Clark followed her to the elevator, standing back to let her enter first. "Lois?" Clark said.
"Yes?"
"Thanks for all your help."
She grinned. "Thanks for stepping in with the Eagles supporters."
She wasn't too annoyed at his interference, Clark thought with relief. "You didn't really need my help, did you?"
"No," she said. "But it was nice of you to do it."
Part 2
Lois took him to their sports editor, Paul Brown, introduced them, and left. Clark watched her walk away, feeling ridiculously like he'd been severed from his anchor and was now at the mercy of a vast and swirling ocean of unfamiliarity.
Mentally, he shook himself and turned to his editor. Paul Brown was a voluminous man, loud of voice and expansive of girth. Clark sat on the proffered seat and tried valiantly to keep up as Paul jumped erratically through a string of - as far as Clark could fathom - totally unrelated subjects.
Clark realised within minutes that Paul Brown had two habits. He asked questions without pausing for an answer, and he was likely to explode into boisterous, chin-wobbling laughter without any apparent reason.
Clark smiled along, nodding at what he hoped were the right moments. Between the accent, the slang, and the guffaws, Clark was reasonably confident he had understood less than a quarter of what his editor had said.
But he could ask Lois.
The roller-coaster that was Clark's first meeting with Paul Brown came to a sudden halt when Paul drew a big breath and shouted for someone called 'Banjo'.
A tall, lean man wearing jeans and an open neck shirt appeared at the door.
"Banjo," Paul said, "This is Clark Kent, on exchange from the USA. Show him to Deano's desk. Clark, this is Andrew Barton."
Andrew nodded with a friendly grin and shook hands with Clark. Back in the sports newsroom, Clark had a moment to survey his new work place. It wasn't completely dissimilar to the Daily Planet newsroom - perhaps a little louder, but that could be a reflection of the editor. It did seem rather casual - Clark realised he was the only person wearing a tie. And except for Lois - now seated at her desk in the far corner - they were all men. More than that, it was a male environment. There was not a flower nor a plant nor a knick-knack to be seen. Various posters adorned the walls - pictures of cars and sports teams and the occasional woman - dressed ... well, less than modestly.
Clark followed Andrew to a desk. It was on the opposite side of the room to Lois, but Clark thought there was a good chance he would have an unobstructed view of her.
Not that an obstructed view would prevent him from watching her.
Andrew pulled out the chair and turned on the computer. "This is Dan Scardino's desk," he said. "So it's yours for the next three months."
"Thanks, Andrew," Clark said.
"It's Banjo, mate," he replied. "I arrived here from England when I was five years old, and I've been Banjo ever since."
"OK," Clark said. "Banjo."
"If you need anything else, just ask Flinders."
"Lois?" Clark said. He couldn't resist reminding this guy that Lois had a name. And a very pretty name at that.
Banjo grinned. "Yeah, Flinders. She'll see you right." He took two steps away, but then paused and turned back. "See you at the pub after work?"
Clark nodded.
Banjo's grin widened. "Your first shout, Rubber."
Rubber?
Clark watched Banjo walk away. Rubber?
Was that the nickname Lois had assured him he would receive? Rubber? How had they come to that name in less than an hour? Rubber ... did it mean here what it meant at home? And if it did, what was it about him that made them think of *that*? Did he dare ask Lois? Or would that be just too embarrassing?
During the next hour Clark set up his computer and glanced through the Daily Planet site, catching up on the events that had happened during the thirty hours he'd been entombed in a flying crate. He wrote two emails - one to Perry and one to his parents. He kept to minimal detail - saying little more than he had arrived safely - and neglected to divulge any of his impressions of this new country.
The truth was that the foremost impression crowding his mind was Lois Lane.
Had his new editor, Paul Brown, asked for a description of the landscape between the airport and the Herald Sun office, Clark's mind would have filled with the image of a lovely brunette with a ready smile and an oh-so-cute accent.
Clark glanced across the newsroom to Lois's desk. She was still engrossed in whatever she was doing, and he felt mild regret that she was probably trying to catch up on the time lost in bringing him from the airport.
Two men approached his desk, and Clark tore his eyes from Lois.
"Gazza," said one of them, his hand extended. "And this is Bluey."
Clark shook hands with both of them. Gazza was tall with wide shoulders and a belly that had begun its passage over the top of his jeans. Bluey was shorter and reminded Clark of a relic from the seventies with his longish red hair and thick, meticulously kempt moustache.
"Have you got a footy team yet?" Gazza asked.
"Not yet," Clark replied.
Gazza grinned widely. "Good move, mate," he said. "Glad to see you didn't let Flinders railroad you into barracking for the Hawks."
"The Hawks?" Clark questioned.
"Hawthorn," Gazza said in a tone that suggested just saying the word caused a nasty taste in his mouth. He leant forward as if to share a confidence. "Collingwood," he whispered. "The best darn footy club in the world."
Bluey nodded eagerly. "The mighty Magpies. Black and white army. Gazza here, he used to play for 'em."
Clark managed to resist the temptation to lower his eyes and appraise a physique that didn't appear particularly athletic.
"It was a good few years ago now," Gazza said. "I'll spread the word that you're a Magpie. Welcome to Collingwood, Rubber."
"No!"
They both stared at him, clearly taken aback by his reaction.
"I haven't decided on a team yet," Clark said, hoping he sounded firm but friendly. "When I do, I'll let you know."
"Stay away from Browny," Gazza said with an ominous nod in the direction of the editor's office. "He's a bluebagger."
"A what?" Clark asked.
"He barracks for Carrrrlton," Bluey explained, managing to make the first syllable sound like the snarl of a dog.
Clark tried to keep his face blank, figuring any reaction could be misunderstood. "Thanks for the advice," he said.
"You'll never regret barracking for Collingwood," Gazza said seriously. "Best decision you'll ever make. Think about it, mate."
Clark nodded, trying to portray the seriousness they probably expected. "I will," he promised.
||_||
An hour later, Lois came to his desk. "Ready?" she asked.
Clark nodded. "I have to go to the pub," he said, hoping she would discern his reluctance.
"Yeah, I know," she said. "That's why we're leaving now. I'll take you to your unit, and you can settle in. Then I'll take you to the pub."
"My unit?"
"Your ... apartment."
"I have an apartment?" Clark said with surprise.
"Did you think you'd be sleeping on your desk?" Lois asked with a grin.
Clark smiled, deciding he liked being teased by Lois Lane. He followed her into the elevator and back to her Jeep. When they emerged onto the street, the traffic was congested and they were forced to crawl along at walking pace.
"Rush hour," Lois said as she rolled her eyes. "Any questions?"
Yes. He wanted to know why he was called Rubber. He'd been called it seven times already. Even Paul Brown had used it when he'd come to check that Clark had filled in the insurance forms correctly.
Clark bit back his question. He wasn't sure he would survive the humiliation of Lois explaining it to him - particularly if, as he suspected, there was something acutely embarrassing about it. "I don't think I know enough to ask intelligent questions yet."
Lois smiled. "It must be tough, landing in the middle of this with no preparation."
It would have been a whole lot tougher without you, he thought.
"There are a couple more survival skills you're going to need," Lois said.
"OK."
"Don't use the word 'fanny' unless you are trying to be coarse. Gazza will use it, but most men don't in female company."
"Should I ask what it means here?"
She wrinkled her adorably pert nose. "It doesn't mean what it means in the US," she said. The traffic lights turned green, and they spurted a small distance forward until they were again stopped by backed up cars. "And if you ask for the bathroom, people are going to think you want to take a shower."
"What should I ask for then? Restrooms? Washrooms?"
"Toilets."
"Toilets?"
Lois grinned at his tone. "We say it as it is around here. If you want to use the toilet, just say so."
That was going to take some getting used to.
They were stopped in a long line of traffic. Lois turned her full attention to him, grinning as if what she was about to say had amused her greatly. "We have a few other slang words for toilet that might be helpful."
"Such as?"
"Dunny is the most common. But you might hear loo, jon or bog as well."
"Dunny?" he said, mostly because he was hoping for a repeat of her mischievous grin.
He got it and its warmth flowed through him like a river of hot melted chocolate.
The traffic lights - not hung overhead, but on poles on the sides of the road - changed to green, and Lois turned onto a road that wasn't so congested. A few moments later, she pointed to the left. "That's the M-C-G," she said with deep reverence. "We call it 'The 'G'. If Melbourne has a soul, this is it."
So even the stadia had nicknames Clark reflected as he peered up at the towering grandstand. "MCG?"
"Melbourne Cricket Ground. You'll probably go to at least one game there this weekend."
"They play football on it? Even though it's a cricket ground?"
"Of course," she said, as if it were obvious. "The Grand Final is held here the last Saturday in September."
"I think I go home just after that."
"You wouldn't want to miss the Grand Final."
"No," Clark said, thinking not about seeing the Grand Final but about having to say goodbye to Lois Lane. He pushed that from his mind. "How do I have an apartment?" he asked.
"It's a unit," Lois corrected. "Or a flat." They pulled into a quiet street and then into a concrete driveway next to a long, low building with six doors. Lois parked in front of the second one. "This is your home," she said. "For three months."
She was already counting down the time until Scardino came home. "I didn't have the time to organise anything," Clark said. "I thought I'd be staying in a hotel."
"This is Dan's place."
"It is?"
Lois raised the trunk so he could get his luggage. "Dan was supposed to swap homes with Pete. Now you're here instead of Pete, I reckon it's your place."
"Is that OK with Dan?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"I doubt he's staying in my apartment."
She shrugged. "That's their problem."
Lois unlocked the door and Clark followed her into what was apparently his new home.
"It's a two-bedroom unit," Lois said, "But Dan has locked some of his stuff in that room, so you've just got one bedroom."
"It's great. Thanks." Had she slept here? With Scardino? The guy too stupid to realise what he'd left behind? Clark determinedly turned his thoughts away from that. It was none of his business.
Lois circled the area that doubled as a living room and kitchen. She opened the drapes, checked the fridge, and watered the potted plants - moving with the easy familiarity of someone who'd spent a lot of time here. "I'll go and wait in the car," she offered when she'd finished her rounds. "You probably want to freshen up and get settled. Take your time - there's no hurry."
Clark didn't want to keep her waiting in the car but realised she might be uncomfortable being in Scardino's apartment ... unit ... with him, so he nodded his agreement. When she handed him the keys, the very tips of her fingers brushed along his palm. "Thanks," he said.
Lois turned and left him, closing the door softly behind her.
Clark stood still, trying to gather his scrambled thoughts. He'd had a call from Perry Saturday afternoon telling him Pete couldn't do the exchange program and asking if he would go to Australia instead. He'd agreed, been on a plane two hours later ... and now ... it was Monday, and he was half way around the world in a ... unit ... in 'Melburn' trying to come to terms with the fact he was now an Australian Rules football writer.
But all of that paled to insignificance against the very certain knowledge he had just fallen harder for a woman than ever before.
Three months.
Three months to be with her. Three months to watch her yearn for the guy doing his job in Metropolis. Three months until he would have to say goodbye and walk out of her life.
It hurt already.
Clark sighed.
He went into the bedroom, unpacked some of his clothes, showered, and only hesitated when deciding what to wear. He'd felt overdressed in his suit and tie today. What did they wear to go to the pub? He decided on jeans and a navy blue polo shirt.
It was less than five minutes since Lois had left, and he hated keeping her waiting, but if he appeared too quickly, she would be suspicious.
Clark lowered his glasses and x-rayed through the wall. She was in the Jeep, turned sideways, scribbling notes in a book leant against her raised knees. In profile, she seemed more vulnerable ... younger perhaps ... than face on. She was still beautiful though.
His thoughts scurried ahead to tomorrow morning. What did she have planned for them? Maybe breakfast while she explained the rules of this game they called 'footy' - the game he was going to be expected to analyse and report on coherently.
Hoping he had waited long enough, Clark eagerly grabbed his black leather jacket, locked his door, and climbed into the Jeep beside Lois as the late afternoon light faded around them.
||_||
Clark's introduction to the Australian pub ritual eventuated exactly as Lois had predicted. He bought the first round of drinks, was told he should 'shout' again and refused, which the gathered group took with great humour. He drank his second drink and then excused himself.
Throughout it all, they called him Rubber. Every one of them. When they introduced him to someone new, it was 'this is Rubber'. It was as if none of them were even aware of the names Clark and Kent. Somehow, they'd been left back in Metropolis.
Except for Lois. She hadn't called him Rubber yet.
Clark stepped out of the bright noisiness of the pub and onto the street. He stood there, searching for Lois, and trying to ignore how his heart had accelerated at the mere thought of seeing her again. From behind him came a voice. "Did you survive?"
He spun to face her, already smiling. "Yes," he replied. "Thanks to you."
Lois gestured across the road. "The car's this way."
She walked away, hands thrust low in the pockets of her jacket. Clark crossed behind her so he could walk on her outside and hurried to catch up to her. "Thanks for making this so easy for me," he said. "I'm not sure I could have even found the pub without your help."
"No worries," Lois said. "I had some research I wanted to do, so I didn't mind the extra hour in the office."
"Do you ever go out socially with your colleagues?" Clark asked. "There were other women in the pub. I'm sure you could have come if you'd wanted to."
"It's better that I don't," Lois said. "I'm not particularly popular right now."
Clark wanted to ask why, but they reached her Jeep and the moment was lost. Ten minutes later, Lois stopped at the bottom of his driveway.
"The park's up there on the left," she said, pointing ahead. "See you tomorrow morning. Six-thirty." She pulled a piece of paper from her bag. "Here's my number; if you need anything, or have any questions, just ring me. Dan's phone is connected."
"Thanks." Clark hesitated, not wanting her to go. "I have a question."
"OK."
"What are trackies? And runners?"
"Trackies are track suit pants. And runners are ... sports shoes ... things you can run in."
Were they going to *play* football? Or talk about it? Would it be just the two of them? Or would others join them? Figuring Lois would be eager to get home, Clark decided not to bother her with further questions. "Thanks for everything, Lois," he said. "You've been really helpful."
She smiled. He shut the car door and watched as she drove away.
Helpful? She'd taken possession of his heart.
||_||
Clark arrived at the park at twenty past six the next morning. It was cold enough that his breath clouded in front of his face. Lois was already there, slowly jogging around the extremity. She'd been here for some time - her tracks had scuffed an outer ring of green that contrasted sharply with the undisturbed dew in the middle of the park. She wore a pink tracksuit and white tennis shoes ... runners. When she saw him, she came over.
"G'day, Clark," she greeted. "Did you sleep OK?"
"Yep," he lied. Despite the long hours of travelling he hadn't felt sleepy at all and had spent most of the night thinking about her. He'd recalled every moment with her - repeatedly.
Lois strode to a bag under a tree and brought out a red football. "This is a footy," she said. "If you're going to write about the game, I reckon you could use some hands-on experience." She threw it to him.
Clark caught it. The leather was cool and sleek in his hands. It looked much the same as an American football, but its ends were more rounded.
Lois ran about fifteen yards away. "Kick it to me," she called.
Clark tested the football in his hands. His instinct was to lurch back and throw it as he had done so many times before in the parks at home. Instead, he balanced and kicked it in her direction, careful to severely limit his force on the ball.
Lois moved easily to meet it and it thudded into her chest. He winced, sure he'd hurt her. "Good kick," she called out.
She retreated, walking backwards, held the ball poised, and then - with a little spurt of forward movement - kicked it to him, like an arrow aimed directly at his heart. Fitting, he thought, as he caught it against his chest.
"Good mark," Lois called.
He kicked it again and it slewed off his foot and missed her by ten feet. Lois ran and lunged at it, catching it again.
They kicked it back and forth a few times - enough for him to realise that Lois could kick the ball at least as well as he could ... over short distances anyway.
She jogged over to him. "OK, if the ball's kicked and someone catches it without it touching the ground or anything else, it's a mark," she explained. "Not a catch."
Clark nodded. "A mark."
"One of the most exciting parts of the game is the high marking," she said. "We call them 'speckies'."
"Speckies?" Clark repeated hesitantly. "As in glasses?"
Her laughter echoed through the early morning stillness. "No," she said. "As in 'spectacular'."
Clark nodded, although he wasn't able to visualise what she meant.
Perhaps she saw his confusion, because she hurried to further explain. "A specky - also called a screamer - is when a player launches himself onto another player - or even a group of players - and, assuming he got his timing right, he marks the ball high off the ground." She grinned. "And then tries to stick the landing without injuring himself."
The chaotic picture in Clark's mind made no sense. Lois's hand rested on his arm. "You'll understand when you see a game," she assured him. Her hand lifted from him. "You did well; you've kicked a footy before, haven't you?"
Her touch sent shivers of heat up his arm and her approval flooded him with pleasure. Clark wrenched his mind back from the edge of distraction and forced himself to form an intelligent sentence. "I've kicked a football," he said. "Not a footy."
"Ever bounced it?" Lois asked.
"You can't bounce a ball this shape," he said, completely enthralled by the healthy glow of her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes.
She lobbed it to him. "Try," she challenged.
Clark dropped it to the ground and it bounced at right angles, out of his reach. Lois laughed. He retrieved it and pushed it harder at the ground. The only difference was that it shot off with greater force.
Lois picked up the ball and nonchalantly dropped it to the ground. It obediently sprang back to her hands. Clark raised his eyebrows.
"When you can bounce it while running at full speed with an opponent hot on your hammer, you're half way to becoming a footballer," she said.
Clark wasn't sure it was possible. But if it were, he'd sure like to see Lois do it. "Show me," he urged.
She considered him, a little smile on her face. "Can't you just believe it is possible?" she asked.
He'd cornered her. She couldn't do it. "Never," he said adamantly. "If I don't see it, I won't believe it."
Lois grinned at him. "Watch this."
She turned and jogged away. She bounced the oval-shaped ball, and every time, it plopped back into her hands so precisely she didn't even need to adjust her stride. Turning smoothly, she accelerated towards him, continuing to bounce the footy.
"How do you do that?" Clark asked, quite willing to let her see she had impressed him.
"Practice," she said. Lois held up the ball and pointed to the lower curve. "Look at the shape. You have to land it here." She gave him the ball and then picked up his hands and, one at a time, repositioned them on the soft leather. "OK," she said. "Keep this angle and push it to the ground."
He made a valiant attempt to follow her instructions, which was not made any easier by the Lois-induced wayward rhythm of his heart. Taking a steadying breath, Clark cautiously let go of the ball, and to his surprise it came back and he caught it.
"Well done, Clark." Lois said.
His name on her lips caused his breath to catch in his throat. What if she said it ... breathlessly? Passionately? Tenderly? Lovingly? He shook his head to banish his thoughts.
They practised bouncing for the next few minutes, and by then Clark could slowly jog and awkwardly bounce the ball.
"You're doing great," Lois said sincerely.
"I have a great teacher," Clark replied.
"Thanks," she said. "Now, you can't throw the ball; you handball it." She took his left hand and opened it, palm up, and placed the ball on it. "Clench your right fist," she said. "And punch the ball off your hand."
He did as she said, and the ball lobbed towards her. She caught it and handballed it back to him. He tried again, more confidently this time.
She sent it back with a smile. "Three more skills," she said. "Smother, bump, tackle."
All of the words suggested contact, and Clark swallowed.
"Kick it," Lois said.
He stepped back and dropped the ball to his foot. A blur of pink flew across the path of his foot, and he pulled his kick. Lois landed on the ground, the ball buried under her. Clark fell to his knees beside her and tried to help her up, sure he had hurt her. "Lois! I'm sorry."
She twisted to a sitting position, the ball still tightly clamped within her arms. "What are you sorry for?" she asked, genuinely surprised.
"I nearly kicked you."
"No, you didn't."
"Yes, I did."
"No, you didn't. I smothered your kick."
"You could have been badly hurt." Anxiety had raised his voice.
Lois glared at him, all her good humour gone. Then she glared at the football she was holding.
Clark risked a hand on her shoulder. "Lois?" he asked. "What happened?"
"Would you be more comfortable if one of the blokes taught you the rest?" she said disconsolately.
He couldn't resist a tiny increase in the pressure on her shoulder. "What did I do wrong?" he asked quietly.
"You treated me like I'm a girl."
He laughed. He just couldn't help it. "Lois," he insisted. "You *are* a girl." A woman, his mind amended, a very beautiful woman.
"If I'd been kicked, it would've been my fault," she said. "Not yours just 'cause you're the bloke."
"Lois," he said in his best conciliatory tone. "Please keep teaching me ... just warn me if you're going to do something that will freak me out."
"Are you sure you want to?" she said. "I could ask Gazza to show you."
"No," Clark said decisively. "I want you to do it." He stood and offered her his hand, which she took after only a moment's hesitation. "I assume a smother is when you stop the ball with your body as it's being kicked."
"Yes," Lois said as Clark helped her to her feet.
"Isn't that dangerous?"
"It can be. But not if you get the timing right."
"Can we skip to the next thing?" Clark suggested. "Tackle, wasn't it?"
She nodded. "If a player has the ball and it's 'play on', he can be tackled by any opponent. The tackle must be higher than the knees and lower than the neck."
There was an awful lot of territory between her knees and her neck. Lois kicked the ball so that it dribbled along the ground. "Go and get it," she said. "And I'll tackle you."
Clark ran after the ball, aware every sensory receptor in his body was tightly coiled in anticipation of her touch. He gathered the ball, and it came - a pink flurry as two arms surrounded him and pinned his arms to his side. With surprising strength, Lois tried to toss him to the ground. She couldn't, of course, but the force she applied shocked him. The ball rolled free from his hands, and she immediately let go of him. "My ball," she announced triumphantly.
"Why?" he contended.
"You dropped the ball."
"What was I supposed to do?"
"When you're tackled, you have to get rid of the ball legally - either kick it or handball it."
"I couldn't handball it," he said with feigned indignation. "You had my arms trapped."
"Then it was a great tackle." She picked up the ball. "You wanna tackle me this time?"
There was absolutely no undertone to her words. Nothing to even hint he was anything more than a newbie in dire need of some acclimatisation. Clark couldn't think of another woman who could say such potentially flirtatious words so innocently. He couldn't think of another woman whose guilelessness could cause him such rampaging disappointment.
But he shouldn't be surprised - Lois was in love with Scardino. She was missing him. This was nothing more than a distraction to pass the time until he returned home.
"Sure," Clark said, trying to keep his disappointment from sloshing through his tone.
Lois dribbled the ball forward, tore after it and scooped it up. The moment it was in her hands, she weaved, turned, side-stepped, and sprinted away from him. "You have to catch me before you can tackle me," she called gleefully from the safety of fifteen feet away.
"Right." Clark set out after her. She ducked again, narrowly evading his outstretched hand. He had over-committed and her laughter sounded in his ears as he tried to pull up. When he turned, he saw Lois running away, nonchalantly bouncing the ball. He leapt across the distance between them, captured her within his arms and, as gently as he dared, brought her to the ground.
"Baaallll," she called as she untangled herself from his clutches. She stood and tossed the ball to him. "Your free."
"Why?"
"You tackled, I didn't dispose of it; I was caught holding the ball, so it's your free kick."
"Why didn't you kick it?" he asked, already feeling guilty about using some unfair advantages.
"Because you have some serious closing speed," she said.
Clark heard the genuine admiration in her voice, and it felt incredibly good. "What's next?" he asked. Too much tackling was not wise.
"The bump," Lois replied. "If the ball is within five metres, you can bump an opponent when it's 'play on'."
He couldn't visualise what she meant. And his ability to grasp new concepts wasn't being helped by the fact that every touch set off another round of tingling explosions that skittered across his skin. "Show me," he said.
Lois placed the ball on the ground and walked a few feet away. "Come and pick it up," she said, sounding innocent enough.
Clark ran in and bent down to pick up the ball. The pink whirlwind was back, shoulder hard against his. He consciously relaxed his muscles, and the force of her knocked him off balance. She took the ball and scooted away.
"That's a bump," she informed him. "Also called a 'hip and shoulder'."
"I could tell," Clark said as he picked himself up.
She laughed. "You want to bump me?"
"I don't think so," he said.
Lois sighed. "You won't hurt me. I'm smaller than you."
Clark laughed. "Lo-is ... that's exactly what worries me."
"But I can balk." She set the ball on the ground with purpose and stood over it, arms crossed. "I bet you breakfast I can come in and pick up the ball without you laying a tackle or a bump," she challenged.
She probably could, because she mesmerised him. "Bet you can't," he said, managing to match her light-heartedness.
"You're on." She moved five yards away. "Ready?"
"Ready."
She ran towards the ball, but instead of stopping to pick it up, she dropped her body low and scooped up the ball without ever slackening her pace. Clark remembered he was supposed to be stopping her and lurched at her fast-departing pinkness.
He caught her around the waist, and together they fell to the ground. He held himself up long enough that his weight floated down on her rather than falling on her. In the scramble of arms and legs, he realised two things simultaneously.
She was shaking, and his hand was wedged against her chest. He pulled his arm away as if it had been burnt and turned her so he could see her face.
A tear was rolling down her face, which alarmed him ... until he realised she was shaking with laughter. "Lois?" he said. "Lois? Are you all right?"
She wiped her cheek and sat up. "That was a beautiful tackle," she said.
"Did I hurt you?" he said, still concerned.
"No. At least, I don't think so." She laughed again, and it heated the blood in his veins. "It doesn't matter anyway - it was a glorious tackle. I thought I was past you."
Clark noticed the grass stains on her knees and swallowed down his impulse to apologise.
"I owe you breakfast," Lois said matter-of-factly. She sprang to her feet. "Kick to kick first?" she asked.
He managed a smile. "What's that?"
"You're at one end, you kick it to me, I kick it back. If you spill the mark, you have to chase the ball and pick it up."
"OK." That sounded less perilous than tackling or bumping. Not that he hadn't enjoyed them.
They kicked the ball between them for fifteen minutes. In that time, Clark came to further appreciate Lois's significant skills with the football. And, he realised, she was thoroughly enjoying every moment of it.
She chased the ball from one of his wayward kicks and came over to him. "You owe me," she declared.
He knew that. "I thought you lost the bet about breakfast," he said.
"I did," Lois admitted freely. She eyed him. "Have you ever played gridiron?"
"Football? Yes."
"What position?"
"Free safety."
She looked at him blankly. "Can you do the throwing thing?"
"Yes," Clark said. "The quarterback does that, but I can throw a little."
"Would you teach me?" Lois asked eagerly. "It's cool how the ball spins."
"Sure."
Lois tossed him the football and he showed her his grip on the ball. She ran away and called, "Throw it to me."
He threw it, and she scurried after it and caught it. "Your turn to throw," he called.
Lois leant back and threw the ball. It lobbed forward pitifully, and her laughter rang out. She ran forward, scooped up the ball and came over to him. "Please show me again," she requested.
He arranged her hands on the ball and took gentle hold of her wrist and stood behind her to demonstrate the throw. When her arm stretched forward, his followed, and his body closed around hers.
Lois didn't notice their closeness. She was concentrating too hard on learning how to throw a football. This time, the ball went a respectable distance. She turned to him, eyes sparkling. "I did it," she said.
He nodded because words weren't possible. Everything about Lois Lane suggested she had no notion of how beautiful she was. That was a part of her attraction - how her natural inner beauty lit her face and her smile and her eyes.
Dan Scardino was a fool. A blind fool.
"We should go," Lois said. "Gotta get to work." She put the ball in her bag and they turned towards his apartment.
"Do you play footy?" Clark said, the final word still feeling strange on his tongue.
"No," she said, and he sensed her despondency. It was all he could do to keep his hand from resting gently on her back.
"Why?"
"Because girls don't play footy."
"They don't?"
"There is a girls' league now," Lois said. "But it's only been going for a few years. By the time it started, I was already a footy journo, and I don't have any free time on Saturdays, so I can't play."
"But you're so good."
"Not really," Lois said. "It's not that difficult to do it when there's no pressure. In a real game, there's no time - everything has to be instinctive."
"How did you get so skilled? Who did you practise with?"
"Anyone who was willing to overlook that I'm a girl."
That would *not* be easy, Clark thought. "I'm willing to overlook it," he said quietly. At least I'm willing to pretend when there's a football nearby, he corrected silently.
She smiled up at him. "You are?"
"Sure."
"So we could do this again?"
"I'd love to."
Lois smiled as if he'd given her a gift. "I'm going home to have a shower," she said. "I'll be back here in twenty minutes and we'll have brekkie."
"Lois," Clark said. "I'm not sure what to wear for work. At home, I wear a suit and tie."
"Would you be comfortable working in jeans and a shirt?" she asked.
Clark shrugged slightly. "I don't know," he said. "But I felt conspicuous yesterday."
"How about you leave off the tie for now?" she suggested. "Until Friday, anyway. On Fridays, everyone dresses down."
"OK," he agreed. "Thanks."
With another smile, she turned away. "See you soon," she called.
Clark stood watching her. He could watch her all day - and it still wouldn't long be enough.
||_||
Glossary
Brekkie - breakfast.
Hot on the hammer of - chasing closely.
Journo - journalist.
Mark - a catch in football which allows time to kick or handball while an opponent cannot tackle you.
Introduction to Australian football (from an American perspective)
