Page 3 of Poke the Bear

I knew they didn’t actually want them, because I didn’t sell that many via my website, but still. I took a weird kind of satisfaction from the viewer experiencing a feeling of need for my shoes, even if it was just for a minute.

These are so cute!!!

I smiled at the sight of all of the emojis that followed that, then flicked over to my messages. The usual spam from people wanting to ‘collab’ but not really, expecting me to send them free stuff, despite not really having developed a following or wanting me to feature their brands in my work, even though our products were completely incompatible. I deleted those messages until I found one worth reading.

Hey, it said, this is freaking weird, me messaging you like this, but I just wanted to say how amazing your work is. I love it! I wish I could afford… I smiled, knowing exactly what that was like. I was forced to use all the second hand Chucks I could find in charity shops, then photograph all the imperfections as I listed them, to make sure customers knew what they were getting. But I just wanted to say you’re freaking amazing, the message continued. Don’t give up.

I looked down from the screen, not seeing the ballroom just then, but this. The freedom to spend my days creating, not serving people overpriced coffee. The thought was like a mirage, tantalising in the distance, luring me forward, always forward.

But I never stumbled into the oasis.

My parents were quietly tearing their hair out, only slightly mollified when I started painting clothes, shoes rather than canvases, because they at least could see that as somewhat useful, not like art.

If they were going to put anything up on the wall, it’d be a footy poster for Dad or a ‘noice’ painting from IKEA for Mum. The idea that people might make weird and wonderful works of art, not for aesthetic reasons, but to represent… Those strange states of human consciousness, from the ugly to the beautiful and everything in between, was beyond them.

But one day… I knew what the chances were of making it big. Our lecturers made that clear at art school. And especially my style of work. Not cutting-edge postmodern stuff, nor classically skilled paintings that would grace the great homes of the rich either. I made quirky, weird little creatures and had them capering all over my shoes, my bag, my clothes, unable to keep them locked down and inside my head.

It felt like my work didn’t fit anywhere.

But here, on Insta, people didn’t give a shit about the Western tradition of art or the gallery system. People liked what they liked and every emoji, every response made my heart swell.

Right before the doors opened.

My eyes jerked sideways, and I sank further back now, people strolling in, joking, talking to each other, looking so fucking alive. Of course they were, this was the most important night of the year and a free piss up, so spirits were high. I thought I was doing a very good job of hiding away, as I grabbed my phone, ready to text Jack. I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to be or what I was supposed to do until…

They were the loudest, snapping my attention away from my contact list and I knew why. The Tigers had won again this year, and the team were the golden boys of the league.

But none more than him.

There were fan pages made about him on social media, snippets of his best plays and his warm up routines posted. Guys analysed his style, recounted his latest antics when they came into the cafe I worked at, and women? They sighed over his golden good looks. Adam Farrelly was tall, taller than almost every other player, which was saying something, and moved like an actual tiger, with an unconscious grace. His thick blond hair had been allowed to grow long, something that had the older generation tutting even as girls sighed over the thought of running their fingers through it.

He was also the frontrunner to win the Magarey medal.

I watched him like I would a TV clip, my eyes taking in those sharp cheekbones, tracing the line of those broad shoulders, thick thighs as he prowled forward. His suit seemed to cling to his massive frame, barely able to contain it, but none of that prepared me for this.

The guy next to him was nudging and jostling him, obviously putting shit on Adam before the ceremony started and while Adam grinned along with it, his eyes shifted. Scanning the large ballroom, perhaps for his wife or girlfriend? Maybe looking for a drink?

Nope.

Those keen blue eyes skimmed over everything with a remarkable ease, right up until he saw me.

I stepped back hard. Disappearing into the curtains wasn’t an idea, it was an absolute need now, as my fingers went to the fabric to pull it around me, hide me from this.

I said I wanted a guy, my guy, to look across a crowded room and only see me, but right now I was rethinking that idea. His eyes seemed to burn brighter and brighter blue as they went wide, flicking everywhere to take me in. Then he took a step towards me.

Chapter 2

Adam

“What up, motherfucker!”

I’d no sooner gotten out of the hire car the team had sent around to collect me, than Darryl launched himself at me. He was a teammate and more than that, my best friend. We’d come up the ranks together, when we were still in the under 18s team, but right now? He launched himself at me, as if in a tackle, forcing myself to brace my legs and wrap my arms around him or fall backwards.

Going arse over tit was apparently not what we were supposed to do on the red carpet, Jack had been very firm about that. Darryl just laughed, rubbing his hand through my hair that Jack’s hairdresser had worked very hard to style, then sprang back with a laugh.

“Medal winner for sure here,” he said, punching me in the arm, then turned to the nearest photographer. “Get your shots now, boys, because this fella here is gonna walk out with a shiny bit of gold around his neck.”

I elbowed him in the ribs but forced myself to smile for the cameras. Never let the press catch you looking pissed, Jack had said, except on the field. I could look like I was going to punch the teeth down another bloke’s throat during a game, but not off it.

---