You Are the Reason Read Free

entertainment.
    “Derby,” Charlie grunted as he plonked the bottle on the bar for me.
    I grimaced. I’d forgotten that the two local football teams were going head-to-head that night. It was a big deal in Perth. Bragging rights were on the line. We’re talking about sell-out crowds, marital discord, and at least one on-field fight per derby played.
    After eschewing anything girly, I’d thrown myself into the football scene. Like every man in my family before me, I’d had to pick a football team to go for. I’d looked at my local team choices—West Coast Eagles or Fremantle Dockers—and decided they weren’t macho enough. So then I looked interstate: the Magpies, the Kangaroos, the Hawks, the Swans, the Lions….
    Finally I’d set my eyes on the Demons. Yes. That described my internal struggle. So I became a Melbourne Football Club fan, and thus I hadn’t seen a premiership flag. Yet. I was hopeful. At the core of every Australian is the inability to give up on your footy team. So what if I’d followed them for fifteen years and never seen a flag? They’d once won three premierships back-to-back.
    In the ’50s.
    “Who’s winning?” I asked Charlie.
    “Freo,” he replied with a small smile.
    I sighed. The Coolgardie Tavern stood in the suburb of East Fremantle. If the Fremantle Dockers won the derby, there was sure to be a wave of purple-clad supporters who would want to continue the party at their local pub. The club’s official gathering spot was a couple of streets over at The Left Bank, but the overflow would make its way to The Tav. Of course Charlie would be pleased if Freo won.
    “Shit,” I swore to myself.
    “Not a Freo fan, then?” said a voice at my side.
    I grimaced and glanced at the woman beside me. My first impression of her was that she had escaped from some sort of pixie convention. Not that she was tiny. Just that she was cute in an adorable, big puppy-eyes type of way. Her short hair was dyed an improbable shade of red. The next thing to hit me was the sight of a bright red bow pinned to the side of her head. It reminded me of Maxine’s flower headband, and I smiled. “Sorry?”
    “Not a Freo fan, then?” she repeated as I took in the rest of her outfit. It was all black-and-white-patterned checkerboard with a red belt and red bows on her shoulders. The dress was cinched at the waist, flared to her knees, and had probably been in fashion the last time my team won a premiership.
    I stared at her painted toenails, visible through the toe holes of her dainty red shoes. “No. Melbourne.”
    She wrinkled her nose and said with a hint of a smile, “My commiserations, then.”
    I chuckled in spite of myself. A fan who can’t laugh at their own team when they can’t find their way off the bottom of the ladder needs serious money for the alcohol and drugs they require in order to cope with the humiliation. “Oh, yeah? Who do you go for?” I asked.
    She shrugged a small shoulder and fingered her wine glass on the bar. “Sydney.”
    I looked at her with skepticism. “Why? You from there?”
    “No.” There was another small shrug to go with her answer. “But my grandpa was assistant coach there, back in the day. We’ve all been born wearing a red-and-white guernsey since then, and know the club song better than our own name.”
    I laughed. She was adorable.
    “Lee Brennan,” she declared and held out her hand. I shook it.
    “Dave Pederson.”
    She glanced around at the crowd and then took a step closer to me. “I’m supposed to be meeting someone here, but he hasn’t shown. His name’s Bobby. You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?”
    I cast my mind back over all the sexual encounters I’d had at the bar. I didn’t usually ask names, and the name Bobby didn’t ring any bells. But then again, most of the guys I went with were gay and wouldn’t be meeting a cute, little woman for a date.
    “No. Sorry.”
    She sighed and leaned back against the bar. “Oh, well.”