One Way Street

by Laney Cairo

  "This is Shane, and his mate Dale,” Evan called out. “They're gonna train with us."

  Shane lifted a hand in greeting and walked the last few metres to the gathered squad. They were a motley bunch, an interesting mixture of overweight, middle-aged men and gangly fifteen year olds. Old players, who hadn't let go, and new hopefuls who hadn't grown into their bodies yet, but who were still looking for a kick.

  Evan called out, “Stretch, folks. Then we'll do some ball skills."

  The grass was wet, smelling of rain, and the people around Shane smelled of sweat and liniment. Shane's hamstrings were painfully tight as he eased himself into the stretches, another reminder of how long he'd sat around doing nothing.

  The kid next to Shane said, “Hey, you play with the Hammers, don't you?"

  "Used to,” Shane said. “You aiming to play senior footy?"

  "Want to,” the kid said. “Evan says I'm not strong enough yet."

  Shane had a look at the kid's spindly legs and arms. “I'd listen to him. You've got time, though, haven't you?"

  "I'm fourteen,” the kid said. “So I need to make the preliminary draft for the training camp next year to get into the senior program."

  Shane switched legs and started to try and work some give into his other hamstring. “You can work your way through the ranks,” he said. “The training camps and draft aren't everything. I came into state footy from a country team, and then went into the league from there."

  "Gosh,” the kid said. “How come you're playing with us?"

  "Got fired from the Hammers,” Shane said. “See the bloke on the other side of me?” Shane waved at Dale, who was lying on his back, one knee lifted up to his chest. “He got me fired."

  "Fuck you,” Dale said, though he sounded amused. “You got yourself fired, you wanker."

  "Wow,” the kid said. “It's really cool you're going to play with us."

  "It is, isn't it?” Shane said.

  "Get up,” Evan called through the loudhailer. “Let's have some running passes, full length of the oval. Ten minutes, people."

  After half an hour of handballing, kicking, and running, Shane was so tired he was wobbly on his feet. Lying on the wet grass, listening to Evan calling out stretches and Dale labouring to breathe beside him, Shane was also unbearably happy. He'd come back, and it felt damned good.

  He was going to sleep well, and when he woke he was going to eat a high-carb breakfast and then go for a run.

  Assuming he could move by the morning, which was not certain, not when Dale had had to help him back to his feet and to the car.

  Dale opened the car door, and Shane lowered himself carefully into the car. His feet tingled, his face was cold and wet with rain, and he could murder a burger.

  "How do you feel?” Dale asked, climbing behind the wheel and starting the car. “Are you sore?"

  "I feel like I could take on the world,” Shane said. “After I've had a nap."

  Dale grinned, his teeth gleaming in the light from the car's dash. “Good,” he said. “Because that just about fucking killed me."

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  Chapter Sixteen

  What people don't realise about one way streets is that, although you can't turn around on them or reverse down them, if you drive around the block back to the beginning of the street, you get a second chance.

  Shane was almost bouncing in his seat while Dale parked the car, and it made Dale laugh.

  "Christmas time?” Dale asked Shane, who was reaching onto the back seat for his duffel bag.

  "Better than Christmas,” Shane said. “As exciting as my first senior match, but without the stark fear of failure."

  "Whereas I'm more concerned with the possibility that someone will injure themselves, and I'll have to get off the interchange bench and run around."

  Shane leaned across and kissed Dale's lips briefly. “You'll be fine. Just remember real players don't cry."

  Shane's high spirits were infectious and Dale found himself filled with anticipation too.

  The pair of them walked across the car park, toward the group of players wearing blue-and-green striped sweaters and T-shirts that were gathered around Evan.

  Shane tossed their duffel bag onto the pile of bags and joined the pack, but Dale paused, his mouth open.

  The match had attracted the usual ragged collection of spectators; mums, dads, long-suffering partners and kids. One of the kids waved a homemade blue and green pompom.

  And beside them, sprawled on picnic blankets and brandishing champagne glasses and pink flags, were Frank and the Lost Sunday crowd.

  "Oh, God,” Dale muttered, wrapping an arm around Shane's back and leaning into the huddle, where Evan was giving instructions.

  "Defence, don't drop the ball. On-ballers, if you get a touch, hand it off to Shane who's playing centre half forward. If Shane yells at you to do something, then listen to him. Everyone, one lap warm up, then stretch. We're going to thrash Beddington today."

  "Have you seen Frank?” Dale asked Shane as the huddle broke and the team set off for their warm up lap.

  "Couldn't miss him,” Shane said. “Not in that pink shirt."

  The squad thundered around the oval, and if there was a certain amount of preening and sneering at the other team's supporters brandishing purple and yellow scarves and pompoms, then Dale couldn't blame them. Shane was half a head taller than anyone else on the squad and he loped along like some fucking Greek god, muscular and gorgeous and so damned competent. The other side should be quaking in their footy boots and considering forfeiting the game.

  Dale heard someone, wearing a homemade purple and yellow sweater, say, “Bloody hell, that's Shane Davis,” as they went past. Then it was on to where Frank and friends were shouting and whistling, with Connor running out onto the oval to take photos.

  This match wasn't going to be boring, even if Dale did spend the whole eighty minutes on the interchange bench, where he belonged.

  The result was never in doubt, not from the moment that Shane had taken his first mark, grabbing the ball out of the air effortlessly, then kicking a goal from fifty metres out on an angle.

  They were well up, kicking into the breeze, and the rain had held off.

  Dale wasn't fortunate enough to sit out the whole match and he found himself running out onto the oval part way through the third quarter, filling in for a bloke called Clive at the full forward flank, who was filling in for Greg on the wing while Greg had his ankle iced.

  Shane grinned at Dale as he settled himself behind the kid from the other team who was playing in defence, and Dale grinned back.

  The kid Dale was playing against said, “How did your team wind up with Shane Davis?"

  "Just lucky,” Dale said, looking up the pitch to where the harassed-looking umpire was throwing the ball in from the boundary line. “Come on, let's go get some action."

  The kid grinned at Dale. “Yeah. I wanna go to school tomorrow and say I played against Shane Davis."

  It was fun; running around in the spring sunshine, crumbing for some ball contact, hoping to grab the ball as it bumbled out of the thrashing tackles through people's legs. Dale had a stitch in his side and he was sweating like crazy when the ball soared through the air toward him, just inside the goal square.

  It was a sweet kick, so Dale suspected Shane had sent it his way. Trouble was, the pimply kid beside him had ambitions toward the ball and was going up in the air, arms battering at Dale.

  Dale leapt up off the ground, arms outstretched, and the ball thudded into his chest, winding him as he grabbed at it.

  He and the kid went down, Dale's face smacking into the grass and mud.

  "Owwww,” he whinged, then hands grabbed his sweater, hauling him to his feet, and Shane shoved the ball back into Dale's hands.

  "This is yours,” Shane said.

  "Free kick,” the umpire shouted, tooting on her whistle as she ran up the oval toward Dale.

  "Go for it,” one of
the older blokes from Dale's team said.

  Go for it.

  Dale wiped the mud off the ball onto his sweater and walked five steps back, then turned around and faced the goal.

  He was only fifteen metres out, on a slight angle. In the distance, he could hear the pink cheer squad shouting his name.

  Dale strode toward the goal, ball held in his hands, lacing down.

  Oval balls were bastards to kick, being subject to wobble, but Dale held it as steady as he could and guided it down onto his boot, just like Shane had taught him, down at their local park.

  The ball thudded against the top of his boot and went tumbling forward, arcing through the air, over the hands of the full back defender who was leaping around, trying to spoil the kick.

  Through the taller, central goal posts, and Dale stood frozen, watching in disbelief as the kid who was umpiring the goal posts at that end of the oval stuck both of his index fingers out in front of himself, signalling a goal.

  Shane scooped Dale up swung him around, hugging him, and as Shane spun Dale around, Dale caught sight of Frank jumping up and down on the picnic blanket, waving both arms in the air.

  Shane smacked a kiss on Dale's muddy cheek and set him back on the ground. “Fucking brilliant,” Shane shouted, and Dale's team-mates slapped him on his back, shouting too.

  The rest of the game passed in a blur of Shane thrashing the pants off the other team, scoring seven goals in a row. The whole match was suffused with wild joy, and when the car horn that marked the final siren sounded, Dale was just a little disappointed, along with thirsty and starving.

  Shane hugged Dale, a huge embrace, as they came off the oval.

  Dale, hugging Shane back, asked, “How are you? Are you sore?"

  "Hamstrings are tight,” Shane said. “Knees and shoulder are fine. And you?"

  "Dying,” Dale said cheerfully. “Don't care, though, because Frank is holding a glass of champagne that is hopefully mine."

  "It is, darling,” Frank called out. “You were wonderful; you both were."

  Dale kept an arm around Shane's back, hugging him, and drank half of the glass down. “The rest is yours,” he said, handing to the glass to Shane.

  Shane kissed Dale, then took the champagne off him and emptied the glass, and their friends cheered.

  "Food?” Connor asked. “I've brought a hamper of food."

  "Food, please,” Shane said.

  Dale sprawled across the grass, Shane's hand held securely in his, his belly full of sandwiches and champagne, and listened to his friends laughing and chatting.

  Shane nudged Dale, and Dale propped himself up. “Come for a walk,” Shane said. “Before I seize up completely."

  They wandered off, around the oval, and Shane said, “You were grinning like an idiot back there. What were you thinking about?"

  Dale stopped and looked at Shane, then at himself. “I'm not sure that mud counts as romantic, but I was wondering if you'd like to regularise this."

  "Regularise?” Shane asked, looking puzzled and amused.

  "You know, make it legal,” Dale said. “Your lawyer and my lawyer draw up contracts, then we wander down to the registry office and take the limited legal steps available to us to formalise the relationship."

  Shane stared at Dale, his mouth open. “You're proposing?"

  "Guess I am,” Dale said. “We can sort the property out, make some of it shared title. Frank will wear his tuxedo and cry, while Connor takes photos. Your mum can come along and throw rice, preferably uncooked. My mum will try and work out if any of the nice lesbians there will have a grandchild for her. I love you, Shane. I always have."

  Shane lifted Dale's grubby hand up and kissed his knuckles. “Let's—what did you say?—regularise this then."

  "What a day,” Dale said, his throat tight. “I kick a goal, and we agree to get married."

  "I kicked twelve goals,” Shane pointed out.

  "Well, you're just a show off. I want to go home and have a long, hot shower, then fuck you senseless."

  Shane hugged Dale, squeezing him hard. “You going to have the strength?” Shane asked, his mouth against Dale's ear.

  "A shower, a nap, then a fuck?” Dale asked. “Easy on the shoulders there."

  "A shower, a nap, I'll give you a massage, then a fuck?"

  "No wonder I love you,” Dale said.

  * * * *

  The oil was hell on the sheets, but Dale didn't give a fuck about the sheets, not right at that moment. Shane had him pinned down, sitting astride his buttocks, and Shane's thumbs were deep in the knotted muscles of Dale's shoulders.

  "Is that good?” Shane purred, his thighs tightening their grip on Dale's flanks. “Do you like that?"

  Dale groaned deeply as Shane's fingers worked into to the top of his shoulders. “Fucking hurts,” he said. “Don't stop."

  More oil trickled down Dale's back and Shane's thumbs drilled circles in Dale's shoulders, but when Shane leaned forward, lowering his weight briefly over Dale then lifting it off again, his cock slid across Dale's arse deliciously.

  "Feels good,” Dale said. “Really good."

  "Slut,” Shane teased, as Dale tried to lift his hips a little, just to give his cock room to harden further.

  "Tease,” Dale said.

  Shane's hands slid down Dale's back, smoothing the muscles beside his spine, then back up his ribs, and Dale groaned again.

  The weight lifted from his hips, and the bed dipped as Shane sprawled beside him, oil slick on his belly and chest.

  Dale propped himself up on one elbow, then slid a hand across Shane's solid chest and down his belly, to his cock.

  "Now who's a slut?” Dale asked, curling his fingers around the hard length of Shane's cock, coating it in oil.

  They kissed, hard and deep, and Shane rolled onto his back, underneath Dale.

  "Do it,” Shane said.

  Dale knew what Shane meant, knew what it was. No need to clarify, or question; some things were crystal clear.

  "Hold the bed head,” Dale said. “Both hands. Don't let go unless you need me to stop."

  Shane let go of Dale's hips and reached above his head to grip the bars of the bed head securely. He tensed the muscles in his arms, making the bed head creak. If they broke the bed, Dale would make sure the next one was stronger.

  "Fuck, I want this,” Shane said, as Dale straddled his thighs and leaned forward to suck his nipples.

  "Good,” Dale said, and he let his teeth scrape at Shane's nipple. He slid up Shane's body a little, so their cocks brushed, and bit at the skin on the side of Shane's neck, hard.

  Shane gasped, tilting his head to give Dale better access, and Dale turned Shane's choker around and unlatched the chain. “Just so we're clear what this means,” Dale said, draping the chain across Shane's face, then moving back down the bed, pulling the chain through the oil.

  "Yeah,” Shane said, then his head jerked and his eyes closed as Dale wound the chain around his cock, the edge of the chain digging into his flesh.

  The chain tasted sour on Dale's tongue, when he pushed his mouth down Shane's cock, sharp against the salt of Shane and the fruit of the olive oil. Dale mouthed the chain against Shane's cock, using his teeth to drive the metal harder against Shane's skin.

  Blood stung Dale's mouth, making his cock throb. He lifted his mouth off Shane's cock and unwound the chain carefully, then licked across the grooves left by the metal. More oil, poured over Shane's cock, making Shane thrash around on the bed, but when Dale glanced up, Shane's hands were locked around the bed head still.

  Back up the bed to kiss Shane briefly, then Dale clambered across Shane.

  Shane whispered, “Fuck,” as Dale reached behind himself to steady Shane's cock.

  "Definitely,” Dale said, guiding the head of Shane's cock with his hand, then lowering himself back on Shane's cock.

  Shane howled, arching his back convulsively, shoving himself hard inside Dale, and Dale yelled too. It hurt in a way that ma
de every part of Dale burn with lust, so that his breath rasped and sweat sprung up on his back.

  Dale rocked forward, slid backward, then forward again, as Shane drilled himself in as far as he could.

  "Ready?” Dale asked, and Shane nodded, his eyes trusting.

  "Love you,” Shane said.

  Dale leaned forward and pressed his lips against the corner of Shane's mouth.

  "Love you, too,” he said, then he rested the heel of his right hand against Shane's mouth, sealing his palm across Shane's lip and pinching Shane's nostrils closed.

  The idea that Shane, with his intense physical presence, should want Dale like this, thrilled Dale. Shane was more than strong enough, even when ill, to throw Dale across the room if he wanted to. But Shane didn't want that, he wanted to hold the bed head and bury himself deep inside Dale, handing himself over completely.

  Dale's breath was loud in the room and his heart hammered against his chest wall as he kept gentle pressure on his hand, stopping Shane from breathing.

  The muscles in Shane's arms bulged, his knuckles blanched white where he was hanging onto the bed head and his face mottled red. His cock, deep inside Dale, throbbed rapidly with his pulse, but his eyes were wide open, his gaze locked with Dale's.

  The moment his gaze faltered and his focus drifted, Dale wrenched his hand off Shane's mouth, and Shane dragged breath into his lungs.

  Shane let go of the bed head and grabbed Dale's shoulders, rolling them both over and pinning Dale to the sheet, then he dug his knees into the mattress and fucked Dale hard, driving them both up the bed.

  Dale's head crunched against the bed head, a pillow bunched under his neck. The feeling of Shane's cock slamming into him made him flail at Shane's back, trying desperately to get some grip on the oiled skin.

  Nothing to hang onto, nothing except the certainty of the two of them being together and the feeling of Shane coming so hard it rattled the bed

  A pause, while Shane slumped on Dale, crushing him briefly, then Shane dragged himself off and down the bed, taking Dale's cock in his mouth and sucking hard.

  Dale grabbed Shane's hair, driving his cock deeper into Shane's mouth, as the burning in his balls and groin built. Shane's finger slid into Dale's arse, across abraded skin, and Dale's knees jerked and he began to come, shaking and shouting.