Page 75 of Begin Again Again

Beth chewed her lip. “Maybe not? I have to get on top of the inbox and I might have to search for some new share houses too. No one’s gotten back to me yet.”

“Ah.” Lara turned her back.

Beth watched her shift around in her Lululemon leggings. There was a pinch in their relationship, a pressure was building. Beth didn’t know how to deal with it. If she could move out, the physical space might make it easier to set boundaries. Then she and Lara could go back to watching movies and long comfortable phone calls and Thai dinners together.

Lara whirled to face her. “Hey, have you heard from Byron?”

Beth’s heart jolted at the name. “Um, we messaged a bit last night.”

“Has he mentioned anything about football?”

“Derek Hardiman, you mean?”

“Not exactly…” Lara wore the same smile she’d once had while supergluing coins to the newsroom floor. Beth’s stomach fell. “You went digging, didn’t you?”

Lara swayed Angus back and forth in the style of a supervillain stroking their cat. “Maybe…”

“Fuck, well… what did you find?”

“I thought you didn’t want to know?”

“Only if I didn’t have to look at your smug face! But clearly you found something.”

“Did I?”

Beth shot her a hard look and Lara dropped the grin. “Look, I was up late last night! Curiosity got the better of me. It’s nothing bad, I promise.”

“So what is it? Something to do with football?”

“Here.” Lara strode to the dining table and picked up her iPad. “I saved it for you.”

Beth took the iPad. It was open on a news website and the headline,‘Young Hammerhead This Year’s Prime Pick’jumped out at her. She remembered the shark tattoo on Byron’s back. “Who are the Hammerheads?”

“An AFL team.”

Beth’s heart pumped painfully against her chest. “So, Byron plays AFL?”

“Just read the article.”

But Beth’s gaze had stuck on the accompanying picture. Byron soared through the air after a yellow ball, his sleeveless black and white jersey exposing his muscular torso. But it couldn’t be a current photo. His hair was longer, his face thinner. He was young, Beth realised, probably still a teenager. His face had a ruthless, almost androgynous beauty. God, if she was his age, she would have beenobsessedwith him. She also would have kept it to herself. She wasn’t a hideous kid, but she’d definitely grown into her looks. Byron, on the other hand, was clearly one of the zero percent of people that were gorgeous teenagers.

Lara snorted. “Are you ever planning on reading the article?”

Embarrassed, Beth scrolled down to the text.

The Hammerheads have closed their 2014 season by selecting Byron Thomas, pick seven in the national draft. The Melbournian stands at 195cm and kicked 32 goals for the Oakleigh Charges last year. A composed player with a strong kick, Thomas ran the twenty-metre sprint in 2.92 seconds. Insiders say he’s a strong contender to play senior football next year. The Hammerheads were delighted to read his name, coach Brett Murphy saying he admired his work throughout 2014. The eighteen-year-old has been accepted to study psychology at Monash University—

Beth knew Byron had studied psychology, but it was still strange to see it in print. Even stranger than the proof he’d been a professional football player. Beth supposed she’d already guessed that to be the case. He had that beautiful house and his flatmatewasDerek Hardiman. Had they played together? Had he been good? Had he been injured? For the first time, Beth wished she knew more about Australian Rules Football.

“Are you done?” Lara asked, easing Angus back in his highchair.

Beth shook her head and kept reading.

The eighteen-year-old has been accepted to study psychology at Monash University and enjoys camping with mates and going to gigs. He’s a lifelong Hammerheads supporter and when asked if this is a dream come true, Thomas didn’t hesitate.

“One hundred percent. I’m absolutely pumped for next year. I’m gonna give it everything I have.”

Beth tasted bile. She couldn’t pinpoint what had made her uneasy, maybe because she couldn’t imagine Byron saying he was ‘absolutely pumped’ about anything. Not wry, smirking Byron, he of the eternally held silence.

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