‘Yeah,’ I admit. ‘If this is all life has for me, it wouldn’t matter if I existed or not. When I die, it won’t mean anything. Nobody will remember me.’
Mason smirks. ‘You know there are, like, a bazillion ways to have a happy life other than being famous, right?’
‘Does not compute,’ I say, in a jokey robot voice. ‘Explain.’
‘Well, my life is awesome,’ Mason says. ‘I work with people I like. Live with a mate. Play footy. Go to the gym. I don’t let bad stuff in. Simple. After what I went through, life’s too short. You can die at any moment. I could choke on this spaghetti. You could fall into that fishpond and hit your head. Life’s. Too. Short. The world needs more happy homos.’
I make vague noises of agreement, but I hide how utterly beautiful I find his worldview. I’ve never wanted a simple life. I chased glory. I never considered beinghappy.
I imagine leaving my life behind and riding alongside Mason in his monster truck on a road trip, him smashing his Red Bull, me smashing my Monster, both of us singing badly to ‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams’.
Two bees, nuzzling and making honey.
When we finish, Mason asks if I wanna go to his place. He reassures me Brayden’s gone out to a party. At least Brayden managed to do something right.
I say yes.
In his darkened bedroom, Mason fucks me on a double bed with yellowed, uncovered pillows that smell like his BO. He doesn’t seem to know you’re meant to put a towel on the bed before anal sex. He tries to use his spit as lube and I insist on real lube, so he has to raid Brayden’s room for a slimy, used tube of Wet Stuff. His rough trucker fingers scratch my hole as he lubes me up with a finger. I tell him my arse is nothing special. I’m so self-conscious of how bony and small it is compared to the big bubble butts I see in porn.
I tell Mason to slow down, and he does. He pushes inside me slowly, and looks me in the eye. He is gentle, careful, making sure nothing he does, no movement, hurts me in any way. I feel myself relaxing, opening up to take him in deep.
Once he is all the way in, before he starts thrusting, Mason folds his beefy body on top of me, his hairy, strong pecs pressing against my hairless, concave rib cage. He presses his mouth against mine, kissing me long and slow, his whiskers roughing up my skin.
When he pulls away, he says to me softly, ‘Don’t say a bad word about your arse ever again. Your arse is beautiful, just like you.’
15
STIFF
HAMMER
A whole fortnight without footy – if we have a bye, or if I’m injured – always leaves me feeling lost.
But I’ve never had a fortnight without footy where nobody wants me there.
It’s lonely.
The week of the bye was a shitshow. Wookie and Tessa double-teamed me after myNO RAGRETSInsta post and told me to take it down, which I did. The club issued a second statement, clarifying I was referring to having no regrets about shaving my head, not about my Pride Round comments, and it should not be seen as doubling down.
The statement did nothing to make people less angry. It just brought it to everyone’s attention again. My DMs flooded with outrage and support again. That prissy influencer Xander Sullivan made another video, standing outside Optus Stadium, demanding change from the Eagles in the form of a salaried LGBTQIA+ ambassador role (guess who he wanted to fill it?).
On the TV showThe Footy Bounce, Hardwick rebuked my attitude. Dunk and Katy were more middling, but even they were losing the ability to remain neutral about me. Worst of all, their guest was my former mentor, Steve Polak, who said he expected better from me.
That hurt. A lot.
On a different show,The Back Bar, a guest comedian shaved his head and said instead of going ‘full Britney’ he’d gone ‘full Hammer’. I was this big joke now.
That episode ofThe Back Bartriggered its own media outrage. First, the Free Britney army got up in arms about the singer’s mental health being mocked. The Alopecia Areata Foundation added that hair loss is never something to be ridiculed, which got echoed by a major cancer charity, and Beyond Blue who said mental health is also no laughing matter.The Back Barwas forced to issue their own apology, including the promise to listen and learn and educate themselves, and excluding the word ‘sorry’.
Nobody asked if my mental health was okay.
Except Richelle. She sent a long message asking how I was and offering to ‘hold space’ for me, whatever that meant. I probably shoulda taken her up on it. Instead I accused her of blackmailing me. She reckoned she had no idea what I was talking about and said she’d take a ‘conscious communication pause’ between us, but that she hoped I found ‘love, light and healing’ soon.
Things simmer down a bit in the week leading up to the Pride Game. I’m not allowed to come to training or to the captain’s run on Thursday, but I’m permitted to work out in the gym on Friday morning. It’s empty. The boys are preparing for the Pride Game I won’t be a part of.
As I lie on the bench press in the club gym on Friday morning, forcing the heavy weight of the barbell up and down over my chest, I have this sudden thought.
Do I deserve this? Am I the baddie?
