‘You look tough, but you’re not,’ Curtis says. ‘Your bitch ass can’t handle that God gave this cross to you. You’re suffering. Don’t tell me this feels like a good way to live, son.’
‘It’s not,’ I admit. ‘It’s like I’m trapped in quicksand and can’t get out.’
‘I learned to love myself when I accepted reality, rather than running from it,’ Curtis says. ‘I didn’t fit in the world I was born into. You don’t, either.’
I’m shocked he’d say that. It’s mean, brutal, unfixable.
Curtis notices my fallen face. ‘What? You want me to tell you you’re normal, Hammer?’ he says roughly. ‘You’re not, son. You don’t fit. You know you don’t fit.’
‘But then what the fuck am I meant to do?’ I demand. ‘You can’t just get here and diss me.’
‘I’m not dissing you; I’m trying to help you,’ Curtis says. ‘You arenevergonna fit. Boys like you don’t slot into the gay scene. Boys like you don’t slot into pro football. You keep looking for a Hammer-shaped space in the world, but it doesn’t exist. You gotta do what I did. You gotta make it yourself.’ He stabs his thumb at his pec, where his stringer tank gives way to hard muscle. ‘This Louisiana boy, living in Australia, is the biggest misfit out,’ he says proudly. ‘Some people like me and some people hate me.That’s life, kid. But I carved my own path. I made it. That’s how you’ll get through this, too. Make your Hammer-shaped space. And when you stand in that space, you won’t feel too big or too small. You will thrive, cos you’ll be exactly where you belong.’
When Zeke wakes up properly around eight, I tell him I need to get ready for my game.
But I don’t go straight home. I drive south, Curtis’ words in my ears.
It’s time.
I rehearse the conversation a dozen times as I drive to Hammersmith Automotive, but when I rock up to the yard, there’s a second car parked there. Mick’s red GT.
Goddammit. It’s a Sunday. I know Doug spends his Sundays here tinkering with his passion projects, but why is bloody Mick here, too? I need Doug alone.
When I rock up in the reception area, I pace behind the counter, waiting for Doug, when something catches my eye – something familiar. Before I can retrace my steps, Mick walks into the reception area, sits at Raelene’s computer and opens some car parts database.
‘Here to see your brother, mate?’ he asks. ‘He’s in the dunny.’ He pauses. ‘Don’t you have a game today?’
‘Yeah, this won’t take long,’ I say shortly.
Mick nods absent-mindedly, finds what he was looking for, and closes the car parts program.
Suddenly, my eye catches the familiar image. It’s in a background web browser window on Raelene’s computer: an Instagram account with an Eagles logo profile picture.
The same anonymous account that’s been blackmailing me.
Mick goes to stand up from the computer, and I lurch forward. I grab him by the collar and slam him against the wall behind Raelene’s desk. ‘You dog cunt!’ I shout.
I’ve seen red. I wanna kill him. I press him hard against the bricks and take a jab at his guts while shouting, ‘You blackmailing grub! You piece of shit!’
Mick’s shouting, pushing me back, but I’m stronger.
Suddenly, Doug is shouting, clawing at my back and tearing me off Mick. I shove him. His munted face looks shocked, then turns dark with a look I’ve never seen before: like I’m everything he hates in the world; like he wants to fucken kill me.
Doug winds up and delivers an uppercut right to my jaw.
I reel backwards, trip over the computer’s power cord and lose my balance, falling on my arse and whacking my head on the desk.
‘Your brother’s a psycho!’ Mick shouts. ‘Came at me out of nowhere!’
‘What the fuck, Kade?’ Doug shouts. ‘What did you come at Mick for?’
My jaw and my skull are both killing me, sandwiching my head in a vice of pain. ‘He’s been blackmailing me!’ I spit, disentangling myself from the power cord and causing a monitor to slide off its stand. ‘He sent me these fucked-up DMs on Insta.’
My brother leers at me. ‘No he didn’t, you idiot. I did.’
Doug and I sit on milk crates in the sun at the back of his workshop while he smokes.
I’ve never seen his munted face look so smug.
