Page 5

Evan

“ Y ou know soccer isn’t a contact sport,” I tell my teammate, Connor, as I bandage his ankle.

We’ve been playing together on the same social indoor soccer team for the past few years, after another teammate, Jack, invited him to join us. At the time, Connor was dating Jack’s dad, and I hadn’t known what to think of that. Not because he’s gay or anything dumb like that, but would it make things weird if Jack’s dad broke up with the guy? At worst, we’d be down a player. At best, things would be guaranteed to be weird between him and Jack. But I needn’t have worried: Connor ended up engaged to Jack’s dad, and he has stuck with the team and has also become someone I’d even go as far as to call a friend.

Connor doesn’t give off the kind of vibes that suggest he’s into sports in general. He’s an events coordinator by trade, and a bit more effeminate than most of the guys on the team. But he’s fast on the pitch, and surprisingly brutal for a guy with a build so slim.

He scoffs. “It was a bad tackle. I rolled it as I went for it.”

“You’re lucky it didn’t break,” Jack —the polar opposite of Connor, with broad shoulders and huge, tattooed biceps— squats to inspect my first aid work. He’s a fireman, so I suppose he’s got more training in this kind of thing than I do. His American accent sounds so much smoother than ours when he adds, “Dad’s going to lose his shit when he realises you’re hurt.”

“It’s just a fucking sprain,” Connor snipes back at him. “I’ll ice it for a couple of hours and it’ll be right as rain.”

“Uh-huh. You know what Dad’s like. You’re spending at least a week on the couch.”

“Oh no,” Connor deadpans, “however will I cope?”

Jack arches a dark eyebrow at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be going suit shopping this week? You’re the wedding planner—”

“Events coordinator,” Connor interrupts him.

“Sure. Anyway, you’re the one who is supposed to be on top of all that shit, not me.”

“Maybe it’s your parent-y responsibleness kicking in,” Connor suggests playfully. “Wrangling your twins” —who, at three-years-old, only recently appeared as a huge surprise to Jack— “is forcing your brain to join the rest of us grown-ups in being organised.”

“That would be Leo doing the bulk of the organising,” Jack admits, referring to his live-in nanny. “He’s the organised one. He’s got a proper routine with the boys and everything.”

“It’s almost like it’s his job,” I joke, lamely. Then I look at Connor. “Can you walk like this?”

Jack and I help him to his feet and, after a wobbly second, he manages to limp around. “Like I said, it’s just a sprain. And,” he adds, pointing a finger at Jack, “before you go getting any ideas, it’s my left foot, so I can drive myself home.” Before Jack can protest, Connor points at my left hand, arching an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise you were married.”

“Oh.” I blink down at the shiny monstrosity on my ring finger, surprised to see it still there. I joined James at the school earlier this afternoon as part of our rostered parenting duties, assisting with set up for the school disco. At least we weren’t on the list to chaperone the dance itself.

After doing our bit, I came straight here, got changed into my soccer kit, and completely forgot I was still wearing my gaudy fake engagement ring. It’s funny how used to wearing it I have become over the past few months.

Chuckling, I wave my ring-clad hand dismissively. “Not married. It’s a long story.”

“Well, colour me intrigued…” Connor leans in, eyes glinting with curiosity and amusement. “Anything that starts with ‘it’s a long story’ is usually a lot of fun.”

I can’t exactly say he’s wrong. Nevertheless, it’s not something I really want to share with people I play soccer with semi-regularly. Especially not an actual gay man who might take offence at what James and I are doing.

Because I can admit it: pretending to be a gay couple to exploit the school’s ridiculous PR scheme is definitely dodgy.

Then again, is it really that bad, considering the school’s gross attempt to use minority groups to make themselves seem more inclusive than they really are?

Two wrongs don’t make a right, a voice in my head chides.

Fine. The voice is right. It is that bad.

“I promise I’ll tell you at some point,” I answer him, hoping that will be the end of the discussion. “But, for now, if you’re okay, I’m going to head back out there and see if we can salvage this game.”

When I came off the pitch to help, it left us down a player, and I can see Brett getting increasingly frustrated at the lack of support from the other guys on the team. He’s scowling, and even his dark man-bun seems to be wobbling ominously. (He takes his soccer very seriously, even if we are a social team who only play twice a month.)

With only twelve minutes of play left, I take my position on the pitch.

“Connor okay?” Brett asks, his dark eyes tracking the movement of the ball from one of the other team’s players to another.

“Yeah. Just a sprain.”

“Good.” He nods, then barrels towards the other team’s striker, determination etched on his face.

With some fancy footwork, he takes possession of the ball and then starts running it back up the pitch, towards the goal. He passes it to me, and I send it off to Hank, who takes a shot. Unfortunately, the goalie lunges and deflects the shot, but then Brett is suddenly in the right spot to intercept the deflection and kick it to the other side of the goal.

We all cheer and then set up for the goalie to resume play again.

When the final whistle blows, I’m panting and sweaty, and grinning broadly. I enjoy playing regardless of whether we win or lose, but close games like this one —especially where we walk away the victors— are always the most fun.

Plus, this beats running on a treadmill or jogging down the esplanade any day of the week.

“See you in two weeks?” Brett checks after he guzzles his second bottle of water for the night. His long hair is coming free from his bun, sticking to his red face in sweaty strands.

I’m kind of glad I’m bald. That looks uncomfortable and irritating.

“Sure,” I nod. “But I can’t do the game after that. I’ve been roped in to chaperoning my goddaughter’s overnight excursion to Brissie that day. It’s a musical theatre trip.” I smile, thinking of how excited Mia is to go and see a performance of Wicked with her drama class. “How bad can five fifteen and sixteen-year-olds be?”

Brett blinks at me, then guffaws. “Oh, mate ,” he wipes tears of laughter from his eyes after doubling over. He’s still trying to catch his breath. “I’d rather take my chances with a herd of three-year-olds.”

“I’ve got two of them if you’re volunteering,” Jack jokes, shouldering both his and Connor’s sports bags.

“I wasn’t,” Brett deadpans. Then he looks back at me. “My sister’s in her early twenties now, but my parents used to make me and my mates keep an eye on her when she was that age…and I’m pretty sure it scared half the guys off the idea of ever having kids, or at least daughters.”

“Don’t you have a kid?” I cock my head, and he nods. “Yeah, but Tom’s six and he’s easy going enough. Plus, his mum has him half the time, which makes it easier. That said, I am dreading his teenage years.” He shudders dramatically.

“These are theatre kids,” I wave him off. “Hardly the type to cause trouble.”

***

Oh, past-Evan, you sweet summer child.

Theatre kids, it turns out, are fiends . They’re loud and quirky and shameless. Their antics got us kicked out of Grill’d. If I wasn’t so worried about James’ blood pressure, I might actually have been impressed by the young hellions.

“Guys,” I cajole as I herd our group (which consists of Mia, two other girls, a boy, and a non-binary kid) through the winding, bougainvillea-covered path through Southbank parklands towards the Queensland Performing Arts Centre, “we’re going to need you to calm down. If you get kicked out of the show, I’m almost certain we’ll all get kicked out of the school as well.”

There are two other groups here with us tonight, but thankfully neither of those groups chose to eat at Grill’d with us. I get the feeling the other parents —in particular, the snobbish older couple who delighted in telling us they were both surgeons— would leap on any excuse to land us in hot water with Bronwyn.

“As if we’d ruin the show,” Darcy sounds scandalised, widening their bright green eyes at me in horror. “That’s, like, the worst thing any actor could do to another.”

“Sabotage,” Joey agrees solemnly. “We might be anarchists, Mister Bernardi, but we’re not monsters.”

Anarchists. Jesus. This coming from the kid attending the exclusive private school on the Gold Coast.

Were James and I ever this obnoxious as teenagers?

“He’s going to destroy the establishment…while driving Daddy’s Mercedes,” James leans in and whispers into my ear, making me snort.

“His dad drives a Tesla, actually,” I murmur back.

James tilts his head back and cackles, and I feel my usual surge of warmth and pride at having gotten my usually-too-serious best friend to laugh so vibrantly.

Joey makes a swooning sound and I look over to find him smiling widely at us, his hands folded over his chest. “I want that when I’m old,” he declares.

“I’m thirty-five,” I argue with a frown, feeling very much offended. Pushing my glasses back up my nose again, I add, “I’m not old .”

Joey, the smug little turd, just shrugs. “It’s almost two decades older than me. So, old.”

“Jay, if I dump him in the river with the sharks, can you back me up and say he jumped?”

The other four kids giggle and Joey rolls his eyes. “I was just complimenting your relationship.” The sadness that flickers over his face momentarily, only to be replaced by his usual smugness, gives me pause. I actually feel a bit uncomfortable and guilty, especially when he nonchalantly adds, “I don’t get to see many gay couples IRL, y’know?”

Well, shit.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell this kid James and I aren’t like that when I realise that, yeah, we are. As far as the kid can know, anyway. And I’m hit with a terrible feeling that we’re faking it while this kid is probably struggling with being a hormonal sixteen-year-old and whatever is going on with his sexuality on top of that.

James and I were privileged with our upbringings. We both liked girls, so we didn’t need to look anywhere special for representation of the way either of us felt. Nobody ever questioned us about whether we were sure we were straight, it was just assumed that we were, like it was the default setting. We didn’t really have social media the way kids these days do, either, so we could disconnect from any shitty peers once we were home.

James must feel the same way, because he clears his throat and awkwardly says, “That’ll change once you’ve got a bit more freedom, I’m sure.”

“As long as I move out of home, sure,” Joey agrees. “Dad’s under the impression that, if I hang out with enough girls, I’ll change my mind about them. He’s an idiot.”

“You’re not wrong— ow !” I rub my arm, where Jay just pinched it.

“We don’t talk smack about people’s parents,” he says. “Especially to their kid.”

“Who says ‘talk smack’?” Darcy laughs, while Mia goes pink and complains about how embarrassing we are.

One of the others, Rose, just shrugs and tells Joey, “If you need a beard for the formal next year, I’ll do it. It’ll get Mum off my back about why I haven’t got any interest in boys.” She looks at me and James and adds, “I don’t have any interest in anyone . I just want to dance. And sing.”

And, suddenly, I realise that this is a pretty decent group of kids after all.

They’re just a bit like gremlins and shouldn’t be fed in public.