without being pestered for an autograph or given advice on my next game. The southern states of Australia live and breathe football. Queensland is a rugby state, be it league or union, it’s irrelevant. Most don’t give two fucks about aerial ping pong—an underhanded remark about the game I love. The Australian Football League, or AFL, code of football is growing a larger fan base here in Brisbane, yet not enough to be harassed like I was before.
Before.
In life, there’s always a before and after.
It’s the before that has me heading out tonight.
At the end of the street, I turn the corner and stop at the Flying Fox nightclub. I pull out my phone and read the message from my teammate, Braxton, about mentioning his name to Todd, the security guard. I’ve never stood in line at a club, and I am not about to start.
The dude at the door is huge across the shoulders, although not tall enough to look me in the eye. “Todd?” He gives me a curt nod. “Braxton told me to mention his name to you. I’m the—”
“I know who you are.” He frowns, and it makes him appear pissed off, so I’m ready to take a step back. “All good, man.” He unclips the red rope and stands aside for me to pass. “Find Marty at the bar and tell him to give you a pass for upstairs.”
“I owe you,” I tell him and slap his shoulder.
“Give us a premiership, and we’ll call it even.”
I chuckle yet understand why they traded me. The reason—Brisbane desperately wanted me and laid the dollars on the table. An amount too high for The Thunder to refuse. I assumed I’d play out my days with a club I bled for, but I should have known money talks more than damn loyalty.
If experience has taught me anything, we are simply a number. A stat on paper. Nothing else. They believe I’m the man who will bring them the glory.
No one fully appreciates the time to groom a team to reach stardom. Know each other like your brother. Every team member needs to prepare to give it their all. I’ve never played with any of these men, and yet they expect me to pull a miracle out of my arse in one year.
I’m not Jesus, for fuck’s sake.
Walking over to the bar, I introduce myself to Marty. He calls out to the security guard in the corner, and he points for me to take the stairs. Taking them two at a time, I reach the top where another guy dressed in black is speaking on the phone but looks up and says, “Hey, are you Dustin?”
“Sure am.” I nod.
“Go ahead.”
With quick steps, I walk in and weave past the men in suits and girls in tiny skirts until I reach the bar.
“What can I get for you, big fella?” A guy I could squish with my foot smiles at me as though it’s a joke.
It’s not original or hilarious to state the obvious, dickhead.
“A scotch, triple, on the rocks.”
He pulls a face. “Righto.”
I don’t even bother with a thank you.
“You should try Bundy Rum,” the guy standing shoulder to shoulder with me at the bar says, and grins. “It might help you blend.”
“Never worked for me before.”
How on earth do you blend when you’re two metres tall?
The barman slides the drink to me and turns to serve the next patron without asking for payment.
This could turn into a mighty fine night.
“So, Brisbane thinks you’re the answer to their prayers?” The guy next to me grins again. “What brings you here to this nightclub the night before your first preseason training?”
Another surprise.
One fan.
“I wanted to get a feel of the city I’ll be playing for.”
“My team is your old team. I’m stoked to meet you.” He shakes my hand. “I’m Cade. And the Thunder shouldn’t have let you go.”
Don’t get me started on that box of worms.
“They had to do what was best for the club,” I say in a rehearsed reply.
“Yeah? I get to see you play here, so it’s a win for me.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.” I down my scotch in one swallow, and since I haven’t moved from the counter, I hold up my glass, catch the barman’s attention and signal for another.
Cade slides his empty glass next to mine on the wooden bar.
I grin, liking his style. “What are you drinking?”
His lips turn up in a smirk. “Bundy.”
2
An hour later, his friends arrive, and