by Laney Cairo
The gym was down a flight of stairs that Shane had to creep down, but as soon as he walked in, Budgie tossed his hand weights aside and bounced at Shane.
"Shane! Mate!” Budgie said, and his hug made Shane stagger back and almost fall.
"Bloody hell,” Budgie said, standing Shane back on his feet. “You look crook, mate."
"I am crook,” Shane said. “Really crook."
Deano, towering behind Budgie, said, “We heard about Madison going to rehab. I'm so sorry, mate."
Shane nodded and looked around at the crowd of faces, as more and more of his squad mates abandoned their weights and stationary bikes to cluster around.
Digger, Ant, Toddo, Bluey ... They were all calling and jostling. Adrenaline hit Shane hard, but it wasn't the good surge that got him through matches. This made his stomach twist and his palms sweat.
Not even playing in last year's finals against men like Killer McKenzie had been as scary as facing friends and telling them the truth.
Lindon whistled, two fingers in his mouth, and the questions and greetings stopped.
"Thanks,” Shane said, lifting his voice a little, in spite of the croak in his throat. “I've come to say goodbye. I've just been fired for breaching my contract."
Digger said, “Stone the crows,” and Shane could hear other players muttering unhappily.
"Hang on,” Shane said. “I need to tell you why. When I joined the Hammers, there was a clause in my contract saying I had to stay closeted. I can't do that any longer, so I'm coming out to all of you first, out of respect for my friends here. I'm gay."
At the back of the crowd, one of the rookies sniggered, then whimpered as someone made him stop.
"Fuck,” Deano said. “Um, we had no idea, mate."
Shane lifted a hand, his knuckles swollen and raw. “I'm sick, too, so this is a good time for me to step back from playing, work out what I want to do."
Budgie's brow creased and he blinked a bit. “We're gonna miss you,” he said. “I don't care if you're a poofter, you're still a good bloke and a bloody great ruck."
Digger wrapped arms like sides of pork around Shane and squeezed him for a moment, blinking tears out of his eyes. “Do you want us to tell Gordon he's a stupid wanker?"
Only Digger, who feared nothing and no one, except possibly his missus, could suggest that.
Shane patted Digger's shoulder. “Management won't let me stay because of losing sponsorship money, but thank you for the thought. Thank you, all of you.” As he turned to leave, one person started to clap slowly, then another, until he was being given the Hammers’ traditional farewell. He wasn't just walking off the paddock, he was walking into the sunshine.
Lindon carried Shane's kit bag, stuffed with the contents of his locker, out to Lukowski's car.
Shane grabbed Lindon's arm before they were within hearing range of Lukowski. “Thanks, mate, for everything,” Shane said.
"No need to get sentimental,” Lindon said. “I'm not planning on disappearing. You won't be seeing me at five in the morning anymore, but I was hoping we could still be friends."
More than Digger's outburst of emotion, Lindon's words made Shane's eyes prick.
In the car, Lukowski handed Shane a notepad. “Want to have a look at that for a press release? If you've burnt your bridges with the Hammers, we'd better make some kind of announcement about you retiring."
Shane read Lukowski's scribble, then took the pencil that Lukowski held out. “I want to do this right."
* * * *
When Lukowski had left, Dale put a mug of tea on the coffee table in front of Shane and sat down beside him. “Hey,” he said. “You might not have noticed, but it's twenty past one."
Shane nodded and hid his face against Dale's shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, and even with his voice muffled, Dale could still hear the pride in it. “My body hurts, but I think I'm winning."
Dale hugged Shane gently, making sure not to bump his hands or elbows. “I'm so fucking proud of you."
"Are you crying?” Shane asked, lifting his face.
Dale nodded. “You spend all night throwing up from your first dose of methotrexate, get no sleep at all, both quit and get fired, come out to the team, and you're still so fucking strong."
"I'm weak."
"Strong enough to fight this,” Dale said.
* * * *
The studio door was ajar, and Shane could hear Dale's voice, gentle rise and fall, as he talked on the phone.
This time Shane managed to slide off the bed and drag himself upright unassisted.
A robe was draped over the foot of the bed, so he pulled it on.
His knees felt better, perhaps. Less spongy and wobbly. And the soles of his feet weren't burning as much. Head ached, but wasn't pounding, mouth was raw, but not bleeding. Maybe, just maybe, he was making progress.
Dale looked up when Shane pushed the studio door fully open, smiled at him, and slid his arm around Shane's shoulders.
"He's awake now,” he said into the phone. “Sure, I'll tell him."
Shane let Dale lead him back to bed, kicking the bedroom door closed behind them.
"Frank says hello and he's glad you're feeling better,” Dale said, and he turned his attention back to the phone. “Sure,” he said. “It'll be up to Shane, if he feels well enough."
Dale put the phone down on the bedside table and hugged Shane. “Better for some sleep?” he asked.
"Better in general,” Shane said. “Maybe even hungry. What's up to me?"
"Frank invited us both to his place this Sunday. He's having some friends around and thought you might like to get out of the house."
Shane considered the idea, turning it over in his head. “Will it be a big thing?” he asked.
Dale shook his head. “Frank puts on lavish brunches. Lost Sundays, Frank calls them, because people turn up for breakfast and have to be sent home at midnight. But it won't be loud or boisterous. These people are lawyers and financiers."
"No karaoke?” Shane asked hopefully. “No anorexics?"
"Nope,” Dale said. “Just good people. You don't have to decide until it's time to leave, there's no rush."
Shane leaned his head against Dale's shoulder and closed his eyes. He felt calm and quiet, and there was happiness in the idea that Frank, who had never liked Shane, had asked them both over. Both of them, together. And Shane would meet Dale's friends for the first time, after so much secrecy.
The windows were open in the bedroom, daylight pouring through the glass, air moving through the entire house, doors propped open, the dog rattling in and out, food smells wafting into the room.
Shane opened his eyes and cocked his head to listen to the clatter of a pan from the kitchen, and the squeak of the fridge opening and closing.
"Who's here?” he asked.
"Lindon,” Dale said. “He's got mail and stuff for you, and he's doing something about the mess in the kitchen. He's unpacked your cases, too, and brought more of your belongings over."
"You asked him to?” Shane asked, surprised at the idea.
"Rang him up,” Dale said. “Once you'd gone to sleep."
"But you can't stand him,” Shane said.
"That was before I realised he cooked,” Dale said. “He offered to help out, last time he was here. Seems to me that we need that at the moment."
Shane smiled against the cotton of Dale's shirt. It was going to work out; it was going to be all right.
"Shhh,” Dale whispered as he shrugged his shirt off his shoulders and dropped it on the floor.
Lindon was singing along to the radio, his voice muted by the bedroom door, persistent reminder that they weren't alone in the house.
Dale undid his jeans and pushed them down, and in the shifting daylight of rising and falling curtains he was thin and tired.
Shane hadn't really seen Dale until then, he'd been caught in the darkness, but the paleness of Dale's skin was new.
Dale was half-hard already, as he kicked hi
s jeans off, and he gave himself a twist and pull, eyes slitted as he watched Shane, then slid under the blankets beside Shane.
They kissed, long and slow, and Dale's hands scraped over Shane's skin, dragging gasps from him, touching his chest, belly, thighs.
"I'm on fire,” Shane whispered when Dale lifted his mouth.
"Are you?” Dale whispered, and fingertips traced across Shane's cock, making him squirm.
"Please,” Shane murmured, and fingers slid between his thighs, making him gasp.
"Have you come back to me?” Dale whispered, and his eyes were grey and opaque when Shane met his gaze.
"I have."
Dale's tongue slid across the stubble of Shane's neck, laving the skin, pressing against his windpipe, then down to his chest.
Back up again, and Dale began to suck the skin of Shane's neck, drawing it into his mouth, nipping and marking.
"Turn onto your side,” he whispered against Shane's mouth, and Shane rolled away from Dale.
Stillness settled upon him, and Dale's arm slid under his neck and curled across his chest, drawing them close.
Shane eased his top leg forward, opening himself up, and the fingers that touched his arse were cool and wet with lube. He felt pressure, then a finger slid into him, and he moaned.
"Wait for me,” Dale murmured, and Shane let out a slow breath and stopped resisting, his body opening up to Dale's touch.
"Can't,” he whispered. “Oh, God, need to come..."
"Soon,” Dale said. “Very soon..."
The finger slid out of him, and a moment later the head of Dale's cock pressed against his body, pushing in.
There'd been no rustle of a condom packet, and no sour smell of latex; Dale was taking him bareback.
Shane's eyes were leaking and love rushed up from his belly and into his chest. This was it, this was the moment when he would be safe and loved and cared for. The world fell away, Lindon's whistling was a distant echo, and Perry's backyard caterwauling tapered off.
"Love you,” he whispered, and it should have been a shout.
"I can feel,” Dale whispered back, and he was all the way inside Shane now, buried deep and hard.
Dale's fingers dug into his thigh, holding him steady, and his other arm moved, sliding across Shane's chest, coming up around him so his neck was held snugly in the crook of Dale's arm.
Shane wasn't bound in any way, he seen no indication that Dale still had any of their equipment. Even the bed was different, no eyelets set in the bed head, nothing for Shane to hang onto as Dale slammed into him for the first time.
They both grunted, the bed squeaked and thudded against the wall, and it was faintly absurd that a moment ago Dale had been trying to keep Shane quiet.
Except Dale knew exactly how to keep Shane quiet, flexing his arm slowly, increasing the pressure on Shane's throat.
His thrusts slowed, turning into slow slides, and his fingers no longer dug into Shane's thigh. Instead, he ran one hand over Shane's belly and up to his chest, feeling for his breathing.
Shane didn't struggle, he just let himself go, hands releasing the sheet and pillow, stopped trying to breathe in, just thought of the feel of Dale's cock pushing into him. His body tried to panic, now he couldn't breathe, but there was no need, and he let the panic go too.
The world began to grey, and Dale's hand was firm against his diaphragm, waiting. He'd stopped moving inside Shane, but Shane could feel how turned on he was, feel every throb of his cock, hear every sub-articulated moan.
Then the pressure was gone from his throat, oxygen flooded Shane's lungs, and Dale's hand was wrapped around his cock as the endorphins screamed through Shane's bloodstream and he came, thrusting helplessly into Dale's hand, back from the edge.
Afterwards, while his lungs gasped and stung and his mind reeled, Dale ground into him hard and fast, belly slapping against Shane's back, slick with sweat.
Dale came, spreading wetness deep inside Shane, thrusts slowing until he began to soften, but he stayed where he was, his face pressed against Shane's shoulder.
"I burn for you,” Dale whispered, pressing kisses across Shane's skin.
It took effort to lift his hand to cover Dale's where it still pressed against his chest, but Shane managed it.
In the dusk the room was shadowed, the curtains billowing as the breeze shifted, and the house was silent, no human or dog noises. A fly buzzed somewhere in the room, battering wings against the wall.
Dale's hands turned Shane over carefully, touching his face and neck, pushing his hair out of his eyes, then Dale pulled the bedding over both of them.
Shane touched Dale's face, traced his lips, found that day's stubble, touched each eyelid in turn.
His own body hurt: back, knees, gut, throat, eyes, elbows. Bits of him were aching, other bits were screaming or spasming, but Dale's hands were soothing across his skin, finding each point of pain, brushing it away. Shane craned his head forward enough to press his lips against Dale's in a tiny kiss, then settled it against the pillow, close enough that each breath of Dale's flitted across his cheek.
The front door opened, then slammed shut, dog claws skittered through the house and Perry woofed at the bedroom door, just once, asking for the door to be opened.
"Dinner, puppy?” Lindon called out, voice muted by the door, and Shane closed his eyes, content to listen to the clatter of a metal dog bowl and the run of the tap.
"Go to sleep,” Dale murmured. “I'll be here when you wake up."
* * * *
Shane felt relaxed, blissfully so, but without the fuzziness in his head that valium gave him. He yawned and stretched in the passenger seat of Dale's car.
"Are you too tired for this?” Dale asked as he parked the car. “I can just take you home; Frank will understand."
"Not tired, just thoroughly fucked,” Shane said. “I blame you for that."
"All my fault,” Dale agreed, reaching behind him for the esky of cold drinks. “Next time, fight me off."
"Fuck, no,” Shane said. “I think I've had more sex in the past two weeks than in the past year."
Shane winced mentally when he realised what he'd said, but when he glanced through the windscreen at Dale, who was coming around the car to help him out, Dale looked amused.
"That is not my fault,” Dale said through the open car door. “But I am enjoying the bit where you try and make up for lost time."
Shane had crutches to try and keep the weight off his knees, and it took some organisation to get himself out the car and propped up on them.
Frank lived in an elegant villa, with views over the river and city. Shane wasn't sure how Frank managed to put up with Dale, who lived and worked in free-floating mess, when Frank himself was so orderly.
Frank met them at the front door, his face split in a wide grin. “Congratulations, Shane,” he said, taking the esky from Dale and peering in. “Oh, thank God you brought tonic water."
"Congratulations on what?” Shane asked, as Frank kissed his cheek.
"Coming out, darling,” Frank said.
People were gathered on Frank's deck, seven or eight men and a dyke couple, and they gave a low cheer as Shane hobbled out onto the deck, into the cool, clear winter sunshine.
Dale said, “Everyone! This is Shane.” He then rattled off a list of names Shane had no chance of remembering, especially since he'd just spotted the Sunday papers, spread across the table between champagne flutes and stubbies of beer.
He sat down in a hurry, his crutches clattering a little, and Dale said, “Fuck."
One paper had a photo of Shane on the front cover, with “full story on the back page” printed underneath. When Shane turned the paper over, the paper had another photo of him, in full flight taking a mark. ‘Davis: I'm gay’ was the headline. “Shane Davis announced his retirement from senior football this week, citing a serious case of arthritis and a round four shoulder injury that wasn't healing. The star ruck for the Hamilton Hammers used his sudden retirem
ent to announce he was gay, stunning the football world."
The article went on to list his season and career stats, and to quote Gordon as saying how sad he was to lose Shane, and how the Hammers had always been aware of Shane's sexuality and had supported him in his decision to come out.
"Wanker,” Shane said, tossing the paper down. “Fucking arsehole. Lying hypocritical creep."
Dale picked the paper back up and read it quickly, sitting beside Shane. “So Gordon lied,” Dale said, handing the paper back to Frank and taking the glass of champagne Frank offered him. “What matters is that it's done, and you're out."
"Champagne, Shane?” Frank asked.
"Can't,” Shane said. “Medication. Pity, because I could do with something to take the nasty taste of Gordon's lies away."
The man sitting on the other side of Shane, who Shane thought might be called Connor, said, “You've become an instant celebrity in the gay community. When I saw the papers this morning, I ran around screaming. It was about time we got ourselves a hunky footballer as a hero."
Dale put his arm around Shane's shoulders and said, “Don't panic, Shane. Connor is one of the editors of Pink, the gay newspaper here. He's not some sleazeball. Well, he is, but he's just glad you've come out."
Shane nodded and glanced sideways at Dale. “I hadn't thought about how anyone else would feel about me coming out."
"Gay teenagers across the city are plastering your photos over their bedroom walls as we speak,” Connor said. “Across Australia, even. You coming out will mean so much to so many people."
"I didn't do it for them,” Shane said. “I did it for me, because being closeted had made me so miserable I couldn't take it any longer."
"Back off, Connor,” Dale said good-naturedly. “We're not all evangelists for the cause."
Connor shrugged. “Sorry,” he said. “Guess I forget there are lots of gays out there who—"
"Who what?” Dale cut in. “I don't think there's much you can add to that sentence that isn't going to offend someone here."
Connor grinned at Dale, and Shane realised they must be old friends, or perhaps ex-lovers. “I'll shut up now,” he said. “Sorry, Shane. I was being tactless and rude. I can't imagine how hard it must have been for you to stay closeted all that time, or to come out, knowing it would be in the mainstream papers."