One Way Street Read online

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  Torquere Press

  www.torquerepress.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Laney Cairo

  First published in www.torquerepress.com, 2009

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  * * * *

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Mel, for lending her Aussie Rules expertise. There actually are rules.

  Dedication

  This is for my son, Vic.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter One

  Life's a one way street; you can't turn back and there's no reverse gear

  Shane's breath rasped in his throat, his lungs felt like they were about to burst, and black blotches swum in front of his eyes. One of his team-mates—he couldn't tell who through the fog in his brain—slapped him on the back as they ran past.

  "Last lap,” the team mate called.

  Last lap? Shane was supposed to be fit this early in the footy season, stripped back and injury free, and the cool-down jog around the oval at the end of a training session shouldn't hurt.

  Which didn't explain why his knees felt like they were on fire.

  Lindon, coaching assistant, team-runner and Shane's personal angel, loomed up out of the blur, grabbed at Shane's arm and hauled him off the track to a bench. A water bottle was thrust into Shane's hands, and Shane gulped down the cool, sweet liquid, pouring the contents of the bottle across his raw throat.

  "You pulled up sore?” Lindon asked, his fingers probing through Shane's lycra hamstring-warming tights, digging into his quads knowledgeably. Lindon had fingers of steel from massaging Shane and his team-mates.

  Lindon tapped Shane's knee and Shane lifted his leg, giving Lindon access to his hamstrings. There'd been a time when he'd resented the intrusive nature of being coached, but he knew now that the coaching staff owned him body and soul.

  "Feel awful,” Shane said.

  His vision cleared enough to make out the figure of the head coach of the Hammers, Jerry Gordon, pounding across the grass toward them.

  "Davis!” Gordon called. “Get up and run if you're planning on playing this week."

  "Shane's quads have locked up,” Lindon said, standing up. “I pulled him out of the cool down."

  Gordon made a disbelieving noise, and Shane just wanted to hug Lindon for covering for him. “Looks like he's hungover to me,” Gordon said. “Get him rehydrated."

  Shane lifted his head to meet his coach's gaze, then struggled to his feet. “Thanks, boss,” he said.

  "You're damned lucky this training session isn't open to the public,” Gordon said. “Last thing we need in the run up to the game against the Devils is the media filming you falling over at training because you were on the piss last night."

  Shane nodded, blinking eyes that stung, not trusting his voice enough to try and reply.

  Gordon's rumpled face softened and he said, “I know you work hard, Shane, and you're not like some of the kids in the squad who have to be fined for binge drinking mid-week. Stretch, get your arse into the shower, then I want you and Lindon in my office."

  Shane nodded, and when Lindon gave the middle of his back a shove, Shane managed to jog over to the patch of grass where the rest of the squad were stretching hamstrings and hip flexors.

  In the shower, his back turned to the rest of the squad in the locker room, Shane rested his forehead against the tiles and let the water stream down him. Thinking back, he'd drunk most of a bottle of chardonnay the night before, but that shouldn't have been enough to make him crook. There'd been lines on the table, but he hadn't done any...

  It took effort to drag himself out of the shower, and he pulled sweats on over his damp skin, rather than deal with drying himself.

  Budgie, shivering and naked after a post-training ice bath, sat on the bench in the locker room as Shane struggled with his shoes.

  "Mate,” Budgie said, and Shane lifted his head. “Denise wants to know if you and Madison want to come over to our place on Saturday night. She and Digger's missus are doing something for his two hundredth game."

  "Sure,” Shane said. “It won't be karaoke, will it?"

  Budgie grimaced. “Probably,” he admitted. “Still, gotta keep the sheilas happy."

  "Gotta keep them happy,” Shane agreed.

  Budgie wandered off, heading toward the showers, and Shane propped his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his hands. There'd been a time, before Madison, when he'd rather have done an extra run than go to a karaoke evening, but things had changed. He could now pass informed comment on skirt length, lip gloss and heel height, and not in the context of a drag show.

  He must have looked as gloomy as he felt because Lindon sat beside him on the bench and said, “Cheer up, it might never happen."

  "It will,” Shane said. “It always does."

  The crease between Lindon's eyes deepened and he said, “If you want to talk, you can. I won't tell Gordon."

  Shane shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but there's nothing to talk about.” Some things couldn't be changed, and there was no point in going back over old ground.

  "Alright,” Lindon said. “Let's go find out what Gordon wants."

  Gordon pointed at the empty chairs in front of his desk and lowered his substantial bulk into his own. He was as tall as Shane, one hundred and ninety five centimetres, but whereas Shane was lean and strong, Gordon had gone to fat. He'd been a damned good ruck, twenty years before.

  Shane was a ruckman, too, tall enough to contest when the umpire bounced the ball in the centre square at the beginning of quarters and after goals. He was fast enough to play on the ball, following the action up and down the oval, and strong enough to survive the mid-air collisions that were part of rucking.

  None of that meant that Gordon wouldn't replace him with one of the rookie rucks if Shane was off his game.

  "Is there something wrong?” Gordon asked Shane. “What's going on?"

  Shane knew what the real query was. What was he taking recreationally? Drug testing was a joke in Australian Rules Football, and all the squad partied hard.

  Shane shook his head. “I'm fine,” he said. “Knees are sore, that's all."

  Gordon nodded. “See the doc. You'd better be bright and bouncy for the match against the Devils on Saturday; I've got a board of management and a slew of corporate sponsors to answer to. And Lindon?"

  Lindon, who had been sitting silently beside Shane, said, “Yes?"

  "Give Davis some extra time on the table, and take him on a couple of long runs before the next training session. Get him fit enough to run twenty kilometres hard."

  Shane tried not to groan at the thought.

  * * * *

  The team doctor prodded Shane's knees, then his shoulders. “The pain is just from training,” he said. “I can give you some decent analgesics,
if the codeine isn't covering the knee pain. You'll need cruciate ligament repairs after the finals, and I'll write you up for some ultrasound on your knees, too."

  Shane nodded. Time off for surgery early in the year would kill his season, so there wasn't much choice.

  "Just watch the drug-testing,” Dr. Teal added. “I'll let Gordon know to give you some notice if it's your turn, because the opiates in the analgesics will give you a false positive. When it's your turn, you'll just have to tough out a few days, until your system clears."

  "What about urine replacement?” Shane asked. “I'd heard that was an option."

  The doctor chuckled. “Guess it is, but I doubt you'd want to be catheterised and have someone else's urine pumped into your bladder unless it was an emergency."

  "Apart from the knees, is there any reason I'm feeling off?” Shane asked.

  Dr. Teal looked up from the desk drawer he was rummaging through. “Not that I can see,” he said. “Ease up on the partying, that's all."

  * * * *

  In the car park, Shane leaned against the wing of Lindon's car and looked through the bag of medication the team doctor had given him.

  "What did you get?” Lindon asked, peering into the bag, too.

  "Caffeine pills, stronger analgesics, muscle relaxants and dexies again,” Shane said. “What do you think?"

  Lindon shrugged. He wouldn't pass an opinion that countered the team doctor, and Shane knew it. “I'll swing past your place tomorrow morning, take you out for a run, so don't have a late night,” Lindon said. “Five?"

  Five in the morning was an ugly time, but Shane nodded. “Sure. See you then."

  In his car, Shane twisted the top off the bottle of analgesics and took two of the white tablets, washing them down with electrolyte replacement fluid. He was going to go home and sleep, and hope like crazy it was just the flu and he'd feel better soon.

  * * * *

  Dale slouched in the client chair in Frank's office and grimaced at his business partner.

  Frank pulled a face back at him and pushed a glass of whisky across the desk.

  "That's the Clover account covered,” Frank said. “Another crazily wealthy customer who loves us."

  Dale sipped the whisky and nodded. “Funny that,” he said. “We set up trust funds, shuffle people's assets around, point them at some tasty real estate, and they adore us."

  He and Frank ran a property investment business, brokering real estate deals, setting up tax shelters and supervising asset distribution, all at the big end of town. Frank was a corporate lawyer and the legal brains behind the partnership; Dale was an accountant, primarily in charge of charming and placating the clients. They got on remarkably well considering they'd briefly been lovers many years before.

  Frank propped sock-clad feet on his desk, amongst the piles of printouts and contracts, and rocked back in his chair. “Going to the game on Saturday?” Frank asked.

  Such a loaded question.

  "Fuck you,” Dale said, and he knew he sounded bitter.

  He was bitter, no point in attempting to disguise it.

  "Why don't you?” Frank asked. “You used to live for the footy, and it was your idea that we get into corporate sponsorship of the Hammers. ‘Excellent exposure, and think of how great a corporate box will be,’ you said."

  Dale winced. When Frank mimicked him, it was never good.

  "It has been great for business,” Dale said. “Look at the new clients we've gained."

  Frank smiled, but he didn't look amused. “Oh yes, all those tall, gorgeous football players in your office, wanting their hands held while they invest squillions. Not my office, I just have to do the damned trust paperwork."

  Dale looked above Frank's head to where a glass case held a Hamilton Hammers team guernsey, signed by the previous year's team. The red and orange striped sweater with Dale and Frank's corporate logo on the shoulder was damned ugly, but there'd been a time when Dale had adored it.

  "You go,” Dale said. “I'm not interested."

  Frank banged his fist down on his papers, making Dale jump and rattling their glasses. “It's been a year!” Frank said. “Exactly how long are planning on grieving for Shane?"

  "Eleven months,” Dale said. “It's only eleven months."

  "Too damned long, considering the way he dumped you. Go to the bloody game, face your demons, then get on with your life."

  Dale's stomach twisted at Frank's words. Shane had dumped him, he'd walked out, left Dale for some skinny girl. No reason at all for him not to go back to using their corporate box.

  "I've missed the matches,” Dale admitted. “And you're right, it's time to move on."

  "Good lad,” Frank said, lifting his whisky glass and toasting Dale. “You'll be out screwing strangers in bars in no time."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Two

  The glowing red light on your dashboard is a warning that you're in trouble.

  As a corporate sponsor, Dale could have taken his car in and used the priority bay that went with the corporate box, but he found himself at the train station, red and orange scarf wrapped around his neck. The platform was crowded with Hammers’ fans, jostling Dale. Someone had a trumpet with them, and was tootling at the other end of the platform, the crowd around them cheering in support.

  Dale had missed that, missed the pre-game buzz when it felt like the world was full of opportunity and anything might happen that afternoon.

  The sky overhead was clear, translucent blue, not a cloud in sight, and the early winter sun made him blink. Someone slapped him on the back and said, “They're gonna win today, today's the day."

  Dale nodded and found himself smiling, the other fan's enthusiasm infectious.

  Today was the day he got over Shane Davis, Hammer's ruck and star player, and the man Dale used to love.

  "Go the Hammers,” Dale said to the fan, and a low cheer went through the crowd as the train rattled around the bend in the track and slowed at the station. “Go the mighty Hammers."

  * * * *

  In the clubroom before a match, Gordon was at his best, ranting at the players, spit flying from his mouth in his attempt to whip them up to the required level of adrenaline-powered rage to win the match. Forward line plays and defence patterns had been scribbled on the white boards, but it was too late for that, too late for strategy and planning. It was time for battle.

  The finger moved from the half back line of hulking monsters to Shane and the other on-ballers. “Davis!” Gordon snarled. “You're starting on the paddock, Kingston's on the bench."

  Shane nodded. He'd rotate around the paddock through the match, with either himself or Kingston responsible for the aerial work. Whoever was being relieved would either try and pick up some ball contact while another player rested, or grab a break on the interchange bench.

  "You and Budgie will bracket Spider, you get up in the air, while Budgie tackles Spider."

  Budgie nodded beside Shane. Spider was the ruckman for the Devils, and was a monster at two hundred centimetres and a hundred and five kilos, so it would take two of them in tandem to get control of the ball. Tackling Spider would involve Budgie getting his knees into Spider's kidneys, amongst other things.

  "Baz, you rove the ball, grab it when Shane taps it to you, then run like fuck until the Devil's half back line take you out."

  Baz, on Shane's other side, was only one hundred and eighty centimetres, but he was stupidly fast, with the emphasis on ‘stupid'.

  He didn't say anything, but Shane could hear him making vroomvroom noises under his breath.

  Ineffable, that was a good word for Baz. Along with stupid.

  Gordon's accusatory finger had moved on from the on-ballers to the wings. “You bastards, just pretend the Devil's wings are dinner and you're mad dogs."

  "Mad dogs,” one of the wings muttered around his mouth guard. “Righto, boss."

  The wings were marathon runners with aggression issues.

 
; Deano—star full forward, leading goal scorer that season for the entire league, Gordon's golden boy who could do no wrong—copped an empty water bottle to the side of his head from Gordon. “Wake up, Jeff!” Gordon shouted at him. “What you gonna do this game!"

  "Fucking win!” Deano shouted back, spitting his mouth guard across the room.

  "That's right!” Gordon said. “Get the ball, run up to the goal posts, and score goals!"

  Deano had his own water bottles with his initials on the outside, and Shane didn't know what pharmaceuticals were in Deano's electrolyte replacement fluid, but they took twenty points off his IQ and made him play like an angel.

  Assuming angels liked to run the entire length of the paddock, bouncing a ball in front of them and hurting people with their free hand.

  Digger, full back and mountain of strength in defence, needed no instructions from Coach Gordon. He'd been playing league football for ten years, and looked like he'd been hewn from concrete with a chainsaw. Last time the Hammers had played the Devils, Digger had been so enraged by the Devils’ full forward scoring goals that he'd pinned the hapless player against a goal post with his body and held the bloke there until the police had dragged him off.

  Outside the clubroom, and muffled by the bulk of the stadium above, a siren wailed.

  Gordon said, “Let's go spill some claret!” and the team roared and leapt to its collective feet.

  Despite knees that already ached, Shane's spirits soared as two tonnes of elite athlete, kind of like a dinosaur with forty-four thumbs, stampeded out of the club room, intent upon winning.

  * * * *

  Dale slid his club membership pass into the machine and the turnstile clicked open, letting him through into the teaming crowd that milled around at the stadium entrance. It was all coming back to him; the way kids ran around screaming with their faces painted red and orange, the ebullient adults in stupid team hats shouting out greetings to each other, the overwhelming smell of beer and pies. He'd missed more than just Shane in the past year, he'd missed the best fucking game in the world.

  The crowd thinned as Dale climbed the flights of concrete stairs up the stadium, past the open terraces and beer-and-pie vendors, past the stall that sold scarves and banners.