Zeke snoozes on and off after that. He gets moved to a ward for the rest of the night. I remember he was brought in naked, so Irun out to my car and bring him one of my hoodies and a spare pair of footy shorts.
Charlie calls Zeke’s phone, so I answer and let him know Zeke’s staying overnight. Charlie’s still in shock, back at his house with the Arab and the tradie and the women. He says nobody knows what to do or say.
I sit next to Zeke’s bed and knock back instant coffees until morning. I watch him sleep. Hot Italian angel. I never want to hurt him again.
Zeke doesn’t know he’s watching over me, too. I was ready to die rather than face today. I make it through a night I didn’t think I would, because he’s with me.
Around sunrise, a male nurse comes in to do obs, and he recognises me. No booing, no praise, just recognition. He asks what I’m doing here – don’t I have a game this arvo? I tell him yes, but this is more important, and I’ll stay here until I have to get ready.
I settle back on the chair. The nurse leaves and Zeke stirs, all groggy, surprised to see me beside him. ‘You’re still here.’
I smile at him. ‘Didn’t wanna leave in case ya needed something.’
‘You’re not very good at being a bully anymore,’ Zeke murmurs, the nicest insult he’s ever thrown. He closes his eyelids again. ‘But you got a game. And the DM. You gonna come out, or what?’
He falls asleep again without waiting for my answer. I still don’t have one. But Charlie was right. I can pre-empt the blackmailer and come out publicly. Or do nothing, and either he’ll out me, or he’s bluffing and nothing will happen.
My mind keeps drifting to Curtis, the bodybuilder I only met once. I didn’t know him, but he talked to me like he knew me.
The more I think about what he said, the more I know he was right.
‘THAT’S ENOUGH!’ The big bodybuilder at the head of the table is on his feet. He jabs his finger at me. ‘This is my house, and you’re a visitor, son. Show some goddamn respect. Sit your ass down, or you’ll be out on your ass.’
They all hate me. They want me out of here.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t wanna talk. I’m out.’
I head to the entry and leave. I charge down the street in Inglewood looking for my car. I’m too charged up to drive. I want to run, fight, bash.
I get to my car as a voice shouts behind me. ‘Wait, buddy – hold your horses!’
It’s an American voice. I open my car door, but the bodybuilder dude has sprinted to catch up with me.
‘I left your house, mate,’ I say. ‘Like you asked. Leave me alone.’
‘I can’t do that, son,’ the bloke says. ‘Have I got this right? You’re the homophobic AFL player from the news,but you’re gay?’
The accusation stings like sunburn; I dip my face to the concrete. No point in lying, but. He knows. By Sunday, everyone will know.
‘You’ve done a lot of damage to a lot of people, Hammer,’ the guy says.
‘You don’t know me from a bar of soap, mate,’ I snarl. ‘You got no idea what I’ve been through.’
‘Right back at you, hot stuff,’ he says.
I look up at him. It’s like he’s opening a door for me.
‘You think nobody knows your pain? You think it was easy for me, working out who I was in the seventies?’
‘Probably not,’ I say. ‘But you probably just ran straight through any cunt who got in your way.’
‘I wasn’t always this big,’ he says seriously. ‘When I was sixteen, I was small and skinny and terrified cos I was a freakin’ faggot and nobody wanted to know me. You think I didn’t hate myself like you hate yourself?’
I don’t have an answer for how he saw through me, like my anger is cellophane.
‘Back then everyone else hated fags pretty easy, too,’ Curtis says. ‘Black or white, religious or not. I was scared of thugs and fag bashers and racists. So I had to get tough. I hit the gym and I took gear and I boxed. I had to get hard to survive. You feel me?’
I nod.
