‘Sometimes when guys shave their heads out of nowhere, it’s a sign of mental health crisis,’ he says. ‘Are you okay? I’m an ambassador for Movember, and I know—’
‘Jeez, of course you fucken are,’ I snap. ‘Anambassador. You’re so good, aren’t you, Oshy? You want everyone to pat you on the tummy like a good puppy, don’t ya?’
I absolutely hate Oshy for pitying me. When he was the upstart always challenging me, at least that meant I was the big strong bull in the team he recognised as the one he wanted to lock horns with. Of course he annoyed the shit outta me by calling mechiefwhen I called himchamp, but in a way, it was a sign of respect.
His pity means he doesn’t see me as the Big Dog anymore.
Oshy takes a step back. ‘Yeah, you know what, fine,’ he says. ‘I was trying to help you, but some people don’t wanna be helped. Keep biting the hands of everyone who feeds you. See how it turns out.’
He leaves.
I drive away from the club ranting to myself about Oshy, and the AFL, and everyone. I hate Oshy. I also wish I could’ve not snapped at him. I just make everything worse. Every choice I make is another step into quicksand I’m too dumb to rescue myself from. I’m sinking.
That last DM sounded like the stalker or whatever is ramping up. But even if I do what he says – jump before I’m pushed – I don’t see how it works out any better. If I stay silent, I remain public enemy number one. If I speak up, the only people who like me now will hate me, and the people who hate me now willeither never forgive me anyway, or force me into some Oshy-style rainbow-poster-boy role I would hate.
I can’t win.
I automatically gravitate to Hammersmith Automotive, the only place I know I won’t be chased out by angry villagers with pitchforks.
When I walk into reception, Raelene isn’t warm like usual. She asks if I’m holding up okay, and when I say it’s been rough, she says, ‘Well, free speech, I suppose …’
Mick, Doug’s worker, walks past me on his way back to the dyno and fistbumps me heartily. ‘You’re a bloody legend, mate,’ he insists, snapping a selfie with me. ‘Sticking it to the woke Nazis. Fuck ’em up. Give it time, you’ll be seen as a hero.’
I’ve never felt less heroic after a fan selfie.
Doug’s got both hands coated in grease and his face twitches with annoyance when he sees me. ‘Bit busy today, bro,’ he tells me. ‘What’s up?’
I lean against the hoist. ‘Nuffin.’
‘Got nowhere else to go?’ Doug smirks. ‘Not playing tonight, ay?’
‘Club managed me out. Nothing to do with footy. All fucken political.’
Doug shakes his head. ‘I told you not to be a dickhead about the Pride shit. Faggots get hell angry about that. Shoulda kept your opinions to yourself.’
‘Yeah, no shit,’ I say.
‘Is the club mad?’
‘Yeah, pissed,’ I admit.
‘Roo?’
‘Disappointed.’
‘Sniper?’
‘Same. They all are.’
‘What about Mum and Dad?’
I shrug. ‘Mum understood. She’s more worried about the online crazies coming after me in real life. Dad reckons I’m right, but said to keep my head down so it blows over.’
‘It’ll blow over,’ Doug says. ‘Just stop being a dickhead and making it worse.’
So easy to say that when you’re not in the eye of the storm.
‘I got free time all weekend,’ I say. ‘Could do a video for your socials to promote your business, like you kept asking me for?’
