"Get yourself to Fitzroy - the suburb," Browny ordered. "I want to know what the public think about the Lions' demise. Try Brunswick Street. Or the Fitzroy Town Hall in Napier Street. Just talk to people and find out what they're feeling now they've had a few days for it to sink in. Ask who they barrack for."
"OK," Clark said, figuring it would be wiser to ask Banjo or Bluey how he should get to Fitzroy. He paused, hoping Browny would give him more guidance regarding the type of story he wanted. When it became obvious that no further direction was coming, Clark opened the door.
"And get that smug, smirking, swaggering, crowing, insolent brown-and-gold minx out of my office."
Clark nodded and quickly exited.
Lois was still reading her book ... still looking more like she was on vacation than at work. She hadn't even turned on her computer. Clark crossed to her, apprehensive about his reception.
This time, she *did* look up at him. That was progress.
"Browny's given us a story," Clark said apologetically.
Lois closed her book and tossed it onto her desk. She swung her legs down and stood. "Where are we going?" she said.
"Fitzroy."
She picked up her bag. "We'll take the tram."
Part 17
Lois waited with Clark outside the Herald Sun offices. Neither had said a word since she had announced that they would get to Fitzroy by tram.
Clark seemed preoccupied. Hesitant. Unsure.
The weather matched his mood. It didn't seem able to decide what it wanted to do. The weak winter sun occasionally peeked out from behind the low, grey clouds. It felt like rain was imminent, but so far, it had remained dry.
Two days without seeing him had given her the time and the space to bully her wayward heart into accepting that Clark would never be anything more than a colleague.
Then he had walked into the newsroom, immediately looked in her direction, and approached with a hesitant half-smile that undermined every rational conclusion she'd carefully constructed during the weekend.
She could so easily fall for Clark.
Which would be spectacularly stupid.
Firstly, he looked so incredibly good. And Lois knew from experience that good-looking men were only interested in beautiful women. Usually, their tastes ran to a plethora of model-types - and all at once.
Secondly, he was going home.
And thirdly, he was hiding something.
Lois had mulled long over what he could possibly be hiding. She had considered drugs. That would explain his sudden need to be alone.
But when he'd been in the footy jumper, she had conducted a diligent exploration of his amazing arms, and she was sure they bore no signs of drug abuse.
And anyway, he was too steadfast, too together ... *most* of the time.
Then, on Sunday, she'd seen a television news report about how Superman had saved Metropolis from the attempted bombing. Not being able to access Superman directly for an interview, the news anchor had talked with the woman who *had* talked with him - the very beautiful, blonde Mayson Drake. As Lois had listened, the pieces had begun to fall together. It didn't explain Clark's first disappearance ... unless perhaps he had suddenly wanted to call Mayson.
But it did explain his sudden panic and need to be alone on Friday night. He was anxious about Mayson's safety. According to her reputation, she didn't let anything stop her when she was chasing a story. Clark had probably known instantly that she would be right there - close to the bomb and in danger.
So, he'd wanted to be alone ... to ring Mayson and beg her to stay safe.
And that - Lois kept telling herself firmly - that was a very good thing.
Except nagging away at the back of her mind was Clark's firm statement when they had read the Daily Planet together: "Mayson is no friend of mine."
Clark wouldn't lie.
Would he?
If he were attracted to Mayson, there was no reason why he wouldn't just come out and say so.
No reason at all.
So maybe it was nothing more than his highly developed protective streak stretching to encompass a colleague half a world away.
Lois shrugged mentally. She'd been going around and around in circles but it didn't change the most telling fact of all: Clark Kent would never be hers.
And if she wanted to keep her heart from being savagely torn apart, she needed to remember that.
"Lois?" Clark said.
She looked at him. He seemed anxious about something. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry about Friday night."
So he *was* thinking about Mayson? And that's why he was so introspective today? "I guess all of your friends are OK, seeing as Superman got there to save the day."
"Yeah," Clark said. "They're all fine."
"Do you work with Mayson Drake?"
"Sometimes."
"I saw her on a news report," Lois said. "She got the first-ever interview with Superman."
"I heard that."
"That's a massive scoop," she said, watching carefully for Clark's reaction. "I guess it isn't unexpected. They said she is America's top investigative reporter."
Clark didn't reply beyond a stilted nod.
Lois decided to plunge in. "Is Mayson your girlfriend?"
An unreadable expression flitted across his face. "No."
"Do you wish she was your girlfriend?"
"No."
"Do you have any feelings for her at all?"
"Not like that."
"She's very pretty," Lois said. "And she has a sensational figure."
Clark turned directly to her, and his eyes centred in hers, causing her heart to leap. "Mayson Drake means nothing to me beyond being a colleague," he said firmly. "And that is never going to change."
His eyes held her captive for a long moment. His gaze was steady, unflinching, direct ... soft ... eloquent. And the message it carried utterly crumbled every one of Lois's carefully created barriers.
She tore her eyes away and, in the distance, saw the approaching tram. "Come on," she said, her voice not at all steady. "The tram's here."
Clark smiled tentatively, and Lois knew he was hoping she would smile back.
It was hard not to ... such was the power of that smile.
She smiled for him and pushed all of her indecision to the dark recesses of her mind. "Come on, Kent," she said. "We have a story to write."
||_||
Clark sat on the streetcar - or tram, as it was called in Melbourne - while it rattled through the inner city. Lois had smiled at him. His apology had been stunted, and he'd never gotten to any sort of explanation, but Lois had smiled at him.
And for now, that was enough.
"Browny was a bit irritable this morning," Clark noted.
Lois's answering smile poured lovely warmth over his troubled world. "That was my fault," she admitted freely.
"What was with you reading that novel?"
"I was just stirring," Lois said. "I knew I could do just about anything and Browny wouldn't say a word to me because I'd give him heaps about how Hawthorn belted his Blues on Saturday night."
"Is that usual?" Clark asked. "That the fans tease each other after a game?"
Lois nodded. "Absolutely. It's probably because we all barrack for different teams. I can't imagine what it would be like to live in a place where everyone barracks for the one local team."
"You all celebrate together," Clark said.
Lois grinned. "Or mourn together."
"What would Browny have done if Carlton had won?"
Lois groaned. "He would have been unbearable," she said. "Carlton won the flag last year, and he had the Carlton theme song playing in the office for *two* weeks. He decked out the place in navy blue, and he had a roster for inflicting pain on us. He'd call one of us into his office so he could talk about the Grand Final. Then, he'd call in someone else. It got to the point where we all dreaded the sound of our own name."
Clark smiled, wondering if it were too early to think that any damage from Friday night had been repaired. "I can't imagine him like that."
"You can't imagine how bad it was," Lois said darkly. Her expression cleared. "So this morning was payback. And he deserved every bit of it."
"I was worried for you when he was on the crate."
"I knew he wouldn't address me directly," Lois said. "If he had, I would've brought up about a hundred memories from Saturday, and each one would have been like a stab to his heart."
"Where were you yesterday?" Clark asked.
Lois chuckled. "I knew Browny had plenty of people to cover the Collingwood-Fitzroy game and I was owed some time after all the extra hours I put into the merger story, so I went home and spent the day with Ron and Barb."
"Was Seb there?"
"Yeah. His flight wasn't until late afternoon, so I gave him a lift to Tullamarine Airport on the way home," Lois said. "Did Browny tell you what sort of story he wanted? Or did he just tell you to keep me out of the office all day?"
"He said he wanted the reaction of the people to Fitzroy's merger with Brisbane."
Lois grinned. "But he told you to keep me out of his way, didn't he?"
Clark smiled but didn't reply verbally.
"Looks like we have plenty of time," she said cheerfully. "Feel like a walk?"
"Sure."
"We could change trams, but let's continue on this one, and then we can walk through the Carlton Gardens to Brunswick St."
"OK."
"Have you been to Lygon St?"
"No," Clark answered. "But I think I've heard of it."
"It's Melbourne's Little Italy," Lois said. "Delicious pastas, incredible pizzas, and good coffee."
"*Good* coffee?"
"*Great* coffee," Lois amended. "And I reckon at least one of the cafes will have that strong stuff you like."
Clark felt his mouth form a wide smile. "My shout," he said eagerly.
Lois laughed. "Better watch out, Kent," she said. "You're turning into an Aussie."
||_||
The clouds had moved on, granting the opportunity for a few rays of warmth to shine weakly. Lois and Clark chose a cafe and decided to encourage the sun by sitting at one of the outside tables.
Clark was grateful that Lois didn't seem upset about his sudden disappearance on Friday night, but he wondered at her not pushing for further information. He realised he *wanted* her to ask ... wanted her to want to know more about him ... wanted her to care where he had gone.
But he was hesitant to jeopardise what had been a far smoother resolution than he had thought possible. Unless ... he could *allude* to Friday evening ...
"You never did tell me the Crimmo story," he said.
"You don't have to be polite, Clark," Lois said.
"I'm not being polite," he said. "I would really like to hear the story and I'd like you to tell me." He took a clean, folded handkerchief from his jacket pocket and offered it to her.
Lois laughed. "OK," she said. She reached across the table and took his handkerchief.
Clark smiled and waited.
"Peter Crimmins was our inspirational, courageous captain. He wore number 5 and had blond hair and, for a footballer, wasn't overly muscular. He never shirked any issue though. On the field, off the field, he was a magnificent captain, a true leader, and a man who passionately loved Hawthorn."
"I remember you once told me that your most treasured possession is a Hawthorn jumper with number 5 on it."
Lois nodded, and her eyes had already gathered a little moisture. "At the end of 1974, Crimmo was diagnosed with cancer. He had the surgery and the chemo, and throughout the 1975 season, he wanted just one thing - to be fit enough to lead us into the finals. He didn't play in the early finals, and when we made the Grand Final, Crimmo so desperately, desperately wanted to play. He'd been training hard, but training doesn't give you match fitness and in those days, there was no interchange bench - just a reserve, so when a player was replaced, he had to stay off, and the replacement had to stay on."
"Difficult decision," Clark said.
Lois's unshed tears deepened. The waiter arrived with the coffee and Lois poured a sachet of sugar into hers and slowly stirred.
Clark watched her, easily able to read her heightened emotions. "I didn't mean to upset you," he said.
She looked up from her coffee and gave him a tremulous smile. "It's OK," she said. She placed the spoon on the saucer and continued. "Being the captain, Crimmo had a vote on the Match Committee - they select the team - but it wasn't enough. He was outvoted and not named in the Grand Final team.
"He was devastated. Absolutely shattered. He drove home to his wife and two little boys a broken man. On the Saturday, we played North Melbourne in the Grand Final and got beaten. I think we probably deserved that."
"What happened the next year?" Clark asked.
"The cancer came back. As the 1976 season drew towards finals, Crimmo was seen less and less at the club. Hawthorn made it to the Grand Final and the Premier of Victoria offered Crimmo the use of his private car to get to the game, but he was just too ill. Before the game, our coach, John Kennedy, read only one of the hundreds of telegrams - the one from Crimmo." Lois smiled wistfully. "Kennedy always called him 'The Little Fella'."
"Did Hawthorn win?" Clark asked softly.
Lois nodded and a solitary tear broke free and flittered down her cheek. She wiped it away with Clark's handkerchief. "1976 will always be Crimmo's Cup. Very, very late that night, a few of the players took the cup to Crimmo's home. He had listened to the game on the radio and had memorised every minute. There is a photo - six big, healthy footballers surrounding Crimmo, who is holding the cup, his indomitable grin shining, his spirit unbroken, though his body was so cruelled by the cancer."
Clark waited.
"Crimmo died three days later," Lois said as another tear fell. "We retired his number 5 jumper for nearly twenty years, hoping that perhaps one of his sons would wear it."
"Did they?"
"No. And eventually, we brought it out of retirement, but no one gets it unless the Crimmins family agree. It is one of the greatest honours we can bestow on our players." She used his handkerchief to wipe her eyes.
"So no lingering bitterness over not including him the year before?"
Lois shrugged. "It's family," she said. "There's disagreement and conflict sometimes but in the end, we're all still Hawthorn."
"Lois?" Clark said. "You said you came to Australia in 1978."
"I did," she agreed. "I wasn't here when it happened ... but that doesn't mean I can't *feel* the legacy left by Peter Crimmins. People told me about him just like I'm telling you. Ron told me the Crimmo story, Barb told me, others told me ... and I've seen the display cabinet in the board room at Glenferrie. It holds our nine premiership cups and one jumper - Crimmo's number 5."
"Thank you for telling me," Clark said.
Lois smiled and sipped from her coffee. "If we stop telling our stories, something inherently Hawthorn dies," she said. "Crimmo is just one of the reasons why we can never lose Hawthorn."
"Are you still worried that Hawthorn is vulnerable?"
Lois shrugged slightly. "I ache for Fitzroy, but the cold hard truth is that what happened to them may mean that another club escapes being sacrificed. And that club could be Hawthorn."
"So the merger has strengthened your position?" Clark asked, remembering what he had overheard in the Social Club.
Lois nodded. "But it feels a bit like dancing on someone's grave."
Clark said nothing as he mulled over the story Lois had told him.
She stared at him, her eyes still damp.
"What?" he asked.
"You understand, don't you?" she said in a tone of wonder.
"Understand what?"
"You understand about needing to belong somewhere," Lois said. "About how whether it's a family or a football club or anything else, we all need to belong somewhere."
"Yes," Clark said gravely. "I understand."
She smiled. "I didn't think you would."
"Why?"
"Because you have a family - you didn't have to find one for yourself. You're not different. Or alone."
"You make it easy to understand," Clark said.
Their eyes locked, and Clark felt her warmth sizzle through him. He gazed at her mouth, drawn into her magnetism, willingly trapped by the essence that was Lois Lane.
"Big game for you on Wednesday," Lois said.
He dragged his attention away from her mouth. "Yeah."
"You're not looking forward to it?" Lois guessed.
Clark shook his head. "I'm worried ... there is so much that could go wrong."
"You mean like giving away a crucial free kick ... or missing a goal?"
Like maiming someone, Clark thought.
Lois smiled encouragingly. "Don't worry," she said. "They know you're new to this. You have a training session this arvo. Perhaps you'll feel more confident after that."
He doubted it.
She stared at him - her face unreadable.
He figured it was most likely she was wondering how a man could wish he wasn't playing when she was so desperately wishing she could.
Lois broke away from the contact of their eyes. "We should finish up here and get on with our story for Browny," she said.
Clark stood up, wishing he could speak from his heart.
Everything.
But he couldn't.
Not in the middle of a work day.
Not when Lois had given no hint that she wanted more than friendship.
Not when there was so much more that had to follow "Will you go out with me?"
||_||
As darkness fell on Tuesday evening, Lois pounded the joggers' track through the Fitzroy Gardens. She had been running for nearly half an hour and was just about spent.
Her body was spent, but her mind ...
Her mind was still a battlefield.
And the crux of the battle was Clark Kent.
On one side ... the simple truth was that she enjoyed being with him. More than enjoyed. His presence brightened her world ... accelerated her heart ... lifted her spirits.
Anytime she wasn't with him, she missed him. Pined for him. Thought about him ... Incessantly.
Throughout Monday - when she had gone to watch him train and then walked home with him - and into this morning when she had practised skills with him before work - Lois had constantly pushed forward all the reasons why she could never be with him - but not one of them was strong enough to stand against the overwhelming tide of her attraction.
He was going home ... well, maybe she could go home, too.
He was possibly involved with someone else ... but from everything she had learnt about Clark Kent, she found it impossible to believe that he wouldn't have said something to her.
He had some unanswered questions ... yet she couldn't quash the suspicion that if she asked the questions, he would answer them. Willingly. Honestly. Truthfully. In fact, sometimes she had wondered if he *wanted* her to ask.
She felt as if he were a good book - just waiting to be opened. A book with a gorgeous cover ... a book that promised so much more.
And ... despite warning herself over and over and over again ... she just couldn't believe that the book wouldn't be as good as the cover promised.
And there was the problem.
She wanted to open the book.
She *so* wanted to open the book.
But did she dare?
Could it be possible that Clark was different from all the other men she had known?
Could it be possible that Clark had considered the prospect of them being more than friends?
Her head said it wasn't possible.
And yet ...
Maybe.
So she had come directly from the Herald Sun office to the Gardens and run and run and run. Her legs were tired, her heart was hammering, her breath was laboured ...
And still ... she didn't know what to do.
But what she did know was this ... she enjoyed being with Clark and it was getting harder and harder to manufacture reasons why she shouldn't open that book.
||_||
By Tuesday night, Clark was anxiously grasping for any possible way to avoid participating in tomorrow's game of football. He'd attended training on Monday and between trying to remember the rules, and trying to execute the skills, and trying to avoid all physical contact with his teammates ... it had been a nerve-racking experience.
Clark had met the coach - Toggy, whose real name was Tadhg O'Gerraty. He spoke in a lilting Irish accent and smoothly blended idioms from his homeland with some colourful Australian slang.
Certainly his constant urgings - "Git in amongsht it, Rubber, the ball's not goin' a bite ye, lad," - didn't help at all.
Clark had felt completely out of place ... and that was with his teammates.
Tomorrow, there would be eighteen opponents.
He'd walked home with Lois after training on Monday evening, and she'd suggested they have another before-work session at the park the following morning. He'd tried to sound grateful - and he was - but her offer confirmed Clark's suspicion that his deficiencies had been glaringly obvious.
Football was a chaotic game. Thirty-six normal men chasing one ball was, as far as Clark could see, a recipe for disaster. When one of them *wasn't* normal ...
He didn't even want to think about it.
Then there was the issue of his glasses. He'd been pressured to remove them to train, and he'd had to strongly insist that he couldn't play without them.
Despite his aversion to playing, he dreaded an emergency requiring Superman even more. He had no doubt that Lois's opinion of him would slide irrevocably if he didn't get to the ground.
He'd learnt enough of the Australian ethos to know that letting down your mates was considered 'lower than a snake's belly'.
Clark barely slept Tuesday night, and by Wednesday morning, he felt worse than he had the first time he'd appeared in the Superman suit. Then, he'd had a simple-enough plan - get in, deal with the danger, and get out quickly. Now, there was nothing to do but wait. The game wasn't until three o'clock. He'd been instructed to be there at two. He still had six hours to fill, and they stretched out long and vacant before him.
He still hadn't managed to devise an excuse that was likely to be deemed satisfactory.
It wasn't as if he could easily fake an injury.
If the ball came near him and he made any effort at all to go after it, someone was likely to get badly hurt. If he didn't go after the ball, he was going to look apathetic. What was it Lois had said? "If you don't care, there's no point to it." Well, he did care. He cared about the game, and he cared about the safety of the others on the field, and mostly he cared about Lois's opinion of him.
And he figured that regardless of what happened, there was a good chance that one of those things was going to get damaged.
He had faced this many years ago - and decided that the only course open to him was to give up all competitive team sports. Nothing had changed - and yet today, he was going to have to play Australian Rules football - a game where heavy contact was the accepted norm.
Clark showered and ate his breakfast. As he listlessly washed his solitary dish and spoon, he thought about Lois. He still wanted to ask her for a date, but he was sure that pushing her out on Friday night must have caused her to doubt him. She had to have questions, even though she hadn't asked them.
A knock sounded, interrupting the flow of his thoughts. Turning, Clark looked through the door, and his heart leapt.
It was Lois.
He opened the door, aware he probably looked like his dreary world had just turned to sunshine. "Hi, Lois," he said brightly.
"Hi, Clark," she said. "What are you doing?"
"Ah ... actually, I was washing my dishes."
"How exciting," she teased. "Do you have other, equally fascinating plans for this morning?"
Clark chuckled. He loved everything about being with Lois, but he particularly loved how she made him feel so good. So normal. So acceptable. "No," he admitted.
"Beauty," Lois said. "Are you ready? Let's go!"
She'd single-handedly rotated his day one hundred and eighty degrees. "Where are we going?" he asked, knowing he was grinning broadly.
"It's a surprise," she told him.
"You're not going to tell me?"
"Nope. Just get in the car, and you'll know when we get there."
There was nothing Clark would rather do. "Give me one moment," he said, wanting to run a comb through his hair and splash on some cologne.
Lois grinned. "I'll wait in the Jeep."
||_||
Glossary
Stir - provoke.
The Premier of Victoria - the leader of the Victorian state government.
RL footballers
John Kennedy - Hawthorn legend as a player and coach. His statue overlooks the current training ground. Played 1950-1959. Coached 1960-1963 and 1967-1976 for 3 premierships.
Note - I stole the name Tadhg from Tadhg Kennelly, an Irishman who currently plays for the Sydney Swans. It is pronounced the same as the first syllable of tiger.
