The Crush (2 page)

Brown sugary foam showered the Mongrels as one of their teammates shook up a can of Coke and sprayed it around the change room. Several other players grabbed their own cans and retaliated before scrubbing the fizzy dregs into their captain's scalp. Laughing, Matt flicked back his wet hair and grabbed two of his mates to belt out the team song.

Chorus after chorus echoed along the subterranean corridors beneath the grandstand until the guys were hoarse. Resurfacing into the warm sunlight, they gathered in the main car park of the Princes Boys College grounds. A couple of snarling Lions players walked past and ‘accidentally' bumped into them. That angered the Mongrels but Matt
calmed them down. This was their moment. No one was going to spoil it for them.

‘We did it, Matty! We did it!' Chris Pearce said, shaking his mate by the shoulders. ‘Three more wins and we're in the grand final!'

‘Bring 'em on. I'm that pumped I could play all three teams now.'

‘That's a Mongrel talking.'

Chris slapped Matt on the back, sending sharp pains dominoing throughout his body. He was amazed that he was still able to stand after all the punishment. He'd need so many icepacks when he got home, he might as well camp in the freezer.

‘Legendary kicking game, buddy,' Matt added. ‘You won us the match.'

‘Listen to it. You're the guy who ran sixty metres down the paddock and scored five seconds before the final siren. They should martyr you, man.'

‘Don't you have to be dead first?'

‘Well, you're brain dead, aren't ya?'

‘Hey!' Matt swung a fist in his best mate's direction.

Chris easily dodged it and laughed. ‘That try was unbelievable. It's a wonder those talent scouts aren't signing you up right now.'

‘What talent scouts?'

‘
C'mon
. You saw them. That fat bloke and black guy sitting in the grandstand with clipboards. Word is they were asking a lot of questions about you.'

‘You're lying.'

‘Nup. They stopped Hazem and asked if you had a manager.'

‘Yeah, okay. Ha ha. You can stop joking now.'

‘I ain't joking. It's the truth. I swear.'

Matt stuck out his hand. ‘On our friendship?'

‘On our friendship,' Chris answered, shaking it.

Matt's jaw dropped. Chris wasn't mucking around. Two talent scouts after him? No way!

‘Who else did they ask about?'

‘Who do you think?'

Chris eyeballed Aaron Blackwell, the captain of the Princes Boys College team. He was the best player in the district by far. A giant since the age of eleven, he outmuscled, outplayed and out-thought his opponents. His teammates idolised him and all the girls thought he was hot. He had tanned skin, spiky black hair, brown eyes, a square jaw, broad shoulders, thick powerful arms and legs, and pecs and a ‘six-pack' carved into his chest. A modelling agency had signed him up to a twelve-month contract flogging off surf wear. If he had any more tickets on himself, he'd be a scalper.

His good looks couldn't save him at that moment though. The legendary former Australian captain and coach of the Lions, Johnny ‘Knuckles' Blackwell, was in his face. On the sidelines, he jabbed a powerful finger into his son's chest and blamed him solely for losing the game. ‘You're a disgrace, y'hear? That's the worst game I've seen in years from any of my sons. You let a bunch of rejects beat you. I would've pulled on a pair of boots myself if I knew you were going to play that bad!'

‘I'd hate to be in his shoes tonight,' Matt said.

‘Me too. High heels aren't my style though.'

The two mates laughed until they were interrupted by a woman standing behind them.

‘Excuse me. You're Matthew Cassidy, right?'

Matt twisted about. A young woman with long dark hair and brown skin and a tall man wearing a check shirt and holding a camera were standing behind them.

‘Yeah, that's me.'

‘G'day. Bronwyn Hurrell from the
Canterbury Bankstown Express
. I'd like to write a story about your big win today.'

‘Yeah, sure,' Matt said, grinning. And it wasn't because he was going to be famous—he always was a sucker for stunners. Growl.

Chris tapped Matty on the shoulder and said he'd talk to him soon. The good-looking journalist asked a few questions, which he answered easily. He'd been interviewed several times before. Once, he'd even made it into the sports section of the
Daily Telegraph
. A PE teacher had sent in an old, dorky photo of him for the paper's young sports star section—bowl haircut and all. His mates had ribbed him for weeks, calling him Toadstool, Mushroom Head and Stackhat.

Matt chuckled. ‘It's fantastic. There's always been a lot of bad blood between our teams. They usually thrash us and rub it in for ages. I guess it's our turn for once. And it's even better now that we're into the finals. We got the wooden spoon last year. Hopefully now we'll win the whole comp.'

‘One last question,' Ms Hurrell said. ‘What do your mum and dad think about your dreams of a football career?'

‘Mum's all for it. She says she can become my manager and retire.'

‘How about your dad?'

Matt hesitated and glanced behind him, looking for an excuse to escape. He found one across the car park. Chris and the Mongrels were pointing at a couple of Lions players, who were dropping
their bags onto the ground in anticipation of a fight.

‘Sorry, I've gotta go. Catch you later.'

‘One photo first,' the photographer said, holding up his camera. Matt posed for nine more frames before he excused himself.

When he reached his players, they were being hassled by a couple of the biggest Lions players, including Aaron Blackwell himself. Fists were clenched, ready to fight, and mouths were machine-gunning off the insults. The Mongrels had catcalled a couple of Lions players one time too many.

‘You dumb ferals,' Blackwell said. ‘Don't you even think for a moment that you won that game. We were robbed of a dead-cert try by that stupid ref and that lame captain of yours.'

‘We won it because we were the better team,' Chris growled back, trying to free himself from Blackwell's hands, which were clamped around his neck.

The Lions players laughed as one. ‘Better team? Yeah, right! Freak show more like it.'

That riled the Mongrels even more.

‘Mate, if your brain was any smaller, ants could use it for soccer practice,' Chris said.

‘Always the comedian, aren't you, Pearce?' Blackwell answered by strangling him more. ‘Keep
those jokes coming, because the only thing that'll be funny round here soon will be us kicking your head in.'

‘That's if you guys know how to kick. You wouldn't be able to tell by the way you played today!'

Blackwell snapped. He pushed Chris backwards, ready to maul him. That triggered off the rest of the Lions and Mongrels. They were starting to tear each other apart when parents and teachers rushed from everywhere to stop the fight before the bloodlust took hold. Matt bulldozed his mates backwards out of harm just as the Princes principal got involved.

‘Enough! Break it up!'

A Lions player took a swing at a Mongrel and missed. The teachers and parents had to restrain both sides again.

‘I'm warning you,' the principal added. ‘Stop or you'll all be expelled.'

The two sides eyed each other off, snorting out lungfuls of hate. The principal cast a nervous glance at the reporter and the photographer. They hadn't moved. But they had already snapped some photos.

‘Deal with them, would you,' the principal said to an underling. The teacher approached Ms Hurrell and the photographer, but they refused to leave.

‘Princes boys should know better,' the principal
said to his students. ‘And as for you,' he added, singling out Matt, ‘take your thugs and leave.'

‘Hey, my
mates
wouldn't have started this without being provoked first,' Matt retorted.

‘Princes boys don't start fights.'

‘Yeah, right!' voices shouted from the Mongrels side.

‘Guys, shut up, would you,' Matt warned.

‘But they started it,' Chris said.

‘I know but we don't want any trouble. And no doubt, the cops will be called.'

‘You're a very wise boy,' the principal said.

There were a few grumbles but the Mongrels backed off. They listened to their captain. He'd made them winners all year. His leadership had never been challenged. They glared at the Lions players. Another time.

‘You've got that right,' Blackwell said, looking straight at Matt.

‘Blackwell!' the principal snapped.

‘Hey, the game's over, all right?' Matt said. ‘You're in the finals. We're in the finals. If we play again, then we'll see who's the best team, okay?'

‘That's us!' Chris shouted, triggering off more shouting.

‘Enough!' the principal ordered. ‘The game is
over. It is time for you and your “mates” to go home, Mr Cassidy.'

Matt shook his head. Unbelievable. Any icier and he'd start seeing penguins.

Huffing, he told his players to start leaving. But before he did so himself, he reluctantly offered Aaron Blackwell a handshake. His mum always said unresolved grief only created more later on. ‘Peace?'

Blackwell looked down at the outstretched palm then back at Matt. But instead of shaking it, he rumbled up a green goober and spat it right into Matt's eye. Warm sticky slag leeched down his face as he froze, too stunned to react.

Players went to war again.

 

Wiping a tissue down his face, Matt dropped his backpack onto the nature strip with a heavy crash.

‘What've you got in there?' Chris asked through numb, bleeding lips. ‘A dozen bricks or something?'

‘Nah, just books.'

‘You sure it's not Aaron Blackwell's ego?'

Matt snorted, but flinched at the memory of the goober hitting him in the eye. ‘My bag isn't that big.'

Chris grinned too, although it cost him. ‘He's one sad case. Pity all those oldies broke up the fight. I would have liked to have had a shot at that guy.'

‘You did. He hit you first.'

‘Lucky shot. Two of his mates ganged up on me. Next time I'll smack him out with one punch, you'll see.'

A car turned into the long driveway that led to the extensive grounds of Princes Boys College. The old sandstone nineteenth century buildings, fountains, green football ovals, cricket pitches and courtyards were nothing like the transportable classrooms, rectangular fibro buildings, handball walls and concrete quadrangle at Bankstown Central High. Matt almost felt guilty for sitting in front of their wrought-iron fence. The guards probably had cameras pinned on him and Chris, ready to call the cops if they looked like they were about to cause trouble.

‘Hey, you going to the Grand Slam concert this Friday night?'

Matt tied the laces of his footy boots together and then slung them over his shoulder. ‘I can't. Tickets are thirty-four bucks.'

‘Scab the money from your mum or get a job at Maccas like me. It's the biggest concert of the year, man. Twenty bands. The hottest music. Luscious babes …'

‘Babes?'

‘Absolutely. Thousands of them. All in tight little outfits and crammed up nice and close to you. You're guaranteed to score—even with a head like yours.'

‘Thanks!'

‘C'mon. What do you say? You've got to go. If not for me, then for all those lonely girls out there.'

‘Okay, okay. I'll see what I can do. Somebody has to act as crowd control when your face causes a stampede.'

Chris cuffed his mate on the back of the skull.

Chris Pearce was Matt's best friend. Rocketing upwards at one seventy-three centimetres, he had light green eyes, a small nose, dark eyebrows and spiky coppery hair the length of matchsticks. Patches of orange stubble were starting to sprout along his jawline and cheeks, which were also peppered with acne. He was lanky and ran like a praying mantis, but he sure could kick. He should've been an Aussie Rules player or a basketballer but league had been his passion since he was a kid. And because the two of them hung out together so often, people would call them Matt Cassidy and the Sundance Kid after the famous old movie starring Robert Redford and Paul Newman.

A four-wheel drive pulled out of the college driveway. From the passenger's seat, a Lions player shouted, ‘What are you waiting for, ferals? Your parole officers?'

‘Nah, the council workers to stop steamrolling the road—with your mum!' Chris shot back.

The four-wheel drive left before the angry Lions player could leap out. Chris shook his head and looked at Matt. ‘Sorry, man. I didn't mean anything by that.'

‘No offence taken.'

A car horn beeped from the street. ‘That's my dad. I better go,' Chris said. ‘Hey, you doing anything tonight? We could grab some burgers and play some pool.'

Matt glanced from his mate to Mr Pearce, fighting off a surge of jealously. ‘Nah, me, mum and my nan are having dinner at a Chinese restaurant. It's a birthday thing—'

‘Birthday? Whose birthday?'

Matt screwed up his face. ‘Mine,' he answered sheepishly.

‘Yours? Why didn't you tell anyone?'

He shrugged. ‘I kind of forgot. I'm not really big on them.'

‘Not big on birthdays? You've gotta be joking.
Everyone loves their birthday. Getting presents is the best.'

‘Maybe.'

‘You should have told me. I would have bought you something.'

‘Thanks, but I don't need anything.'

‘Not even that brunette you've been secretly lusting after?'

‘Which brunette?'

‘That one in the grandstands you keep staring at.'

Matt blushed. ‘I do not! Who told you about her anyway?'