gave me a withering look. “Really?”
“But stay close.”
He smiled. “We’ll be okay.”
And then I followed him out into the glare.
The photos the next day would show Declan, sleek and confident, ever the pro. And next to him, looking like a rabbit on a country road watching the headlights of an approaching car, me.
I honestly don’t remember much of stumbling down the long blue carpet, watching the photographers jostle for the best angles of us or the fans behind the barriers yelling for Declan’s autograph. Remembering his promise to stay close, Declan ushered me over to the barrier alongside him while he signed whatever Devils merchandise was thrust at him.
“Simon!”
There was no way in hell I could have stopped my instant grin. Fran and Roger were pushing their way to the front of the barrier. I moved over to them and was grabbed in a bear hug by both.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, surprised but pleased.
“Moral support, of course,” Fran replied.
“Is it working?” Roger asked.
“Yes!” And I wasn’t lying. The snakes in my stomach had settled somewhat.
Declan had now caught sight of them and come over for his own hug.
“I wish I could get you guys in,” he said apologetically.
“Well….” Roger started to say, but he was elbowed by Fran.
“Have fun,” she said, pointing behind us. “It looks like they’re demanding to interview you.”
Dec and I turned to see the blue-carpet hosts glaring at us for daring to hold them up.
“Catch up with you later,” Declan nodded.
“Text us when you get out,” Fran yelled after us.
Away from the comforting circle of friends I had to fight against the nausea again, but their presence had emboldened me and I kept a friendly but neutral smile on my face as Declan and I stepped up to the podium to be interviewed.
“Declan, what do you think your chances are for tonight?” the bland television personality asked.
“It’s up for grabs among quite a few of us,” Declan said modestly.
“Playing it nice,” the host chuckled.
“Not at all.”
“For the viewers at home,” the co-host asked, falling neatly into her required gender-specific role, “who are you wearing tonight, Declan?”
Declan bit the inside of his cheek, suppressing a smile. “A local designer, Keith Ho.”
She then turned to me. “And you, Simon?”
I leaned in to the microphone as if it was Lisa’s hand and said, “The Savers on Sydney Road. Six dollar rack.”
Of course, I had gotten my suit from the same store as Declan. The hosts didn’t know what to make of my answer, so with a brief flash of panic that disappeared quickly beneath the professional façade, she decided to take a different tack. “It’ll be no surprise who you’re hoping will win tonight.”
“Probably not,” I said smoothly.
“Who?” She laughed merrily, pretending she wasn’t in on a game.
“Stephen Burrows from Richmond, of course.”
Declan couldn’t keep the laughter in now, especially as both co-hosts’ jaws dropped. “He’s my biggest fan, really,” he said quickly, and he moved us on into the venue.
“How did I do?” I asked innocently.
“You are evil,” Declan replied with a straight face.
Abe and Lisa were waiting for us just within the doors.
“The two of you are going to be all over the news with that little performance,” Lisa said with a smirk.
“How did you know?” I asked, bewildered.
Abe pointed above his head, where a giant screen was televising the blue carpet footage live. “Stephen Burrows will be glad of your support, I’m sure.”
“Yeah,” Declan poked me in the rib. “I could have used your vote.”
“If I could vote, you would have it,” I said grandly.
“Liar, but thanks,” Dec laughed.
We were seated at the same table as many of the Devils players. Anna and a few more of the WAGs greeted us warmly, while Rachel and some of her cronies pretended we didn’t exist. Dec’s teammates were polite to me, but there was a distance I couldn’t help but pick up on even if Declan appeared to be unaware of it – or pretended to be unaware of it.
If you think watching the Brownlows at home is boring, it’s even worse when you’re actually attending them. Especially if you’re attending as one of the contender’s dates, because the camera will be on them every time their name is mentioned, and you must look attentive and supportive. Nothing would be worse than the camera catching you yawning or staring into space with a glazed expression or picking your nose; it was expected that Declan’s name would be coming up a lot. My boyfriend was a god of football. Everybody at our table expected him to win, and it wasn’t just because they were his teammates. It seemed to be the general consensus of everybody in the theatre.
But a quarter of the way through the count we realised something wasn’t quite right. Dec wasn’t getting the votes that were expected of him for certain games, games where he had even been named player of the day. Dec remained stoic, but I heard Abe hiss beside me and a general rumbling throughout the ranks of the table.
During a commercial break Abe leaned over me and said to Declan, “This is bullshit.”
“Cool it, Abe.”
“Seriously, Dec!”
“What do you think’s going on?” I asked Dec in a low voice.
“Nothing,” was his short answer.
“It’s obvious,” said a voice from across the table. I looked up to see Geoff Hendricks staring at me with a snarl that seemed more suited to a villain tying Penelope Pittstop to the railway lines.
“What is?” I demanded.
“Shut up, Hendo,” Dec warned.
“What’s he going on about?” I asked Dec.
Dec shook his head, but Geoff continued on. “Notice it’s certain games he isn’t getting votes on?”
I looked at Dec for an answer of some sort, but there was an announcement that we were coming back from commercial break, so we had to put on our pleasantly interested facades again.
Now that Geoff had pointed it out, I began to take notice of the games that Declan neglected to get points for. And the pattern became recognisable very quickly.
They were games I had attended. Games where Declan was usually involved in some sort of scuffle.
By the halfway point of the counting, Declan was fifth when he should have at least been second, and it looked like he was going to slip even further down the ladder.
“Come on, boys,” Declan said to the table, trying to lighten the mood. “We can’t expect to win everything.”
“That’s the point,” Geoff said. “We haven’t won anything this year. This was
the one thing we had in the bag.”
“Well, we obviously didn’t,” Declan replied.
“Wonder why,” Geoff muttered into his beer.
“You got something to say, Hendo?” Abe asked threateningly.
Declan cleared his throat, and Abe drank sullenly from his own beer.
The mood didn’t improve, even though Declan managed to get back up to third place. A few more rounds saw him and the other players jump around positions, and in the final few Declan shot from fourth to second, with only one point between him and first.
“That’s it,” Declan whispered to me. “It’s all over.”
“There’s two rounds to go,” I reminded him.
He shook his head. He already knew.
Even though Dec had ended the final round with three goals and a spectacular mark that had given him Player of the Day, I remembered there had been another bust-up on the field. Declan didn’t get any points for the round and remained in second place, losing by one point to Francis Bevan.
Declan clapped at the announcement. “He deserves it. He’s a good player.”
Hendricks scowled. “You were meant to win.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“I’m glad you can be so casual about it.”
“You seem to care enough about it for the two of us,” Dec fired back.
Any escalation of their sniping was halted when their coach, Scott Frasier, approached the table and nodded to Declan.
Dec pushed his chair out, muttered “Excuse me,” and went off to the side to talk to his coach.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I told Abe and Lisa.
“You okay?” she asked.
I nodded and made my way to the toilets. I didn’t need to go, but I did need a semiprivate place where I could just hide for a moment and try to collect myself. There were only a couple of guys at the urinals when I entered; I locked myself in a stall and stared dismally at the door.
I heard the door swing open and shut again and assumed the other guys must have left. I unlocked the stall so I could go and splash water on my face and just try to cool down the sudden heat I felt building from my neck upwards.
I wasn’t alone.
Geoff Hendricks stood near the door, with some of the other Devils players flanking him. I didn’t want paranoia to instantly overwhelm me, so I nodded at them and continued on to the sinks.