Rugby Hearts

The train doors slid open and I stepped into the heat of Central Station, and there he was. Doug. Skinny as ever. He stood by the ticket gates with his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear into the collar. He was looking at the floor, then at the departures board, then at his phone, then at the floor again. Anywhere but at the crowd.

I could have spotted him from a mile away. Same mousy brown hair that flopped over his forehead. Same nervous way he chewed his bottom lip. He was twenty now but he still looked like the kid who used to let me win at Monopoly because he felt bad when I cried.

I hoisted my duffel bag higher on my shoulder and walked toward him. My boots echoed off the concrete. I'm not small. Never have been. At seventeen I was already five foot ten and built like a brick shithouse, as my dad liked to say. The girls on my country team called me The Wall. The boys called me worse. But Doug? Doug used to call me Sarah. Just Sarah. Like that was enough.

He looked up and saw me. His whole face went pink.

"Hey," he said. His voice cracked on the single syllable. He cleared his throat. "Hey, Sarah. Good trip?"

"Long," I said. "Some bloke tried to chat me up at Campbelltown. Asked if I played league. I told him I'd knock his teeth out if he didn't leave me alone."

Doug's eyes went wide. "Did you?"

"Nah. He left."

He let out a breath. "Right. Good. That's. Good."

This was going to be painful. I loved him for it.

He grabbed my bag before I could stop him. The strap slipped off his shoulder and he nearly dropped the whole thing. He caught it, red-faced, and I pretended not to notice. He was maybe five foot seven on a tall day. A hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. I could bench press him. I'd thought about it. More than once.

"My car's this way," he said, already walking.

I followed him through the station, past the homeless guy with the dog and the buskers playing Wonderwall for the millionth time. Sydney smelled like diesel and salt and a thousand different kinds of takeaway. It was nothing like home. Home smelled like cow shit and eucalyptus and the river after rain. I'd spent eighteen years in a town with one pub and a servo that closed at six. Now I was here. Staying with Doug.

It had been four years since I'd seen him last. He'd moved to the city for uni and never came back. I'd been twelve the last time we properly hung out. Twelve and stupid and convinced that one day I'd grow up and he'd see me. That I'd stop being his little sister's annoying friend and start being something else.

Well. I was grown now. And he was going to see me.

His car was a beat-up Corolla with a dent in the passenger door and a bumper sticker that said "I'd Rather Be Fishing." I threw my bag in the back and climbed in. The seat was pushed so far forward my knees hit the glovebox. He scrambled around to adjust it, apologizing the whole time.

"Sorry. My sister's short. I forgot to move it back."

"It's fine, Doug."

"I should have remembered. I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot."

He finally got the seat to slide back and I stretched my legs out. The car smelled like old McDonald's wrappers and the pine-tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. It was so perfectly him I almost laughed.

He drove like an old man. Two hands on the wheel, ten and two, checking his mirrors every three seconds. The traffic on George Street made him twitchy. He kept muttering under his breath every time someone cut him off. I watched his hands on the wheel. Small hands. Neat nails. A silver ring on his thumb that I didn't remember.

"New ring?" I asked.

He glanced at his hand like he'd forgotten it was there. "Oh. Yeah. Mum gave it to me for my birthday."

"She still do that? Buy you stuff to make up for forgetting?"

He smiled. A real one. It changed his whole face. "You remember that."

"I remember everything."

I didn't mean for it to come out like that. But it did. And he went quiet.

We drove through the city and into the inner west. Terraced houses with peeling paint and tiny balconies. Cafes on every corner. A guy in a man-bun walking a pug. It was a different world. Back home you could walk down the main street and know everyone. Here you could disappear. Maybe that's what Doug had done. Disappeared into a city full of people who didn't know he used to cry at Disney movies.

His apartment was on the top floor of a walk-up. Three flights of stairs. He carried my bag up himself, which was stupid and sweet and exactly what I expected. By the time we got to the door he was breathing hard. I didn't say anything.

The place was small. A couch that doubled as a bed, a kitchenette with two plates in the sink, a bathroom so narrow you could shower and brush your teeth at the same time. But it was clean. And it was his.

"Sorry it's not much," he said, dropping my bag by the couch. "You can take the bed. I'll sleep out here."

"No."

"What?"

"I'm not taking your bed. I'll take the couch."

"Sarah, you're my guest."

"Doug, I'm bigger than you. The couch is fine. Don't argue."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "You're still bossy."

"Someone's got to be."

He laughed. A short, surprised laugh that made my chest ache. God, I'd missed that sound. I'd missed him. Not the idea of him. Not the fantasy I'd carried around since I was ten years old. Him. The real one. The one who forgot to move the car seat and drove like a pensioner and couldn't look me in the eye for more than three seconds.

He showed me where everything was. The good towel. The spare key. The Wi-Fi password written on a sticky note stuck to the fridge. I nodded along, watching his mouth move, thinking about how different things were going to be.

Because here's the thing. I didn't come to Sydney to play rugby. I mean, I did. That part was real. I'd been recruited by a club in the inner west. Women's league. They'd seen my tape and offered me a spot and I'd said yes before my dad could tell me it was a bad idea.

But I could have stayed with any of the girls on the team. One of them had a spare room. I could have been independent. Grown up. Found my own way.

Instead I called Doug.

I'd had his number for years. Never used it. But the night I got the offer, I sat on my bed with my phone in my hand and thought about his small hands and his quiet voice and the way he'd looked at me that one time, at my twelfth birthday party, when I caught him staring. He'd looked away so fast. But I'd seen it. I'd seen something.

And I'd held onto it for six years.

Now I was here. In his apartment. Three feet away from him. And he was rambling about the hot water taking a while to kick in and I was nodding like I cared.

"Sarah?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay? You zoned out."

I blinked. He was looking at me. Actually looking. His eyes were the same. Brown and soft and a little bit sad. Like he was always waiting for something bad to happen.

"I'm perfect," I said.

He didn't believe me. I could see it in the way his mouth tightened. But he didn't push. That was Doug. He'd rather swallow his questions than risk being rude.

"Right," he said. "Well. I'm going to grab some dinner. You want anything? There's a Thai place down the road."

"I'll come with you."

"You don't have to. You've been traveling all day."

"I know what I want."

He held my gaze for a second. Just a second. Then he looked away and grabbed his keys.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go."

I followed him down the stairs and out into the Sydney evening. The air was warm. The streetlights were flickering on. And I was walking behind Doug, watching the way his shoulders curved forward, the way his hands stayed in his pockets, the way he didn't know yet that I wasn't going anywhere.

He'd figure it out.

I was patient.

And I was done being just his sister's friend.