Wrath by Anne Davies Read Free Book Online

jog off without responding, following the path the small group of boys is taking. The joy! I can’t help it. I don’t deserve to feel good about anything ever again, but I feel like I’ve just been reborn, out of darkness and into the light. I feel… I feel… How can I explain it? I know. I feel alive. Every part of me tingling, heart racing, muscles pumping, lungs dragging in that beautiful, beautiful air.
    Alive—everything they’re not. I slow my pace, not just because that realisation has cast a shadow over me but because I’m so unfit. Those months of lying around on my bed have left me weak, and I pull up, gulping air, and Aaron catches me up.
    â€œYou run pretty well,” he pants and runs past me. He runs with such grace. His legs are long and lightly muscled, and he moves so effortlessly, like he could go on for ever.
    The rest of the boys are already in two teams and milling around, kicking the ball to one another. I take a seat on the end of a bench. I can see Mr Robinson—I think it’ll be a long time before I can call him Robbo—and the five boys who were running lined up and jumping over a bar. Mr Robinson raises it before Aaron begins his run at it. Even at this distance, I can recognise that lovely, graceful lope. He’s propelled by smooth springs, over the bar and back on his feet almost as soon as he touches the ground, leaping and shouting and punching the air, his whoop of victory drifting above the footy teams’ chatter. The bench creaks beside me, and with shock, I see it’s Mr Owen—Owen, I mean—and he’s sitting next to me even though there’s room all the way along the bench.
    â€œNothing like a game of footy,” he says, almost to himself, as the game begins.
    I say nothing, and we sit silently, but after a while I’m not uncomfortable anymore, and I begin to watch the game in earnest. They’re not bad! I can see that big boofhead Brown lumbering around, using his body as a battering ram to punch kids in the back and elbow them in the face whenever the ref’s back is turned. What a shit. I can hear Owen breathing hard every time it happens, but he says nothing.
    Despite myself, I can’t help but cheer when Archie kicks a goal. He seems to be everywhere. If there’s anything wrong with that team, it’s that they rely on him too much. But who can blame them? His shiny brown legs streak off away from the pack, and he seems to have some instinct that lets him know exactly where to kick the ball even though he appears not to be looking at where it’s aimed.
    Archie’s legs are long with muscular thighs but no obvious calf muscles at all, and yet they are so nimble! He’s like a cat, able to change direction on a pinhead, and he dances around the fumbling Brown, snatching the ball and whipping it away. It’s not like he’s playing football; it’s like he’s a ballet dancer, leaping onto the backs and shoulders of the other team to effortlessly cradle the ball in his hands and then hitting the ground running till he’s ready to kick—straight to another player or through the open jaws of the goals.
    Owen says, “He’s going to be a legend one day. The AFL teams will be frothing at the mouth to get him.” He pauses. “Soon as he straightens himself out.”
    I say nothing, but then he asks me a direct question, so I have to answer. “So what do you play then, Luca?”
    â€œI don’t play anything much.” I pause. “Archie thought I might be okay as a rover.”
    Owen nods slowly and then says, “I think he’s dead right. I saw you run, and you’re pretty quick. You’ll be able to duck in, grab the ball and be away before they know what’s hit ’em. Just keep away from the big, mean mongrels.”
    Something’s happening on the ground, and the game has stopped. The boys are in a big knot in the middle.