Page 2 of Poke the Bear

“I’m fine,” I insisted.

“Because menswear can look amazing on girls. I could introduce you to some really hot masc girls—”

“Nope,” I said, because this was well-worn territory.

“You might hit it off and then you’d get all the benefits of someone with masculine qualities while getting A grade head.”

“Still nope,” I said.

“Asexual then?”

If you’re wondering why my best friend was asking me such personal questions, here’s the reason. Everyone did, because I’d never had a boyfriend. Jack assured me I could come out to her as anything, as long as it wasn’t a bloody Volvo driver, but… I couldn’t answer her questions about my sexuality, not properly because I was twenty-two years old, and I’d never been kissed.

People said that I just needed to put myself forward more, but that was not what I wanted. It was old-fashioned bullshit, but…

I wanted to be swept off my feet. Have some guy see me across a crowded room and know I was his. Then I didn’t have to shuffle and be painfully awkward, like I always was when guys talked to me.

Then I’d know he was the one.

I sucked in a breath and then met her eyes, but before we could say anything the doors opened and we looked out onto a busy lobby. Cameras flashed outside as the photographers for the local media snapped shots of the players entering the hotel.

“OK, let’s head in before the real scrum begins,” she told me, pulling me through the crowd of pretty people, leaving me to apologise to those we bumped into as we went.

“Name?” the door bitch asked as we approached the door of the ballroom.

“Jack Maynard and her plus one,” my bestie said, striking a slight pose. “PR team for the Tigers.” The door bitch looked the two of us over and then nodded.

“Have a lovely night, ladies.”

And that’s when my anxiety started to spike.

The room was largely empty right now, staff rushing around and setting up the last of the tables, bar staff ensuring the fridges were well stocked. Australians liked to drink, but footy players were a whole other level, especially when the alcohol was free. TV cameramen started to adjust their gear, talking to each other over headsets, making sure they’d be able to capture everything for a live simulcast of the awards ceremony.

But it wasn’t hard to imagine.

We had many great artists, musicians, dancers and writers in Australia, but nobody caught the public’s attention like sports people. I sold carefully hand-painted shoes like mine at the markets, but the guy at the stall next to me sold cheap, mass-produced footy-themed items and he made money hand over fist. The rest of Australia might not give a shit about the state football leagues night of nights, but my home city did.

So how did it work?

After every match, the umpires gave points to the three players they thought were the best on field on that day, Jack had explained. The night was one long tally, counting the results until one player came out on top. They’d win the Magarey medal and be crowned the best of the best for this year. People actually sat at home and watched this.

And that had me shrinking back towards the walls.

Jack was chattering away with someone else on the phone, but I was seeing it, the massive ballroom full of players and their partners. Damn Laila, I thought, staring at the side of Jack’s face. Not just because Jack’s ex was a fucking flake, pulling away from my bestie every day until my friend was sobbing in my lounge room, wondering what the fuck had gone wrong. That was enough for me to want to hang, draw and quarter her. But… the traitorous thought came, no matter how I tried to stuff it down. I flushed as I thought it, feeling like a bitch, when Jack turned to me.

“Just hang here for a bit,” she said. “I’ll be right back. Apparently some of the players pre-gamed before they got here and…”

She shook her head sharply, knowing explanations weren’t needed, stalking off with a kind of determination that scared the shit out of me.

Right.

I went to lean back against the wall, jumping when the floor-length curtains they installed against them shifted. Maybe I could pull them aside and hide right under… I sucked in a breath and then pulled out my phone, jumping on my Instagram.

Everyone has places they feel confident and places where they don’t. Reality TV shows make good money pushing people into the places they aren’t confident and recording the results, but right here was where I could relax. I posted only my artwork on my profile and that was perfect because then people focused on what mattered most to me.

Gorgeous! one person wrote beneath a picture of shoes I’d spent hours hand colouring.

OMG, want! said another.

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