by Sean Kennedy
“So, do you like it?”
I unzipped my laptop bag to make sure the notebook within wasn’t smashed. “Honestly? You look like someone on a news bulletin who’s wanted for mugging little old ladies.”
“So that’s a no, then.” He actually looked a little bit hurt.
The laptop was fine, so I grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the couch with me. He waited for some further reaction. I tentatively reached out my hand and rubbed it over the shorn scalp. It was softer than I imagined, more fuzzy like a soft toy. It kind of felt nice, but it was weird the way it affected his facial features. He looked a little more hardened, even a little bit older. I didn’t like it. “It’s… different.”
I was trying to be diplomatic, but Dec could see through it.
“Say it, Simon.”
“What?” I asked, still patting him on the head.
Exasperated, he ducked out from under my hand. “Whatever it is you’re thinking!”
I put my wandering hands in my lap where they could no longer assault his dignity. “I was just thinking that Lee Harvey Oswald couldn’t have acted alone. There had to be a second shooter on the grassy knoll.”
Dec sighed. “It wouldn’t surprise me if that actually was what you were thinking. What’s your theory, then?”
I decided to be most un-Simon like and give in. Even though my theory on who killed JFK was rather a brilliant one and nobody ever let me go into enough detail. “Okay, I think this is some really clichéd reaction to Heyward stressing you out.”
“And you still can’t say his first name.”
“Yeah, well he seems to have no problem saying yours at any opportunity.”
Dec winced at that. “Well, it just ends up sounding like he’s your partner in the FBI. You’re distancing yourself from it all.”
As tempting as it was to imagine me in the FBI—although my partner would have to be Dana Scully, the most kickarse FBI agent ever portrayed on screen—I stayed on track. “I like keeping him distanced. I’m not going to be arranging for a play date with him any time soon.”
“He would probably like to. Especially if it will get aired on Today Tonight exclusively.”
Excited, I leaned in. “Wow, that’s a very bitter comment coming from you.” It was fun when Dec got in a rare bitchy mood, as it meant that we could be allied on a whole new level.
“I am feeling bitter.”
I nestled back into him and gently rubbed his fuzzy scalp again. “Is that why you did this?”
“I just wanted to change something. This was the one thing I could think of.”
“You couldn’t go and buy those bookcases we need instead?” I asked, looking at our overburdened shelves, the legacy of a task that kept getting referred to but never achieved.
“No.”
So I told him what he needed to hear. “It looks good on you.”
“Thanks.”
I kissed the relatively bare scalp, and hoped it would grow back quickly.
I SQUINTED against the piercing morning sunlight, and cursed Dec for having opened the blinds instead of letting me lie in peace for a little while longer. Maggie lay at my side, unperturbed by the fact I wasn’t immediately getting up to feed her, so Declan must have already taken care of that. Sometimes she liked to pretend one of us hadn’t already fed her to see if the other dopey human could be tricked into giving her a second feed, but as she got older she seemed to be more content with the extra sleep rather than the extra Whiskas.
The sound of the shower informed me Dec was getting ready for another work day. I would have preferred he stay at home, but it was now Thursday, which meant a full day and a late night as he would be appearing on his own channel’s football panel show, which aired live from nine thirty and usually went over its allotted time, almost until midnight. I knew they would bring up Heyward. And it would be even worse than the journalists camping on our doorstep. This would be his colleagues hoping to get more detail out of him and possibly even resenting him for not giving them the scoop they thought they deserved—and more importantly, the scoop they thought he owed his employer.
I was still lying in bed, mulling this all over, when Dec came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. It was always a pleasant sight, but I lay stewing in my inertia.
Dec flicked his hands out towards me, hitting me in the face with a fine spray of droplets from his wet body. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
“I’m awake,” I groaned.
“You don’t look it.”
“I’m wondering if I can just stay in bed for the rest of my life.”
“That does sound good,” Dec said, unwrapping the towel to dry himself. I must have been slightly depressed, because not even that could make me smile. “But you might start going mouldy.”
“Mouldy I can handle.”
“I don’t think I could. Plus, you’d stink after a couple of days.”
I grunted noncommittally.
“Plus, does staying in bed mean you never leave the bed? So will you just be going to the loo and lying in your own filth? Because I’ll move to the spare room.”
“You’re hilarious.” But I was just glad to see him being lighthearted.
It was all about to change again later that night.
I was home by myself, and although I was usually loathe to subject myself to the boorish antics of that particular football program, I did so because Dec was going to be on.
Like lions on a wounded gazelle, they attacked immediately.
“How have you been feeling about the developments in your life recently?”
Dec tried not to appear ruffled. “I believe my press statement gave that information.”
“But surely you must have more to say than that?”
“If I had more to say, then I would have said it.”
“You have to understand this is a huge story in the AFL, and people are going to want details.”
“Are they? Nobody seems to really care about the romantic lives of other AFL players.”
“Well, that’s usually because their relationships aren’t with other AFL players.”
It was carnage. The questions were being fired at him from all directions and from every panellist. I couldn’t believe how calm Dec was reacting. I would have been tempted to rip off my microphone and walk off set, probably flipping the bird to everyone on the way out.
“That doesn’t mean it should be open to scrutiny from the public,” Dec replied. “Two AFL players in a relationship with each other are just as entitled to privacy than any other couple.”
“But you have to admit this is the first time this has ever been revealed in the history of the AFL, so people are bound to be interested.”
“Yes, they’ll be interested. It doesn’t mean they should be privy to all the details. Also, I highly doubt this is the first ever relationship in the AFL.”
This caused some flurry on the panel, and the audience. Dear God, more than two homosexuals in the AFL? Declan was probably going to be subject to some new McCarthy-ite inquisition if he continued on in this way.
At this stage I was expecting them to bring Heyward out for some Springer-inspired showdown, but even they weren’t going to be that awful.
At least, I thought so, until the host said, “Well, you’re being pretty tight-lipped, Declan. Maybe our guest next week, Greg Heyward, will be a little more forthcoming.”
This brought some hoots from the audience, and I actually felt sick.
“Maybe you will be more successful with him,” Dec said. “That’s not up to me.”
I could tell that the temperature in the studio must have dropped a fair few degrees, and when they returned from break Declan was no longer on the panel. I called him on my mobile immediately, but it went straight to voice mail. I ran around the apartment, grabbing my keys, wallet, and jacket. I knew it was pretty useless heading to the studios, as all I would be able to do was grapple with security, but maybe Dec was on his way home and I coul
d meet him halfway there.
As I was waiting for the lift, my mobile rang. It was Declan’s number.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Sorry, was being grilled a little when you called.”
“What did they say?”
“They weren’t happy when I said I wasn’t going to stay. My contract for that show is to discuss the football, not my personal life. And when they were going to continue with that, I said I wasn’t going back on.”
This was all going to hell. “Where are you now?”
“They wanted me in a meeting with the producers. I told them to fuck themselves.”
“You? You didn’t!” I couldn’t even imagine that. And I have a pretty active imagination.
“I’m afraid I did.”
“Fuck, I love you,” I gushed.
His laugh was the best sound in the world. “That makes you love me?”
“Among other things.”
“Good to know.”
“Anyway, I was just on my way to the studios.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m leaving now. I’ll be home in ten.”
“You’re not walking back?”
“I’ll be safe, I promise, Mum.”
Funny how you worry about another person’s safety when you were going to go and do the exact same thing yourself without even thinking about it.
True to his word, Dec was home in just under ten minutes. He had quickly changed from his appearance on the TV, now in trakkies and a jacket. He looked tired, however.
“That was a bit of a schmozzle, wasn’t it?” I asked.
He hugged me and headed straight for the couch. “In your words, I’d probably say it was royally fucked.”
“I love it when you talk dirty.” I batted my eyelashes at him.
“Stop it, you’re freaking me out.”
“Okay.” I sat next to him and laid my hand over the one he had resting on his knee. “So what do we do next?”
“What do you mean?”
“We need a plan of action.”
“We’re not in a war, Simon.”
“We’re going to have to act like we are. Heyward has just invaded Poland, and we have to strike back!” I knew I had just Godwin’ed myself, but I didn’t care.
“You want to know what my plan of action is?” Dec asked.
“Yes!”
“A good night’s sleep.” He stood up and looked down into my disappointed face. “Coming?”
I did so, begrudgingly. “You need a better Minister of Defence.”
LIFE greeted us way too early the next morning, and I resented its intrusion and all it brought with it into the peace this one room granted us. Declan, still feeling bitter about his treatment the night before, rang to say he wasn’t coming in to work that day. It didn’t take much to convince me after that to call Coby and tell him to cover for my absence as well.
The thought of a day playing hooky with Dec made me a lot happier than I felt in ages. Even the momentary guilt of switching on my mobile to see messages and missed calls from my family and friends couldn’t stop me singing to myself in the shower.
Fresh and dressed, I followed the smell of bacon and scrambled eggs to the kitchen.
“I love it when you’re domesticated.” I beamed at the love of my life.
He almost dropped the pan when he saw me. “That smile… is creepy. Stop it.”
“I thought you liked it when I’m happy.”
Dec started doling the food onto plates. “I’m happy when you’re your version of happy. Which is little more than a satisfied smirk most of the time. This”—he gestured wildly in my general direction with a spatula—“is Disney princess happy. There are birds floating around your head, and some little lambs and deer frolicking around your feet.”
He slid my plate towards me, and I clasped my hands mockingly to fit in with the picture he was describing of me. “I do declare, you’ve even fried the bread! What have I done to deserve this?”
“Oh,” he teased, “made me the happiest man alive?”
My tone became suspicious. “Seriously, what have I done to deserve this? You usually say this is a heart attack on a plate, and you want to keep me around.”
“Lighten up,” he said, kissing me on the forehead and perching on the stool next to me. “This is a hooky breakfast. You’re entitled to one every now and again.”
I began squirting the barbecue sauce he had thoughtfully supplied all over my plate until it seemed the food was drowning in a dark sea and crying out for my rescue. Dec made a face and only added pepper to his eggs.
“So good,” I said, my mouth full.
“Stop being gross,” Dec said. “I know you think it’s cute, but it’s not.”
I swallowed. “Happy?” I said, clearly.
“Yes, dear.”
We sat talking about the most mundane and inconsequential matters, desperately avoiding what we were really dwelling upon—if the media was going to be reporting on Dec’s walk-off from last night’s program. We knew in all likelihood they would, but at the moment it was nice ignoring the laptop, the television, and the mobiles and pretending nothing was happening in the outside world which concerned us directly. We thought of going to see a movie but remembered that meant actually going out and interacting with the public, which was something we wanted to avoid altogether, so that plan was quickly scrapped. As horrible as it sounds, we didn’t want to see if any of our friends wanted to be coerced into playing hooky with us, as we only wanted to spend time with each other; Declan told me to come up with some ideas while he took a shower.
It was when I was in the kitchen stacking the dishwasher that my resolve broke. I was standing there with a plate in my hand, about to load it, when I just wanted, no, needed, to see what was being said about last night. The telly would be too loud and give me away, so, keeping a listen out for the sound of running water, I snuck over to my laptop and fired it up.
All the news sites were the same. Even though Dec had remained calm and seemingly unperturbed on camera, all of the articles hinted at a “hissy-fit” (nice to rub in the old gay stereotype there, because gay men don’t get angry, apparently, they have hissy fits) behind the scenes and Declan refusing to go back on camera. This of course all worked to make him look bad, and Heyward as being the paragon of virtue who didn’t mind talking about his personal life and giving the media exactly what they wanted. There always has to be a hero and a villain. Four years ago I was the villain—now it was Dec. It must have been an odd position for him to find himself in, especially for someone who was once known as a God of Football.
Under the tab of “related articles” there was a link that said HEYWARD ANNOUNCES BOOK DEAL.
What. The. Fuck.
The page seemed to be taking ages to load. I knew Heyward had mentioned the possibility of writing a book when he had coffee with Dec, but it had sounded back then like he was inviting him to write one with him—possibly about sexuality in sport, although Heyward probably would have made sure that in the end it was all about him. Dec may have quashed his own involvement in it, but it looked like Heyward was rocketing forward.
The page loaded, with two pictures at the top, one of Heyward holding a medal he had won on field, and—
No.
It couldn’t be.
Oh, fuck, it was.
Jasper fucking Brunswick.
What the hell was Jasper Brunswick doing on an article about Heyward? My nemesis—yes, yes, one of many, but he was the original—who had made life difficult for me when I first got with Dec and happily contributed to the media circus around our lives was now linked to the man who was set on creating a new one?
At least he looked older.
But then, I probably did as well.
Greg Heyward announced today that he will be releasing a book about his life in the AFL and his personal struggles in coming to terms with his sexuality. “I’ve actually been working on this book behind the scenes for quite some tim
e,” he said. “The deal was struck before I even officially came out.”
So the bastard had lied to Dec! Unless he was thinking of writing another book and trying to squeeze every penny out of his newfound fame.
“In many ways writing the book was a cathartic experience, and it helped ramp up my ease at the thought of eventually coming out.”
I doubt he even knew what the word “cathartic” meant. Good thing Word came with an inbuilt dictionary and thesaurus.
Heyward has been working on the book for over six months, with the help of a coauthor in compiling the details of his career along with his own unique view on how it feels to be an outsider within the AFL.
Unique? It seemed they were forgetting one other person.
And will the book touch upon recent revelations about Heyward’s past relationship with fellow footballer and ex Essendon and Tasmanian captain Declan Tyler? Heyward is remaining tight-lipped about that, telling us “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Oh, I could guarantee he would give every detail he could. And although I knew it was coming, here was the kicker at the end:
Titled Out On The Field, Heyward’s memoir will be cowritten with social commenter and media personality Jasper Brunswick, who has had personal ties with both Declan Tyler and his partner, Simon Murray. It has been rushed through the presses to be released—
“Motherfucker!” I screamed, causing Maggie to jump up from the couch with her ears flattened in fright. And Out on the Field? For fuck’s sake, if they really wanted to sound like the title of a bad midday movie, they could have gone with something like The Locker Room Was My Closet: The Greg Heyward Story.
It was then I realised that I could no longer hear the shower running.
Declan appeared in the doorway of our bedroom. “Okay. I guess you read it, then.”
“Read what?” I asked instantly to cover up my tracks, before the two-second delay came in and I knew he had broken our morning’s pledge as well. “You went on the net!”
Dec sat at the table next to me. “Bit hard to act shocked when I just caught you doing the same thing.”
