Page 2 of After the Siren
He nodded.
She leaned forward and tapped the space bar. The clip sprang back to life.
Round 23, Sharks versus Falcons. The game to decide who would make the eight. Scores level. Twenty seconds to go. A mark thirty metres out from goal. It had happened so fast, he hadn’t realised the ball was in his hands until he’d hit the ground. No time to play on, no time to do anything but go back and line up the shot. He could have recited the commentary off by heart.
What a moment for this young man.
Twenty seconds. Mouthguard. Laces. Walk back.
Thirty metres out and almost directly in front. The atmosphere down here is electric.
Siren.
A shot after the siren for Bestavros. And this could really be a moment of redemption, couldn’t it?
Breathe. Spin the ball. Breathe. Look up. Breathe.
It could be–all is forgiven if he gets this through. And he’d have to try pretty hard to miss from here. All they need is a point. You’d want a goal, in his position, but a point would do it.
One step back. Three steps. Five steps. Ten steps. Fifteen seconds gone already.
He’s taking his time. Trying to find that composure. What a chance to make up for a disappointing season and repay the Sharks for taking a chance on him.
Breathe. Spin the ball. Breathe.
You could hear a pin drop.
He’d known before the ball left his boot that it was wrong. All wrong. He watched it and felt it at the same time: the awkward connection between his laces and the leather, the thud as the ball cannoned into the chest of the defender. The incredulous roar of the crowd.
And he’s kicked it straight into the man on the mark! Absolutely extraordinary. He’ll be taking a good hard look at himself in the mirror tonight. What a cracking victory for the Falcons–and a real shocker from Bestavros. You’d think his days are numbered now.
Yeah, it’s a pity. Sometimes these players who dominate at the State level just don’t have what it takes. A gamble for the Sharks that didn’t pay off.
Theo let his breath go as the footage cut to the Falcons celebrating. Video Theo was still in the same place, other players eddying around him. He shied away from remembering the rest of it – his own nails digging rusty divots into his palms as he tried to stop his hands from shaking, the cold sweat in his eyes, the nausea creeping up his throat as he walked back to the race. A thump on the back or a squeeze on the shoulder from a teammate.
He and Priya continued watching as Jake Cunningham, Falcons fan-favourite and pest-in-chief, bounded up to Theo and held up his hand for a high five. Theo shook his head. Jake said something, then shrugged and jogged backwards, blowing Theo a kiss.
Theo realised he’d clenched his fists in his lap.What a dick. Even Aleksandar Yelich, the Falcons captain, had thought Jake’santics had been a bit much – he’d said, ‘Sorry about him,’ as he’d clasped Theo’s hand. And then, ‘Bad luck, happens to everyone,’ with a tilt of his head towards the goals.
‘Who’s that?’ One of Priya’s glossy mauve fingernails tapped Jake’s face on the screen.
‘Jake Cunningham.’ His newteammate. Ohjoy.
‘What did he say to you?’
‘“Thanks for that, mate, couldn’t have done it without you.”’ Theo tried to unclench his jaw.
‘So ... he’s not going to be your new best friend?’ There was a note of laughter in Priya’s voice that almost made him smile in return. But it was probably going to be another couple of decades before he found the whole thing funny.
‘Probably not.’
‘Seems like a dick.’
‘Google him.’
Priya snatched up her phone. On the laptop screen, the countdown to the next video had started. Theo closed the tab before Priya could see what it was. He hadn’t shown any of his friends theFull Forwardskit that had aired a couple of days after that game. Priya would have blown her top, and he hadn’t had the energy for that. He still didn’t.
There’d been a time when Theo thoughtThe Footy Showwas the peak of poor taste in football media. He’d been wrong.Full Forwardwas the Gen-Z version, just with even fewer boundaries and in even poorer taste because it was on YouTube rather than broadcast television. The hosts were all men, all white and all douchebags. They had a segment called ‘Woke Wednesday’, where they heaped scorn on things like women who played professional football being paid a liveable income. But because it was footy, a bit of garden-variety misogyny, racism and homophobia hadn’t stopped them from being accepted as part of the discourse. Occasionally, when theywere punching up, they were quite funny. Unfortunately, they preferred to punch down.
