‘On its way to you now,babes,’ Ahmed calls, with the same sweetness.
Xander narrows his glare at Ahmed and mouthsWhat the fuck?to us before calling, ‘Why are you dusting chocolate over the espresso martinis, doll? It’s not a cappuccino.’
‘That’s how we garnish it, babes,’ Ahmed calls back. ‘Be right with you in a jiffy.’
‘Well, that’s literallynothow you garnish an espresso martini,’ Xander says. ‘Just three coffee beans in the froth. That’s it.’
‘Well, we garnish it with chocolate here,’ Ahmed replies, adding an extra-aggressive cloud of chocolate dust to Xander’s cocktail for good measure.
Brayden taps Mason’s forearm and whispers. ‘I love when two bottoms fight. It’s like watchingReal Housewives. Someone’s gonna get a drink thrown in his face.’
Ahmed brings Mason’s pint and our espresso martinis over. They look fine to me.
‘Might be the last time I drink at this bar,’ Xander says frostily.
‘Oh no, we may never recover,’ Ahmed says, with supreme disdain. ‘I’ll be in the back, sobbing and rending my garments.’
Brayden snorts and I quickly hide my own smirk behind my fist.
Ahmed walks back to the bar, flipping his tea towel over his shoulder as he does.
‘Wow,’ Xander says, his eyes surveilling the rest of us until there are no signs of laughter. ‘I guess some people don’t want to stay in business long.’
That threat hangs over the rest of the conversation, and it should make me more wary of Xander than I am. But when Mason and Brayden need to head off to a friend’s event, Xander surprises me by insisting I don’t abandon him and join him at the Court.
We end up walking through the piss-stink of the Northbridge streets to the Court side by side. Xander pretends not to notice regular peasants gawking as he passes them, though he occasionally deigns to wave at someone he follows back on social media.
As we walk, Xander monologues at me, but it’s the most insightful ten minutes I’ve ever had with him. His father works in Dubai and only visits the family home in Perth a few times a year. His mother is a socialite and, if she’s home, she’s either drinking with friends or zoned out on pills. Neither of them have ever seen the reality-TV shows he was on. He once tried to physically show his father the trailer on his phone, and his dad sneered and took a work call. Xander reckons his only friend growing up was his Pomeranian dog – the infamous Charlie – and that he’s been sad ever since he died. He says people imagine he’s very social but he rattles around the family mansion in Dalkeith alone almost every day.
‘People knowofme,’ he explains. ‘But they don’t actually know me.’
Xander reckons that when he was promoted as an openly gay candidate on reality TV, he copped a massive wave of homophobic hate, and it fuelled him and gave him a sense of purpose for the first time.
‘And that’s why I fight so hard,’ he says. ‘I’ll never let anyone go through what I went through. Not without speaking up. So you’ll come with me to this protest, won’t you?’
After that, it’s kinda hard to say no.
Due to that walk with Xander, I find myself in a crowd of fifty people at Mineral Resources Park on Wednesday arvo, protesting at the Eagles headquarters.
I joined the protest to help smooth over the situation between Xander and the Tool Shed. If Xander sees a staff member rockup, maybe he’ll back off the bar. I remember the ruckus when he went after that bakery. He didn’t let up until that old bloke was forced to close. I can’t let Curtis lose the Tool Shed. I don’t want to lose it, either. It’s the only thing giving my life meaning.
Showing up is also a chance to suck up to Xander, which makes me a sellout. But he mentioned that music producer and it would be stupid of me – negligent, really – not to try to find a way to meet him, right?
The biggest reason I join the protest makes me less a fame whore and more an actual one. Mason’s going. I could have sworn I felt a vibe between us the night we met, but the last two times I’ve seen him have been fleeting. I’ll get to know him better at the protest.
Using a protest to get closer to a hot boy. Teenage me would punch me in the face.
The Eagles have obviously been tipped off about us coming. The players are meant to be training, but they’ve been ushered inside. Two security guards are standing sentry at the front, while four cop cars are stationed in the carpark.
I’m not sure if Xander organised the protest or if he’s just the most famous person here. Either way, he ends up with a megaphone and leads the crowd in a series of angry chants.
It’s a weird crowd. Maybe half of us are holding banners aboutNo to homophobiaandFootball is for everyoneandAFL shame on you. The rest seem to be members of some socialist activism group, who have simply made this the protest they happen to go to today, carrying signs about their own completely unrelated causes, from anti-racism to anti-fracking to anti-literally all cops existing.
I spend the protest with Mason, Brayden, Vince from the bar, and two of Mason’s Centurions teammates, who monopolise Mason by discussing last weekend’s game, something I can’t contribute to, so my plan of getting to know Mason is thwarted again.
‘Finally, some movement,’ Xander says, as the security guards step away from the doors. He raises his megaphone and calls, ‘Is the club president going to address us?’
His hope is immediately undermined. Two staff members bustle out the doors with Hammer in tow. He’s wearing the club polo and training shorts, gaze trained on his shoes except when he steps into the waiting car and glances up, I guess to see the mess he’s made.
