“But what if I mess it up? What if I let him down?”
“Then he’ll get over it. He’s a big boy, and he’s got some learning to do, I’m sure, but don’t back away because that’s easier than having to be vulnerable.”
“Christ, you’re good at this,” Sal mumbled into the blanket. “Life shit, I mean.”
“Yeah, tell that to the woman who didn’t leave her bed for months while her amazing sister-in-law flew up to visit constantly to take care of her husband and kid while she was completely clocked off.”
“That was different!”
“It wasn’t.” Beth rubbed a hand through Sal’s hair, gently massaging the base of their scalp. “We’re all stupid, Sal. We all fuck up. But you don’t need to have everything figured out to be in a relationship.”
Sal thought of the moment they’d told their mother they wanted to go by different pronouns. How sure they’d been that everything would work out. They hadn’t, and maybe that was when they’d gotten scared. Started to believe no one would ever really understand them, unless they were carrying as much baggage about their own gender as them. Their own hearts. Then they imagined Curtis, standing outside Byron’s office, bracing himself to go in and say he wanted to date his sister.
Had they ever thought anyone would do that for them? No. But he had. From the start, he’d worn his heart on his sleeve—bending and changing as best as he could, trying to make it work.
He’d been the brave one, Sal realised. And that was hard and beautiful, just like it was hard and beautiful to think they might have to take another leap, risk more rejection; have something to lose in the game of love.
“Ooh,” Beth said suddenly. “Footy’s on.”
Sal glanced at the screen where a hot blonde was standing on the sidelines, interviewing Patrick Normal. “Oh God…”
“Have you texted Curtis? About the game?”
“No. He toldmeto watch today and I never got back to him, which shows what a useless wang I?—”
Beth let out a little scream.
“What?” Sal demanded, but they’d already seen it. The TV camera had panned over the field, showing the Sharks warming up by the goal posts. Sal would have always zoned in on Curtis like a homing pigeon, but this time, it wasn’t necessary. The man Sal had spent weeks obsessing over was standing tall in the midst of his teammates, his rainbow boots stark against the green grass. Sal blinked, unsure if this was some Wizard of Oz colour glitch. Curtis’ boots stayed rainbow, the camera zooming in on them, highlighting them to the thousands of people in the stands and millions of people watching at home.
Beth squinted at the TV, her hand searching for Sal’s and holding it tight. “They’re pride colours, right?”
“Yeah,” Sal whispered, barely able to breathe. “That’s—Yes. They’re pride colours.”
But it wasn’t just the boots. As the camera panned upward, Sal saw the armband on Curtis’ left bicep. It was subtle, less than an inch wide, but the purple, white and yellow stripes were clear, even on TV. The colours of the non-binary flag.
“Oh God,” Sal heard themself say. “Oh my God, Curtis...”
“Impressive,” Beth said. “I did not see this coming but I’ve gotta say, I am genuinely fuckingimpressed.”
Sal nodded, unable to take their eyes off the screen. The camera was holding on the man who said he wanted to be their boyfriend. They’d be the first openly gay dude in the AFL if that was what it took. Their heart felt like it was full of hot water, swelling bigger with every second they took in his bright blue eyes and striped armband.
“Shit,” Beth said, unmuting the TV. “What are they saying about him?”
The commentary came through loud and clear.
“Curtis Ingram, working a veryuniquelook for this preliminary final,” a male pundit said. “I think we can allunderstand what he’s trying to say, but he might be looking at a fine for this little, uh, uniform mix-up.”
“Fuck you!” Beth howled, but Sal was barely listening. They were looking at the armband. At Curtis’ easy smile as he stretched his legs and laughed with his teammates, wearing the same colours Sal had donned at protests—symbols of strength and defiance. And he’d worn them in a national game, for everyone to see. Forthemto see.
It was a quiet statement, and yet it was simultaneously the loudest demonstration of non-binary allyship Sal had ever seen. They’d read about queer joy, but this was the first time that they actually felt it. Light and sweet. It was so good to be known. To be supported by someone who didn’t have to stick their neck out for you, but did it anyway. It was so overwhelming they could hardly look at it, and yet they didn’t tear their eyes from the screen until the camera finally moved on, scanning the Hawks players in their white and black boots and yellow jerseys.
“Oh fuck,” Sal muttered. “What does this mean?”
Beth laid a hand on Sal’s shoulder and squeezed tight. “I think it means Curtis Ingram has your back.”
A lump the size of the sun swelled in Sal’s throat. “Yeah. I think that too.”
“So,” Beth said. “The real question is, do you want him there?”
