The Whole of My World (6 page)

He signs my book and goes to hand it back when he starts, as though only just realising I'm here. His smile is wide and open. ‘Shelley! I didn't see you.'

Heat and pleasure battle with dread as I feel Tara's drill-like gaze. And I'm struggling to decide what's more important.

‘Good to see you got home okay,' Mick says, oblivious to the silent battle happening in my head in front of him.

I smile and nod, trying to come up with something intelligent to say. I must look weird because he frowns at me in concern, raised eyebrows and all. ‘Nice goal in the third quarter,' I say, reaching for the thing I know best.

‘Lucky shot,' he says, shrugging. But it wasn't. It was a beauty, all the way from the boundary.

‘Wrong foot too,' I add, forgetting about the others, who are staring at us in confusion and disbelief. Forgetting about Tara and her steely gaze. ‘I like the two-step you did to push it out.'

Mick laughs. ‘Thought I'd get pinged for that.'

I shrug, safe and warm in this space now. ‘Nah, fifty-fifty. Dad says for every close decision you win, you lose two. So, be careful Saturday.'

The deep throaty laugh he lets out is the most exciting thing I've heard. He hands back my autograph book, shaking his head. ‘Good theory. I'll keep that in mind.'

I stand with the book in my hand, the pages open to his broad, sweeping autograph, feeling like I could fend off bullets with this priceless thing. The other kids have disappeared to meet the latest arrival.

‘See you after?' Mick says. To me, alone.

I nod. And nod again.

Mick disappears inside the gym, and I stand there for a full minute before I remember – Tara.

She's hanging back, not with the other kids as I expected, but right where she was standing before. She's no more than a long arm's reach away, and yet, the space between us is enormous. I see that in the stiff tilt of her chin. I want to confront her – confront
this
– to say something in my defence. But all I have are questions. Why is she angry with me? What does it matter if Mick and I are friends?

Before I can find the right words, she shoves her camera and autograph book into her schoolbag, which she swings onto her shoulder. Her smile is empty and light. ‘See if the press box is empty?' she asks.

I smile hesitantly, then with more confidence. ‘Yeah. Let's go watch some footy.'

 

 

We live two kilometres from Glenvalley train station. During the week I catch the bus to the station, but on Saturdays the bus doesn't run, so when Dad and I go to the footy we walk to the station to catch the Valley Park bus. We could drive –
Dad
could drive – but he likes walking more than anyone I know. Sometimes he wanders through the whole of Glenvalley, all the way to Hunters Hill, covering miles without ever really going anywhere. Walking in an enormous circle, never choosing the same path twice, and always moving, like he's scared to stand still.

He used to walk when Mum was alive, but not like now. Sometimes he'll be gone for hours, returning with his cheeks pink from the cold air, the cuffs of his pants damp from the golf course or the grassy knolls at the back of the drainpipes.

I don't mind walking with Dad on a Saturday. I'm scared of dogs, and there's a particularly aggro Doberman that patrols the top end of the Finkler Reserve that Dad has rescued me from more than once. Plus, today's game is a big one. The Falcons are playing the Panthers at Valley Park and Dad said he'd take me.

It's a game we used to always watch as a family. We'd circle it on the fixture every year and make sure the day was set aside for the footy. But we haven't done it since the accident, so I'm surprised Dad's offered to come. He doesn't even barrack for Glenthorn. He doesn't barrack for anyone.

This is the weird thing about my dad: although he loves football, he doesn't follow a single team. He just wants to see a great game, fair umpiring and a high level of skill. Other than that, he doesn't give a toss. It's possible he's the only football fan in the whole of Victoria who doesn't have a team. Even people who
hate
football – in Melbourne, anyway – have a team. It's like a rule. The moment you're born in this city, or even if you move here, you have to choose a team to barrack for. You don't really even get to choose. It's handed down to you, like property or, if you barrack for Carringbush, a hereditary disease. No choice, no argument, no debate. If you're born into a Glenthorn family, you become a Glenthorn supporter. Warriors breed Warriors, Panthers breed Panthers. That's why I've always felt sorry for Angels supporters – years of losing with no hope of success, but still they show up every week. Because that's what you do.

Marriage is the only thing that can mess with the system. We didn't have that problem, though, because Dad isn't normal. He let Mum win without putting up a fight. Still, once it was decided, he wouldn't let me bail on the Falcons even if they sucked. He says no matter how bad your team plays, no matter how many grand finals you lose or wooden spoons you win, you don't give up on them because ‘You don't change teams mid-season.' But what he means is: you don't change teams
ever
.

Thank God Mum gave me the Falcons.

We make it most of the way through Finkler Road and are just about to pass the Christies' house when we run into Josh on his way back from school. I try to ignore my pounding heart and remind myself it's just
Josh
. No one special. It's not like I haven't seen him lately – we've gone running together twice since I saw him at the station three weeks ago, and he's called a few times, too. So this should not be a big deal. But still my hands are clammy and there's a lump the size of a golf ball in my throat.

I can see the purple and blue stripes of the Glenvalley High footy jumper under his tracksuit, which means he's come straight from their game. He still has a smear of dirt on his face where he's pushed the hair out of his eyes with muddied hands. Josh plays for the Raiders too – Saturdays are the school team, Sundays are the Raiders. Our whole family used to spend every Sunday throughout the footy season watching the Raiders; the Browns and the McGuires almost part of the furniture at the club. But Dad and I haven't been back since the accident, not even to watch Josh play. You'd think Josh would be sick of it – the same people, the same clubs, the same coaches, but there's no such thing as too much footy in Josh's world. Probably in my world, too, if I could still play.

‘Hey, Josh,' I say, while Dad shakes Josh's hand with that awkward gravity he saves for anyone who knew us before the accident. The old us, when we were still a proper family. I notice Dad glancing over Josh's shoulder to make sure he's alone. I do too. It takes an almost physical effort to deal with Josh's mum – for both of us – and once again we've dodged a bullet. She's nowhere in sight.

Josh's grin is as wide as a Mack Truck. Seriously, you can spot it a mile off. And it's infectious, too, that grin. Even Dad gives in to it once he relaxes a bit. ‘Big one today,' Josh says, nodding at my Glenthorn scarf. Although he barracks for Eastern Panthers, I don't hold it against him. His dad played for the Panthers' reserves for a few years and would've made the seniors if he didn't destroy his knee on a swampy Punter Oval during one particularly brutal game. So of course Josh barracks for the Panthers – it's a McGuire family tradition. But that doesn't mean I don't love watching the Falcons thrash the Panthers senseless every time they play. What I'm praying will happen today.

‘You want to come?' I offer.

‘You should, Josh,' Dad says too quickly. ‘The Panthers are due for a big one,' he adds, nudging Josh stiffly, cajoling him with too much enthusiasm for the careless offer it's supposed to be. Dad needs him as much as I do.

Josh has the good grace to shrug it off and laugh. ‘Love to, Mr Brown. Can't think of anything I'd rather do than watch the mighty Panthers flog the willies out of those brown-and-yellow losers.' He winks at me, daring me to bite.

‘Gold,' I correct him, unable to resist. ‘Brown and
gold
.'

‘Right, right. Brown-and-
gold
losers,' he says, cracking himself up and earning a grateful grin from my dad. ‘Can't though – got to help Mum with some stuff.'

I know mentioning Mrs McGuire will hurt Dad even before I see his face crumple. A wave of pain washes over his face but it's gone almost before it appears, and if you weren't watching and knowing it would hurt, you'd never know it happened.

Josh blanches and forces a brittle laugh. He saw it. ‘I mean, I have to do homework,' he says, as if that would undo the pain.

With a heroic effort, Dad manages something like a smile, shakes Josh's hand again and says goodbye. ‘Say hi to your parents for me,' he adds, like he's any other dad and the McGuires are any other friends.

‘Sure, Mr Brown.'

‘See you, Josh,' I say, ready to get my head back into football.

‘Shell?'

I stop, ignoring the flip my stomach does when he says my name. ‘Yeah?'

‘You promised you'd come to a Raiders game,' he says, his steady gaze giving me nowhere to escape. ‘You haven't made it to one all season.' I haven't made it to one in almost
two
seasons, actually, but the details are kind of irrelevant right now. Fact is, I promised I would.

I watch Dad continue his walk – shoulders hunched, head straight. In his own world. So completely alone, it aches to see it. ‘Sure, okay,' I say to Josh, knowing that I'll find a way to get out of it easily enough when the time comes. Josh will understand.

As I turn to go, Josh catches my hand, and a hot stream of electricity shoots up my arm. ‘Sorry,' he says. For a second I think he knows what I'm feeling, but then he nods at Dad, and I realise he's apologising for the weirdness before.

I smile it away, too confused to speak, unable to look at our hands even though it's all I can think about. Josh lets go, and my whole arm seems to go cold. For a long second I stand there, incapable of speech. Then he winks and walks off, the grin on his face all the proof I need that he knows exactly what his touch did to me.

Shame surges through me, hot and thick. It's enough to get my limbs moving again, and to kill any desire to watch Josh leave. I chase after Dad, who seems almost to be running, those long, powerful legs outpacing my short nimble ones. I'm so out of breath by the time we get to the station that I don't give Josh a second thought. Not once.

 

‘The better team won,' Dad says as we head home, his obsession with sportsmanship robbing me of a chance to whine. We take the stairs to the front door, side by side, his steps long and determined, mine slow and heavy, loaded with disappointment. Eastern Panthers crushed us by thirty-nine points. I'm so glad Josh didn't come.

‘Hold your head up, Shell,' Dad says as we enter the cold, dark house.

I wish he'd left a light on, and the heater. The fluorescent lights flicker in the kitchen, blinking quickly before catching. I go straight to the kettle to put on some tea, hovering over it to warm my hands.

He disappears into the family room and turns on the telly. I know what that means and feel the dread building at the thought. I stand in the doorway, gathering the courage to object. Dad eyes me from his chair across the room, eyebrow raised, expectant.

The music to the replay kicks in, its cheerful tones about as depressing as the final siren was today. The pain of losing is still sharp in my chest. Everything feels raw and open. And now I have to watch the whole thing all over again.

When we win, I love it. When we lose, I'd rather have a tooth pulled.

‘Come on, Shelley. A true sportsman takes the wins
and
the losses. No point investing unless you can lose respectably.'

Easy for him to say – he doesn't care who wins. ‘Do I
have
to watch?'

There's a flicker of something in his eyes. Sympathy? Concern? But it's gone too soon to be sure.

The kettle starts whistling and I glance hopefully back to the kitchen.

Dad's beside me before I realise. ‘Anyone can win, Shell. It's losing that makes you strong.' For a second I think he's going to hug me. Instead he squeezes my shoulder then heads into the kitchen. ‘I'll make the tea.'

I've heard all this a million times before. Losing builds character. Anyone can win. Blah, blah, blah.

The commentators start the introduction to the show – the Falcons and the Panthers are up first. Brilliant. No time to warm up.

Awkwardly, I sit on the arm of the couch, as far from the telly as I can be. Dad reappears, hands me a steaming cup of tea then returns to his chair, where he puts up his feet and gets comfortable. I slide into the couch properly, set my tea on the table beside me and take a deep breath. Resigned to my fate.

Dad nods his approval and smiles that mischievous smile he hardly ever uses anymore. ‘You never know,' he says with a wink, ‘you might get up and win this time.'

And even though I know the result and have heard this tired old joke a thousand times before, as the game draws to an end for the second time today – the same kicks, marks and goals replayed before me – my chest tightens and a lump forms in my throat all over again. It's like, somewhere in my heart, I hope Dad's right about winning the second time around, even when I know it's impossible.

If that's what it takes to build character, I'm not up to it.