by Pat Flynn
OUT OF HIS LEAGUE
PAT FLYNN
To Cath
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Pre-Game
chapter 1
chapter 2
chapter 3
chapter 4
chapter 5
chapter 6
chapter 7
First Half
chapter 8
chapter 9
chapter 10
chapter 11
chapter 12
chapter 13
chapter 14
chapter 15
chapter 16
chapter 17
chapter 18
chapter 19
chapter 20
chapter 21
chapter 22
Second Half
chapter 23
chapter 24
chapter 25
chapter 26
chapter 27
chapter 28
chapter 29
chapter 30
chapter 31
chapter 32
chapter 33
chapter 34
chapter 35
chapter 36
Post-Game
chapter 37
chapter 38
chapter 39
chapter 40
acknowledgments
Imprint
PRE-GAME
chapter 1
Picking up his prom date in a horse and wagon seemed like a good idea, especially when the horse and wagon sat in his grandfather’s barn for old time’s sake. But Ozzie should have known that Pop would take so long to rig up the equipment and groom the horse that there was a chance Ozzie would miss his own prom.
“Can’t you go any faster, Pop? We’re running late.”
“Can’t hear you,” said Jack, putting a hand to his ear. Jack had been a stockman for fifty years, so one thing he knew about was horses. He knew they were unpredictable as all hell, which is why he took it easy on the open road.
Ozzie just shook his head.
Jess was waiting outside when they arrived—long red dress, shoes in hand. Ozzie took a sharp breath and a long look before he remembered to jump down and help her up.
Jack turned. “Young lady, you look an absolute picture.”
“Thanks, Mr. Freeman.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What the bloody hell are you doing with my grandson?”
She laughed.
Jack said “giddyap” and they clip-clopped down the road.
“This is so romantic,” Jess said to Ozzie. “You know me, Mr. Romance.”
They both smiled, knowing it was a long way from the truth.
As usual there weren’t many signs of life on the outskirts of the small Australian town, but it seemed even more noticeable at walking pace—the odd barking dog, car bodies strewn across front yards, chickenless coops with corrugated tin roofs.
Ozzie tugged at the shoulders of his rental tux. The jacket had fit perfectly when he tried it on a month ago, but those hundred push-ups a night must have been working because it now felt a size too small.
Jess put a hand on his leg. “You look nice.”
“I feel like a penguin.”
“Penguins are cute.”
Eventually they made it to the main street, where car horns tooted and kids pointed and yelled hello. They rode under a banner that wished them luck for tonight, and under another one that wished the local football team luck for Sunday.
“Nervous about the game?” asked Jess.
“Not really.”
“Think you can win?”
“Not really.”
Jack’s hearing had improved. “Don’t talk like that. I’ve got money on you.”
“How much?” asked Jess.
“A month of Ozzie’s wages.”
“Yeah,” said Ozzie. “About ten bucks.”
They pulled up in front of the Returned & Services League (RSL) Club but Jess was in no hurry to get out. She snuggled her head into Ozzie’s chest. “Time’s going so fast,” she said. “I just want this to last a bit longer.”
He slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Me too.”
Mrs. Allan was still at the front door collecting tickets from the stragglers. “You look beautiful,” she said when they walked up.
“Yeah, thanks,” said Ozzie.
“I’m not talking to you!” She gave him the once-over. “Although I must say, you don’t scrub up too badly, for a footballer.”
“Ta, Mrs. Allan.”
“And seeing you reminds me, drop over on Monday, will you, love? I’ve got all the paperwork ready for your big trip.”
“Can we not talk about that tonight?” said Jess.
Mrs. Allan touched her arm. “Sorry, love.”
In the lobby the girls oohed and aahed over one another’s dresses while the boys stirred the hell out of each other over their girly gelled-up hair. Much to the disgust of the student committee, some boys were already pulling down the balloons and sucking in the helium.
“Hey, party people.”
Ozzie and Jess laughed.
“You sound like Mickey Mouse,” said Jess.
“And you look like him, too,” said Ozzie.
Johnno took another drag on the balloon. “Least I don’t look like a penguin.”
Jess giggled.
“Shut up, Johnno,” said Ozzie.
“You both look fine, all right?” Jess said.
“I’m just a little bit better,” said Johnno. “Girls better watch out tonight.”
“Aren’t you here with your cousin?” asked Ozzie.
“Yep.” He paused. “Lucky I’m not fussy.”
The dinner dance was held in the Sir Thomas Mitchell Room, named after an explorer who discovered much of inland Australia, thanks in part to his talented Aboriginal tracker. It adjoined the Las Vegas Showroom, where a band was tuning up on stage. The back section of the room was curtained off, and from behind came the insistent beeping of the new push-button slot machines, demanding to be fed.
After a longish speech by the deputy principal and an overdone roast, the music started. Some girls rushed over and grabbed Jess to dance. Johnno tapped Ozzie on the shoulder.
“You’re wanted in the boys’ room.”
Some others were already there waiting.
“You got it?” asked Bluey. He was holding a bottle of Coke in one hand, Sprite in the other. “Tell me you got it.”
“Boys …” Johnno reached down and pulled a small bottle out of his left sock, then another one from his right. “I got it.”
There was a cheer.
He unscrewed the caps and tipped the contents of the little bottles into the big bottles.
“Give it here,” said Bluey. He had a swig. “Now this is a party.”
The bottles were passed around and the talk soon turned to football.
“You two were on fire last week,” said Hoover.
“Got lucky,” said Ozzie.
“Five line breaks and twelve tackles don’t seem lucky to me.” Hoover didn’t play football but he knew a lot about it. He was a stats man.
“If you beat Golda on Sunday you’ll be legends,” said Bluey.
“Won’t be easy,” said Ozzie. “They haven’t lost all season.”
“Don’t they have some pro on their team?”
Hoover knew the score. “His name’s Gardner; played ten NRL games for the Roosters. Golda flew him up for just enough games to qualify for the finals. Last week he scored four tries.”
“He’ll be no match for us.” Johnno did a little shimmy. “I’ll fake one way, slide the other, and step right around him
.”
“Yeah. You’ll do the goose step,” said Ozzie.
As the boys were laughing, someone walked in.
“What’s going on in here?”
They froze. It was Mr. Penissi, senior math teacher and chief head-kicker of Yuranigh High.
He reached into the trash can and took out two empty minibottles of spirits. “Whose are these?”
No one answered.
He pointed at Johnno and Ozzie. “You two mightn’t be at school anymore but I can still boot you out of here tonight. You know that?”
They mumbled something that may have been a yes. Or a no.
“Well, answer the question.”
“Don’t know, sir,” said Johnno. “We saw them, too; we were just discussing what to do about it.”
There was a pause while Penissi eyeballed the boys. Only Ozzie and Johnno didn’t look at their shoelaces.
“Well, discussion’s over,” said the teacher. “Hand ’em here.” He pointed at the soda bottles.
“What for, sir?” said Bluey. “They’re just soft drinks.”
Penissi snapped his fingers and Hoover passed him the Coke. The teacher took a whiff. “This smells about as soft as your head, Blue.”
That got a few laughs, although not from Bluey.
“And the other one.”
Johnno reluctantly gave him the Sprite.
“Because I’m in a good mood I’ll let you blokes off with a warning. But if I see any more funny business you’ll be outside quick as I can say Jack Robinson. Understand?”
A few nods.
“Have a good night, fellas.”
“Shit!” said Johnno when he left. “That cost me twenty bucks!”
“Bloody Penissi, we should slash his tires,” said Bluey.
“Yeah,” said Hoover, “his Ford’s a piece of junk anyway.”
“Let’s do it!” said another boy called Boof. “We’d be heroes of the school.”
Ozzie was leaning against the wall but now he stood up. “Fellas,” he said, pointing at the door, “there are girls out there, waiting for us. And this is the one night in our lives that we actually look half-decent. Why waste time on Penissi?”
There was a pause as they weighed up the decision.
“S’pose you’re right,” mumbled Hoover.
Boof and Bluey grunted and the mood changed.
“Hey, Oz,” said Bluey. “You gonna do a Star Trek tonight?”
“What’s that?”
“Go where no man’s been before with Jess?”
The boys jeered.
Ozzie smiled but didn’t answer.
chapter 2
It was the last dance, and the two held each other close and quiet until Jess whispered, “Look.”
She turned Ozzie so he could see Johnno slouched back in his chair, cradling a glass of straight orange juice.
“What a sorry excuse for a Casanova,” said Ozzie.
“Shall we?” said Jess.
“S’pose we have to.”
Ozzie yelled and before long the three of them were swaying on the dance floor, Jess in the middle.
They sang together, Johnno on harmonies. The music finished and teachers wandered onto the floor, breaking up couples joined at the lip and shuffling them toward the exit.
“You kids be safe tonight, you hear?” said Mr. Penissi.
“We’re not kids anymore, sir,” said Johnno.
“S’pose you’re not.” He put his arms around Ozzie’s and Johnno’s shoulders. “I know I gave you blokes a hard time at school, particularly you, Johnno. But I hope there are no hard feelings.”
“None from me,” said Ozzie.
Johnno didn’t answer.
“I think it’s great that you two stayed around this year,” said the teacher. “For the town especially. Best football team we’ve had in years.” He leaned in closer, his breath smelling of mint mixed with something stronger. “But let me give you one piece of advice: don’t stay forever. This place will suck the life out of you if you’re not careful.”
When he’d moved on, Johnno said, “That bloke’s drunk on my booze!”
Ozzie couldn’t help but laugh.
The after party was at Bluey’s place. His dad was one of the few farmers who had access to the lifeblood of the country—water—and lots of it, rising from deep underground where it had laid for millions of years. It was used to grow cotton, and large square bundles of it dotted the landscape, ready for a truck to pick them up in return for a truckload of money. All of Bluey’s five older siblings had attended a wealthy boarding school in the city, but Blue was expelled, which is how he ended up at Yuranigh High.
The bonfire crackled and spat, a half-empty keg sat on the back of an SUV, and Bluey, Hoover, and Boof were off terrorizing chickens. On one side of the fire Jess was having a heart-to-heart with Jane Frawley, while on the other side Ozzie sat with Johnno.
“Ready for America?” asked Johnno.
“Dunno. Is America ready for me?”
Johnno sniggered. “Doubt it. One thing I’ve been meaning to ask you, Oz, how are you paying for it all? It must cost a fair bit.”
“Not really. Pop bought the airfare—had to work my arse off for it though. The rest is covered by the group. They have fundraisers, and rich people give them money.”
“Wish a rich person would give me money.”
“They will, you just have to work for them.”
“You sound like my mom.” Johnno was holding a stick in the fire, trying to set it alight. “I know I’ll have to get a decent job one day; thing is, football’s all I’m good at.”
“Me too.” Ozzie stared at the dancing flames.
“You know,” said Johnno, “I reckon we could get picked up by a half-decent team if anyone ever came out here to watch us. Make some real money.”
“Heard old Cyril’s gonna be at the game on Sunday.”
“The Broncos’ scout?”
“Yeah.”
“We better play well then.”
They high-fived.
Ozzie looked over at Jess, who was still deep in conversation.
“She doesn’t look too happy, mate,” said Johnno.
“Yep.”
“What are you planning to do about her when you go?”
A shrug, then Ozzie remembered something and grinned. “Bluey says he’s met a few American girls in the city. Heaps better than Aussie girls, he said. He told me if I don’t dump Jess I’m stupid.”
“Bluey’s the stupid one.”
Ozzie nodded at that.
“You got a good thing going,” Johnno continued. “If I were you I wouldn’t mess it up.”
Ozzie glanced at his best friend. It didn’t sound like him. “Look, Jess is great. You know her as well as I do.”
“You better hope that I don’t,” said Johnno.
Ozzie punched his shoulder. “But don’t you ever wonder what’s out there? That maybe there’s someone, something …”
Johnno’s stick was burning. He threw it into the fire. “All the time.”
chapter 3
Behind the goalposts the Yuranigh players sucked air like asthmatics, their shoulders slumped and eyes down. For eighty-eight minutes they’d busted their guts—and plenty of other body parts—to claw their way into a winning position, and now the football gods had snatched it away without so much as a clap of thunder.
No words could describe how they felt, but that didn’t stop Rambling Frank—the biggest and ugliest player on the team—from giving it a go.
“I’ll tell you what, Johnno, if that missed tackle loses us the bloody game then you’d better bloody well watch out.”
Johnno gave him a look. “Get stuffed.”
Frank punctuated each phrase with a stab of the index finger. “Don’t tell me to bloody get stuffed. I know where you bloody well live.”
“Shut up, Frank,” growled Mick. “And get your heads up, all of you.”
Slowly, all eyes lifted and focused on
their captain. Mick was a pig farmer, but he’d once played State League in the city. “Right,” he said. “The key here’s not to panic.”
The Golda supporters were still celebrating their team’s try. Car horns blew and beer cans flew. One landed in the middle of the Yuranigh huddle. Ozzie wondered if there was any beer inside.
Mick ignored it. “We’ll get the ball back one more time. Let’s make it count. Bash it straight down the guts for four tackles, then I’ll make a run down the blind side. Johnno, I don’t care what happens, get me the bloody ball.”
One of Mick’s eyes was half-closed, courtesy of an opponent’s fist designed to slow him down. It hadn’t. Ozzie knew they still had a chance. Mick had gotten them out of trouble before.
The conversion attempt was waved away by the touch judges, the ref checked his watch, and players jogged into position. Johnno tapped Ozzie on the shoulder.
“Be ready,” he said.
“You heard Mick,” said Ozzie. “Stick to the plan, eh?”
Johnno flashed a grin. “You know me.”
A group of Yuranigh followers bunched together, yelling encouragement.
“C’mon, you gutless wonders. Put in!” roared Jack.
“Free beer if you win!” screamed Wazza.
“Go, Ozzie! Go, Johnno!” Jess shouted.
Mrs. Allan waved her hat in the air.
Yuranigh kicked off and Golda played it safe with one-out runs up the middle. After five tackles their halfback put in a towering kick and the Golda team chased swiftly, trapping the Yuranigh fullback twenty yards out from his own line. The referee took another quick glance at his watch. There couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds left.
The dummy-half passed to Frank, who ran hard and straight until three defenders upended him. They rubbed his face in the dirt.
“Tackle two,” said the ref.
Sweeping up the ball with his left hand, Johnno scooted from dummy-half, dancing and jigging past tacklers until he was pulled down at the halfway mark.
“Tackle three.”
Another forward lumbered a few strides before crashing into a human wall.
“Tackle four.”
Receiving the ball, Johnno darted toward Mick on the short side of the field. The Golda captain yelled “thirteen,” Mick’s number, and two defenders readied themselves for a game-winning hit. Johnno shaped to pass, but then stepped off his right foot and cut back infield. Instinctively, Ozzie accelerated. He’d played so much footy with Johnno it was like he could read his mind.
