STORY: ‘Sports Lover’

I love sport. It’s so much fun.

My friend Marlene took me to see a game last week and I decided there and then to make a play for a sportsman. So I called in a few favours and put some new photos online and before I knew it I’d scored a date with a hot young footballer.

His name was Jack, I think, and his physique was fully professional. 😉

We met at a bar before dinner. Jack drank spring water – something about hydrangeas, he said – while I had a couple of Cosmopolitans. We hit it off straight away. Jack talked about footy and his mates and I told him about modelling and my friends.

When we stopped to catch our breath, Jack washed down a handful of pills with a fresh glass of water. Got any for little ol’ me, I asked. All strictly legal, he said, and no fun at all. Painkillers, anti-inflammables, that kind of thing.

I said I was game, but Jack told me that the medical staff at the club gave the players hell if they messed with their medication.

Sounds unhealthy, I said.

The street was humming and I wanted to walk to the restaurant – my dress was a doozie – but Jack told me that the club’s PR people liked players to stay out of the spotlight as much as they could, because you never knew when you’d have to punch out some bloke for getting in your face, and that sort of thing could really damage your marketability as well as the brand itself.

It’s the industry these days, he said, with a shrug. It’s just so industrial.

I get it, I said. Modelling’s the same.

So we drove around the corner instead, in Jack’s black Suzuki Swift. A great little car, he told me, as he tried to reverse into a space for the third time. Fuel efficient and very safe. Cheap, too, he added, which is important for a gun midfielder on a million dollar deal.

Giving up on the park, Jack went around the block and pulled in outside the bar we’d just left. We decided to walk from there.

Some financial hotshot had held a seminar at the club, Jack told me, as we watched for people to avoid. He’d learnt a lot from it, Jack said, mostly about how money went when you spent it. He wasn’t going to be one of those players who retired with nothing but a Brownlow to his name, Jack told me.

Sounds awful, I said, but then I’ve never liked brown.

The restaurant was very low-key. I had linguini alfreddo, loading up on carbs for the long night ahead, while Jack drank spring water. He didn’t like mixing his drinks during the season, he said, and he hardly ever ate out. Jack told me that gun midfielders have special dietary requirements, which is why he’d downed a couple of burgers on the way over.

It’s not easy being a professional, he said. But I make the sacrifices because it’s always been my dream.

I know what you mean, I said, knocking back another glass of red.

I paid for the meal and Jack drove me to his place. On the way we talked more about his mates and my friends, about modelling and football. I never dreamed we’d have so much in common.

Jack’s place was his parents’ house. After he’d snuck me into his room, he told me he’d shared a house with some teammates last year but they’d been nowhere near as good for his footy as his mum, who did all his shopping, cooking, washing and cleaning. It’s about staying grounded and connected, Jack said. Family is important – the club psychologist had explained that to all the players.

Jack’s walls were covered with posters of the players he’d loved as a kid. Looking at them in their short shorts and tight tops, I loved them too. It was just another thing we shared.

We sat on Jack’s single bed and started fooling around. It was so good. So good that it didn’t matter when I tore Jack’s white t-shirt while trying to peel it off his bulging chest. It was his favourite, Jack said, pretending to be annoyed.

It was so good that it didn’t matter when Jack asked me to hurry things up because he was tired and had a tough session with the club masseur in the morning. Although I’d set myself the task of tracing all his tattoos with my tongue, I said I’d come back to that if there was time.

It was so good that it didn’t even matter that Jack couldn’t touch me at all. Like a true gent, he said it was his fault not mine. He told me he’d hurt his hand making a spoil last weekend, an unselfish one-percenter that almost won them the game they’d lost. He couldn’t remember which hand it was but he said he didn’t want to take any chances.

Now’s not the time to go down with an injury, he told me, as I nibbled his nipples.

Things were really hotting up when Jack said no – no, he told me, meant no, even for girls – and not because I wasn’t a complete babe but because he couldn’t get into a position that didn’t hurt his knees or his shoulders. Anyway, Jack said, as he tried to pull on his torn t-shirt, his fiancé didn’t like him going all the way with other girls, not unless she was there with him, which she wasn’t.

It’s all about trust, Jack told me. Trust is so important and not just in football, he said.

Oh, I know, I said. It’s the same in modelling.

As he sneaked me out, Jack said he’d had a great time – it was good for him to get away from footy every now and then – and that he’d enjoyed hearing all about modelling and my friends, as it had really expanded his world purview. I told him I’d loved listening to him go on about football and his mates and I said he could call me again – him or any of his teammates. Players in other teams, too, if he knew any.

It was after his ten o’clock curfew so Jack wasn’t able to drive me home. I set out walking and it wasn’t long before my dress worked its magic and I was sliding into a red Maserati alongside an accountant I scored with later that night. It was horrible because he was one of those shallow men who hate sport.

When I told Marlene about it in the morning she wasn’t at all surprised. Sport is more fun in the off-season, she said, when the boys are able to play.

Which is why, as a true sports lover, I can’t wait for the season to end.