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"I hope you don't have any plans for next Wednesday," Browny said.

"No, I don't," Clark said, knowing from Browny's tone that that was the only acceptable response.

"Good. You'll be playing for the Print Media boys in our annual charity game against the Electronic Media boys."

Clark gulped. "Football?" he said.

"Of course football," Browny barked. "What were you expecting? Tiddlywinks?"

"No," Clark said. He hurried on. "I haven't played a game in my life," he said. "I really don't think -."

"You're here as Deano's replacement," Browny said decisively. "And Deano always plays, so you'll be playing."

Clark knew argument would be pointless. "OK," he said.

"Gazza's the captain. He'll get you the details and give you your kit. You're going to the barbie this arvo? Good. See him then."

Browny picked up his phone and began to dial.

Clark turned and walked out of Browny's office.

This was not good.

This was not good at all.


Part 13

Clark caught a lift with Bluey to Gazza's barbeque late that afternoon. Lois had again left the office and not returned.

They were greeted at the front door by Narelle, Gazza's wife. She was, as Lois had told Clark, a fine-looking woman - a titian-haired beauty with startling green eyes and a natural elegance. She smiled in welcome. "Bluey, Clark," she greeted. Turning to Clark, she added, "Or would you prefer that I call you Rubber?"

"Either," he replied, realising that he no longer really minded his nickname. It *did* make him feel like he belonged.

"Clark," Narelle said. "Come through to the pergola. Gary has just fired up the barbie; we'll eat in about half an hour."

Clark followed her through the large and impressive house. Beyond the back door, they stepped into an outdoor area with a timber floor, waist-high lattice surrounds, and a canopy of leafless vines that meandered across the overhead beams. Three sturdy wooden planks served as steps down to the neatly kept lawn and a small paved area where Banjo, Browny, Gazza and a couple of guys Clark didn't know were standing around the barbeque. Gazza had a bottle of beer in one hand and tongs in the other. He waved in greeting.

Clark responded, even as he realised with sharp disappointment that Lois wasn't here.

"Drinks are in the esky," Narelle said.

"Thanks," Bluey replied. He went to the blue box in the corner of the pergola, lifted its white lid, and took out a squat brown bottle. "Rubber?" he said, turning to Clark and lifting the bottle for him to see.

"Ah, no, thanks," Clark said.

Bluey took his drink and joined the men around the barbeque. Narelle introduced Clark to the gathered women - Sue, who was Browny's wife, Molly, who was Banjo's girlfriend, and two others.

"Can I get you a drink?" Narelle asked Clark. "What would you like?"

"Yes, please," Clark said. "Do you have coke?"

"Sure." Narelle gestured to the men clustered around the barbeque. "Women love barbies because the men cook," she said. "One bloke periodically prods the meat, and the others stand around yarning, and they all come away convinced they have solved the world's problems. You can join them if you'd like, and I'll bring your drink down to you. Or you can stay up here, and we can have a chat."

Clark hesitated, not wanting to be caught in the all-male environment if Lois arrived, but also wary of appearing too eager to monopolise the attention of the hostess.

Narelle saw his hesitation and smiled. "I'll get your coke, and we'll have a chat." She was back a few seconds later with his drink, and sat beside him. "How are you finding Australia?"

"Different," Clark replied. "More so than I expected."

"What specifically?"

"The language, the slang, the lack of formalities, the total fixation on football ..."

Narelle grinned. "You mean no one ever told you that you can't go more than half an hour in this city without someone bringing up the subject of football?"

Clark matched her grin. "No - I certainly wasn't told that."

"We're not called 'Sports-mad Melbourne' for nothing."

"Is it like that in general?" he asked. "Or does it just seem like that because I'm working in the footy department of a newspaper?"

"There are small pockets of people who aren't completely obsessed," Narelle said. "But just about everyone has a team, and with that comes a lot of passion, and everyone wants his opinion heard, so ... we just keep talking about footy. I think it's accentuated because we support different teams within one city." She sipped from her glass of red wine. "Gary says you've decided to barrack for Hawthorn."

"Yes," Clark said. "I was told I had no choice but to select a team."

"And Lois barracks for the Hawks," Narelle said smoothly. "So I reckon you made a good decision."

Clark studied her, wondering if her words carried a deeper meaning. "Do you barrack for Collingwood?" he said.

She laughed. "I do now but when I was a kid, I barracked for Richmond."

"Lois said no one changes their team."

"It's a bit hard not to change when you're going out with a Collingwood player," she said. "Don't tell Gazza, but there's a small part of me that will always love the Tigers."

"I'm not sure Lois could be lured away from Hawthorn even if she were dating the captain of Collingwood," Clark said.

"I think you're right," Narelle agreed. "Do you know if she's coming today?"

"She said she would."

"Oh, good," Narelle exclaimed gladly. "I was hoping enough time had passed that she felt included again."

"Included?"

"Hasn't she told you?"

"No."

"There was a ... difficult situation. Divided loyalties. And Lois figured the men would stick together." From the front of the house came the chimes of the doorbell, and Narelle stood. "Maybe that will be her now."

Clark waited, hoping ... wondering.

A few seconds later, Lois walked into the room followed by Narelle.

"You go and sit over there," Narelle said to Lois, nodding towards Clark. "And I'll get you a drink."

Clark stood as Lois approached him. The world had suddenly become a brighter place - simply because she was here. "Were you out chasing up the story?" he asked as they sat together.

She nodded.

"Anything happen?"

"Nothing I can prove."

Narelle came over with a glass of orange juice and a burlap bag. She put the drink on the table and gave the bag to Lois. "Can you check them tonight and get back to me?" she asked with a smile. "If there's a problem, I'll send replacements with Gary tomorrow."

Lois opened the bag and peered in. Her face clouded with confusion, and her eyes rose quickly to Narelle.

Gazza's wife grinned. "Never trust a bloke with detail," she said and walked away.

Lois closed the bag and placed it on the deck next to her chair, and took her orange juice from the table.

"Should I ask what's in there?" Clark asked, nodding to the bag. "Or is it none of my business?"

Lois took a sip of her orange juice. "It's yours."

"Mine?"

"It's your footy jumper and shorts," Lois said. "For the game."

"For me?" Clark gulped.

She nodded.

"Why did Narelle give them to you?" Clark asked. "And what does she want you to check?"

"That they fit."

"Oh." Clark felt the beginnings of heat shimmer across his face. Just one of his problems with having to play football was the skimpiness of the clothes they wore - a pair of *short* shorts and a sleeveless jersey with no padding at all. He wasn't particularly looking forward to being seen like that in public. He definitely didn't want to parade in front of Lois dressed like that. "Did Browny tell you he insisted I play?"

"No," Lois said. "But I guessed he would. That's one of the reasons why I suggested we do some skills last week."

"I have to go to training on Monday."

"Yeah."

"I figure you're not allowed to play?"

"Nope," she said. "I'm a girl."

Clark couldn't detect any bitterness, although he would have understood it. Lois had loved football and studied it for years ... and she was barred from the team. He had been in the country less than two weeks, knew practically nothing of the game ... and he had been ordered into the team. Clark briefly touched her arm. "Sorry," he said.

She understood and just smiled. "It is how it is," she said. "And don't worry about the game. You'll be fine. No one'll expect too much."

"Is Dan good at football?"

Lois nodded. "He has a prodigious left foot, keeps his head over the ball, and always flies the flag for his teammates."

Clark groaned. "I didn't understand most of that," he said. "But I understood enough to know I won't be an adequate replacement."

"A prodigious left foot means he can kick the ball a long way. Keeping his head over the ball means he doesn't squib it." Lois noticed Clark's look and grinned. "He keeps going for the ball even if he knows a hit is coming," she explained. "And flying the flag means that if a teammate gets into a scuffle with an opponent, Dan will always be there in support."

Clark felt his stomach sink. "Lois," he hissed. "I can't get into any 'scuffles'."

She didn't ask why. Part of him dreaded her asking. A contrary, imprudent part of him wanted her to - wanted her to delve into his secrets and uncover them. Her hand rested on his arm. "You'll be fine," she said.

"Will you be there?"

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Clark wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse.

A shout from Gazza informed them that the meat was cooked. Clark stood, and waited for Lois to go down the few steps to the barbeque. He figured he should probably be glad Lois hadn't asked why he was so concerned about playing football.

But, strangely, he wasn't.

||_||

To Clark's surprise, he enjoyed the barbeque despite being coerced into joining the men after filling his plate with meat. Bluey told him there was no need to return to the pergola and the table loaded with food because only women ate salad. So Clark remained with the men, eating a hefty chunk of steak encased in two slices of bread.

He laughed at their jokes and accepted their cracks aimed at everything from him being American to him barracking for Hawthorn. He noticed - as Lois had warned him - that they could be merciless in their humour, but any possible offence simply got lost in the relaxed ambience of standing around eating, drinking, and laughing together.

Browny brought up the subject of their upcoming game, and Clark followed the conversation intently, trying to gauge exactly how serious they were.

With growing apprehension, he realised they were deadly serious. The Electronic Media - the radio and television commentators - had won the past two years, and the Print Media were resolute that things would be different this year.

"We won't have Deano," Bluey said solemnly. "He's a big loss."

"But we've got Rubber," Browny said with a significant look in Clark's direction.

Clark nodded, hoping that would suffice as a response.

"Ever played gridiron?" Banjo asked.

"In high school."

"Good," Gazza said approvingly. "You'll do all right."

The discussion moved to the strategies of how they were going to counter Bonzo, the 'monster forward' from the other team. Clark's attention strayed to Lois, who had returned to the pergola. She was sitting with the group of women but didn't seem to be taking any part in the conversation as it flowed around her. She looked tired.

Clark waited until dessert had been served and eaten, and then he sidled up to Lois and suggested they go home. It hadn't actually been confirmed that she would drive him home, but he figured there was no harm in asking.

She agreed with a weary nod. They approached Narelle and thanked her for her hospitality.

"Don't forget to check the gear," she said. "You know what men are like - a quick glance is enough to convince them it'll fit."

"I'll do it," Lois promised.

Narelle beamed. "Thanks."

Lois was quiet on the way home. Clark asked a few questions about the merger, and she told him she'd had a tip off that another meeting was planned for the next evening. She asked about Perry, and he told her that the editor had been released from hospital and was recuperating at home.

When they arrived, Lois parked outside his front door instead of dropping him off at the bottom of the driveway. "You have to try on the footy gear," she said in answer to his raised eyebrow.

He'd been hoping she would forget about that. They went into his unit together, and Lois handed him the bag. She gestured to the bedroom door. "Go on," she said. "Let's see how this is gonna look."

"Lois," Clark said. "You don't need to stay. I'll try them on later and tell Gazza tomorrow."

"Narelle wants to know tonight so she can find replacements if they're needed."

"I can call her."

Lois stared at him for a moment and then broke into laughter. "Kent," she said, an accusing finger directed at him. "You're blushing."

He was fairly sure he wasn't. Not yet, anyway. "I'm used to sports where there's a helmet and long pants and big jerseys with padding," he said defensively.

"And now you're going to get used to sport where there's a jumper and shorts," she told him.

"I thought you were tired," he said, playing his last card.

"I'm not so tired that I can't make sure you're going to look respectable next week," Lois said. "Narelle looks after the jumpers every year, and she takes her responsibility very seriously. We don't always win the game, but we do always look the part." Lois gave him a little shove in the direction of the bedroom door. "Go on," she said. "It's not like you're going to be the first bloke I've ever seen in shorts."

Reluctantly, Clark took the bag into his room and carefully ensured the door was fully shut. He took out the green and gold jumper with the insignia of a pen on the chest. He looked at the back - he'd been given number 24. Hadn't Lois said she'd worn a number 24 jumper when she was younger to support one of the Hawthorn players?

He slipped off his jeans and shirt and pulled on the jumper and green shorts. His black business socks looked ridiculous, so, deciding he might as well go the whole way, he peeled them off and replaced them with the green-and-gold hooped socks. He pulled them up to his knees and folded over the tops.

Clark turned to the full-length mirror and grimaced. It may have been true that 'clothes maketh the man', but a jumper and a pair of shorts had *not* turned him into an Australian Rules footballer.

He looked like a joke.

He looked like an all-American boy trying to be something he wasn't.

He groaned. Trying to be something he wasn't had been a continuing theme in his life.

Clark gave in to the strong compulsion to fold his hands across the front of his shorts. Now he just looked like he had something to hide.

"Clark!" Lois called. "Do they fit? Come and show me."

His heart dropped somewhere low in his stomach. He was going to have to face Lois - looking like a misfit clown.

He turned away from the mirror and opened the door.

||_||

Lois waited with growing curiosity for Clark to emerge from the bedroom. What could possibly be taking him so long?

The door opened slightly, and Clark's head emerged.

"Come on," she said encouragingly. "It can't be that bad."

"It is."

She heard the bleakness in his voice and stifled a sigh. Football jumpers looked great on men who had spent hours strengthening and toning their bodies for the rigours of the game. On anyone else ...

"You know, the others aren't professional sportsmen either," she reminded him. "This is about having some fun and raising money for the kids' hospital. No one's going to look great."

He opened the door fully and stepped from the bedroom.

Lois gulped, her throat as dry as the desert and her knees as fluid as the wind-blown sand. From the scattered mass that had once been her brain, she managed one thought - this year, *someone* was going to look great. Better than great.

Clark's arms dipped from broad shoulders to plunge into chiselled biceps that were tight under his creamed-honey-coloured skin. His forearms gave no relief from the overload of sculpted magnificence. Beyond his shorts, his thighs emerged taut and bulging with the promise of power.

Who could have imagined that Clark kept all this hidden under jeans and loose-fitting shirts?

Lois swallowed twice, one on top of the other, pumping the lubrication that was going to be needed for a sustained blather session.

"You know, Clark, generally footballers fall into two broad, equally important categories - the thoroughbreds and the mongrels. Right now, you look like a thoroughbred, which is hardly surprising given the raw materials we are working with, but you simply won't have the silky skills to back up the thoroughbred look, so we need to turn you into a mongrel because you certainly have the brawn to back up that, and if you run out there looking like a mongrel, there is every chance you might survive the game without being targeted by every wannabe tough-guy on the other team who delights in bringing down the show ponies."

His lower jaw had collapsed a little - Lois figured he'd probably followed less than half of what she'd said - but she couldn't allow herself to concentrate on that. She stepped up to him like she was his commanding officer and he was a new recruit. She clutched the bottom of his shorts and yanked them downwards about six centimetres. Then she pulled his jumper from the waistband of his shorts at the front and circled him with her arms to do likewise at the back. She allowed his jumper to fall unfettered across the top of his shorts.

Lois dropped to her knees and pushed down his socks, first his left leg, then his right. They bunched around his ankles in a mass of green and gold.

She grasped his left wrist and undid his watch band. Having removed it from him, she placed it carefully on the lamp table. When she straightened, she reached for his glasses.

"No!" he snapped, jerking back his head.

"No?"

He shook his head. "No. The glasses stay on."

She peered at him, dumbfounded. "What about when you play footy?"

"They stay on," he said firmly.

"It's gonna get rough out there. Can't you wear contacts?"

"No," he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Lois lifted her hands in defeat and stepped back. She allowed herself the freedom to make a slow, detailed sweep of him. Her breath rammed somewhere at the bottom of her throat, somewhere congested by a heart so out of normal rhythm that it was everywhere it shouldn't be.

"That's a start," she said in a voice that sounded like her vocal cords had congealed. She took a big breath in preparation. "Body language is everything," she said. "From the moment you run onto the ground, your body language needs to say that you are supremely confident, that you are sure of your place in the game, and that you have no anxieties about anything."

"Do you have a magic wand?" Clark asked dispiritedly.

"I don't need one," she said. She ventured into his eyes and as she met his gaze with her own, a lightning bolt seared through her. She broke away and forced herself to speak. "Shoulders back," she directed. "Back straight."

He straightened in response to her command - a move which gave further definition to the chest that lurked tantalisingly under the thin material of the footy jumper. Was it too much to hope that at the end of the game, the players would revive the old tradition of swapping jumpers with their opponents? Ten seconds of bare-chested Clark would be -.

"Shoulders high," Lois said sharply. He jumped at her tone and forced his shoulders back further. "Legs straight and slightly apart," she continued. "Chin up, arms crossed ... good ... now look at me with purpose and intent in your eyes ... look at me like you know what you want, and anyone who gets in your way might not live to regret it."

Clark folded his arms and pinned her with those amazing brown eyes.

It was perfect for the game - focussed and uncompromising.

But it was liquefying her composure like chocolate next to a flame.

Lois fixed her hands on her hips and surveyed the figure in front of her. He was ... 'Impressive' just wasn't enough. 'Stunning' ... that was closer. 'Jaw-droppingly spectacular' ... yeah, he was. "That's better," she said crisply. "Now you look like a footballer."

"I do?" Clark didn't seem convinced.

"You do," she said decisively. "You need to believe you can do this, Clark. If you believe it, others will, too."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Lois said. "When the players first run onto the ground, you can tell if they truly believe in themselves. When you walked out from the bedroom, you looked like your main objective was to find somewhere to hide."

He didn't argue.

"Even though there are thirty-six blokes out there on the ground, there is nowhere to hide," Lois said. "You need to look like you know exactly who you are and what you're there to do."

"It's not that easy when you've never played a game before in your life, and two weeks ago you didn't know the difference between a mark and a handball."

Lois figured this was an opening and, without waiting for discretion to kick in, stepped forward. She put her hand on his upper arm and curled her fingers around the hard, muscular grooves. He felt just as amazing as he looked. Her skin tingled at their contact. "You can do this," she said quietly. She found his eyes and smiled - pressing her confidence into the uncertainty that still lingered in his expression. "You can do this, Clark."

"I -."

"I can do this," Lois said. "Say it, Clark." Under her hand, she could feel his arm burning up.

He paused. Was it because he still didn't believe what she was saying or because he too could feel the heat generated by their skin-on-skin contact? "I can do this," he said.

Lois dropped her hand and quickly stepped away while she still could. "You're going to be a sensation," she said. And that's without so much as touching the ball, she added silently.

"Thanks," he said.

"You should probably get out of your footy gear," she said. Though if you don't, you won't be hearing too many complaints, she thought.

He turned, still a little awkward, and retreated into his bedroom.

But not before he'd given her a spectacular view of his shapely butt encased in the tight footy shorts.

Lois collapsed onto his couch, her heart thumping. She was exhausted. She'd spent the past three days chasing leads, and asking questions, and following up long-shots, and waiting for something to happen. Her gut said it was about to crack wide open - and once it did there would be no going back.

Yet despite the emotional intensity of the story, the memories of watching the movie with Clark had never been far from her mind. His hand had rested lightly on her shoulder, and she still wasn't sure if he'd placed it there deliberately.

And now - the sight of him in the footy gear was branded into her mind forever. She'd seen some of the best male bodies in the country - she'd interviewed them at close range, sometimes when they wore nothing but a towel that covered the bare minimum of their modesty.

Yet never before had a male body had such an effect on her.

Why?

Why Clark Kent?

His body was good ... OK, better than good ... OK, a *lot* better than good ... but not significantly better than any AFL footballer who'd had a couple of pre-seasons to build his physique.

Was it because it was unexpected? She'd assessed him in that first moment at the airport - gorgeous, chivalrous, safe. Safe because a man like him would already be taken. And if not taken, at least inundated with offers. Safe because he was only here temporarily. Safe because men like Clark Kent did not fall in love with women like Lois Lane.

So she had been friendly - because he was safe.

But as she had come to know him, her initial assessment had been continually challenged. Oh, he was certainly gorgeous - and that was without the mega-watt smile that definitely should have been confiscated with other dangerous weapons at Customs. And chivalrous. He opened doors for her and brought her coffee - all with a naturalness that made her feel ... She definitely wouldn't have admitted it ... not out loud ... but the gentleman in Clark seemed to bring out the lady in her.

Time had confirmed some aspects of her initial assessment. He had been blessed with incredible looks and a protective streak that sat well on those broad shoulders.

But safe?

No - he was definitely not safe.

And he was a whole lot less safe now she knew that concealed under the jeans and shirts of a journalist lurked the body of such a supremely toned athlete.

But it wasn't just the body that made him dangerous.

Clark was so much more than a body - more even than that intoxicating smile. He was kind and intelligent and caring and friendly and understanding.

And here for three months.

He had a life in the US. A life he would return to. A life that had to include a bevy of beautiful women just waiting for a spark of encouragement from a man who had it all - looks, body, personality.

Don't.

Don't go there, Lois.

Don't.

Just don't.

Don't.

Don't even think about it.

Don't.

Because if you do, you are going to get your heart so badly shattered it will never recover.

||_||

Clark was in the shower the next morning when he heard an urgent banging on his door. He super-sped from the shower, dried himself, spun into his clothes, and was at the door before the vibrations had stopped whirring in his ears.

It was Lois. He knew it was her. He didn't even need his x-ray vision. It was her heartbeat. And it was going at an accelerated speed. He opened the door. "Lois, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Clark," she said breathlessly. "We need to get out to Fitzroy."

He reached for his jacket and followed her. "What's happening?"

She jumped into the Jeep and started the engine. "I think there's another player."

"Another player?"

She turned from his driveway and sped down the street. "I think North are going to get squeezed out of this."

"Why?"

"Because of the dirty dollar," she said with disgust.

This wasn't making a lot of sense, but Clark could tell that Lois was upset about something. "Excuse me?"

"The question I've been asking for days is this ... how can the Fitzroy board even think about entering a merger without a ballot of their members?"

"I remember you telling me that clubs are owned by the people who love them."

"Exactly," Lois said. "And through all this, there has been no talk of a vote ... no mention of taking it to the members."

"Have you found out why?" Clark asked.

Lois nodded, and in an instant, her demeanour turned from urgency to despair. "Because they're in such deep financial trouble, they've been taken over by their creditors." She turned to Clark, and he was startled to see that her eyes were moist. "That means money people are running the football club and that ..." She sniffed. "... that is never going to be a good outcome."

Clark put his hand on her arm. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

||_||

It was a long and exhaustingly emotional day, full of twists and turns and rumours and speculation. At the end of it, well past midnight, the deal was done. Fitzroy, the proud Lions with over one hundred years of history, had been taken over by the Queensland-based newcomers, the Brisbane Bears, to form the Brisbane Lions.

At the press conference to announce what Lois had already unearthed, written up, and sent to Browny, they called it a merger. But the words didn't change the facts.

The death warrant had been signed on another Victorian football club.

||_||

Glossary

Esky - a brand name of a cooler that has come to be applied to all coolers.

Pics

Esky - http://www.istockphoto.com/file_thumbview_approve/9525090/2/istockphoto_9525090-esky-cooler-box.jpg

Pergola - I couldn't find exactly what I had in mind, but these should give some idea.

http://www.pragmaticdesigners.com.au/img/project/PERGOLA%2026.jpg

http://www.hahndorfsa.com/images/pergola.jpg