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"You're in Australia now," she told him. "Eat your sanger."

Clark smiled. "Yes, ma'am." He picked up his sandwich and, trying very hard to ignore the red stains, took a bite.

It didn't matter anyway. He doubted he would taste it.

After weeks of keeping his silence, he had finally voiced his feelings to Lois.

She hadn't agreed to go on a date with him. But she hadn't rejected him outright.

He had a chance.

*They* had a chance.


Part 19

Clark said very little as they drove back across Melbourne. The silence gave Lois a chance to try to establish some order in the tumult of her mind.

Clark had asked her for a date!

That had shocked her.

Yet in another way, it hadn't.

She knew Clark was an all-round nice guy who treated everyone with courteous respect.

But she couldn't help noticing the little things he did for her that seemed to go beyond courtesy.

She couldn't fathom how a man like Clark Kent had even noticed a woman like Lois Lane.

Surely there had to be other women ... beautiful, sophisticated women whose heads were not filled with football ... yet he'd asked *her* for a date.

And, impossibly, it hadn't been easy for him. He hadn't asked lightly. Despite her initial perception of him - based solely on his looks, she admitted - she was beginning to think he wasn't the kind of man who would ever ask something like that lightly.

He'd looked so unsure, it had tugged at her heartstrings far more effectively than if he'd been assured and polished in his invitation. As far as Lois could see, Clark had every reason to be confident in everything. Yet often, she sensed his vulnerability ... his hesitancy ... and that was a quality she had found endearing from the first, and now, as she had come to know him, she found it downright tantalizing.

She was right ... there was definitely something about Clark Kent.

Lois wasn't sure what it was, but her well-schooled alarm bells were silent. Her instincts were that Clark was a good man. An honest man. A trustworthy man.

Dan was all of that, she reminded herself.

But Dan had never caused her heart to race the way Clark did.

The image of Dan's smile had never crowded her thoughts the way Clark's did.

Lois's mouth dried as her mind again recalled the image of Clark in the footy gear. Today, he would be dressed like that for three hours. She gulped. *Three* hours.

Every woman in the crowd would probably jump the fence and accost him. Right in the middle of the game.

No ... Lois knew that wouldn't happen. But she would bet a year's wages that plenty of female hearts would skip a beat, and many female throats would constrict when Clark Kent ran onto the field.

But ... he'd asked *her* for a date.

And laid bare his hopes. Given her a glimpse of his heart.

He'd taken a huge leap ... and she'd left him hanging.

Lois needed to break free from her rumination. Problem was, the only person to talk to was ... the object of that rumination. She took refuge in football. "Are you nervous about the game?" she asked.

"Not as much as I was," Clark answered.

Lois could hear the trace of his misgivings. She glanced sideways, trying to reconcile the magnificence she saw with the uncertainty she heard. She shook her head in bafflement. "You can do this, Clark," she said. "You're in good shape, you're young, you've played a lot of different sports before - all that puts you way ahead of most of them."

"Most of them grew up living, breathing, and eating footy." Despite the gloominess of his words, she saw a glimmer of his smile.

Lois chuckled. "You go out there ... you kick the footy, you do your best ... you'll be fine."

"Lois ... there are things you don't understand."

"It won't be just you," she said gently. "That's the beauty of footy - it's never just you. You have seventeen mates out there with you. It's a team."

Clark didn't seem convinced.

Lois reached across and rested her hand on his arm. "I know a lot more about football than you do, and I'm telling you that you can do this," she said firmly. She forced herself to remove her hand from his taut, muscular arm. "But there is probably something I should warn you about."

"That doesn't sound good."

"Do you know what sledging is?"

"Going down a hill on a sledge?"

Lois laughed. "Not in Australia, it isn't. Sledging is saying something ... anything ... to your opponent in the hope that it will put him off his game."

"Oh."

"I've never played, but I've heard some examples of sledging, and I think it can get quite willing out there."

"Willing?"

"Rough. Just realise that some players are chatty, and they are willing to say absolutely anything if they think it will take your mind off the next contest. They are hoping to distract you so that the next time the ball comes, you're still thinking about what they said ... and not concentrating on winning the ball for your team."

"OK."

"It could be that it's no worse than what you've encountered in other sports. Or it could be that it's a shock, so I wanted to warn you."

"I guess I should just try to ignore it?" Clark said.

"It depends on how adept you are at firing back comments. And how low you are willing to go in what you say."

"Probably not that low," Clark said uneasily.

Lois smiled. "You know, I had sort of figured that. Although white line fever can do strange things to people."

"White line fever?"

"It means that when some people cross the white line of the boundary and go onto the ground for a game, they become very different people. They might be the quietest person imaginable, but on the footy field, they're loud and aggressive and stalk around looking for someone to devour."

"Does that happen much?"

Lois grinned. "I've heard that you definitely don't want to rile Bluey on the field. A little provocation and he becomes a monster. Maybe it's that red hair of his."

"Bluey?" Clark asked in surprise.

Lois nodded. "Bluey," she confirmed. "That's what white line fever does to you."

"Thanks for the warning," Clark said.

"After the game, the team will probably go to the pub ... particularly if we win."

"Will you come, too?" Clark asked. "Please?"

Lois heard the hope in his voice. "Sure I will," she promised.

Clark chuckled, and some of his tension seemed to seep away. "If we win, will you go on a date with me?" he asked.

She grinned in response to the sudden buoyancy in his tone. "If we lose, will you accept 'no' as my answer?"

"No."

Lois raised her hand to indicate he had answered his own question. She made sure he could see she was smiling, though.

"If I kick a goal, will you go out with me?" Clark persisted.

The lightness embedded in his tone pulsated warmth through her veins. He didn't sound so anxious about the game now. And clearly, their date was still foremost in his mind. "Kick one, and I'll think about it."

"You already said you'd think about it," he reminded her quickly.

Lois smiled. "Kick a goal, and I'll have an answer for you within a week."

"A week?" he exclaimed. "You don't give an inch, do you, Flinders?"

"When you grow up with footy, no quarter is asked and none is given."

"Even in relationships?"

His tone had turned slightly serious, but Lois chuckled. "All I know is that whatever I've done in the past hasn't worked."

"Perhaps it wasn't anything you did," Clark said gently.

She shrugged. "What about you, big guy? There was Mayson who wanted you, but you weren't interested. There has to be others."

"Lana Lang," Clark said. "I took her to the Prom, and we dated for a year ..."

"But?"

"But I went away to college, and after a few months of not seeing each other, we agreed that we should both be free to date others."

"Did you?"

"Not really."

"Did she?"

"She married another guy six months later and had a baby a year after that."

"Did that upset you?"

"It shocked me," Clark said. "Someone younger than me - getting married, having children - it all seemed to happen very quickly."

"You're not the marrying type?" Lois asked, trying to sound like there was no particular significance to her question.

Clark paused. "I'm not sure I should answer that," he said.

She felt the first quiver from one of her alarm bells. "Why not?"

"Because I've just asked you on a date, and I don't want to scare you off."

Lois forced some air into her collapsing lungs so she was able to speak. "Better that I know now than find out later."

"OK." Clark's head turned towards her, and her breath snagged again. "It's what I've always wanted ... to be married and raise a family."

Opposing floods of panic and relief clashed ferociously somewhere deep in her stomach. Clark wanted to get married! And he'd asked her for a date!

"Lois?" he said.

"Yes?"

"Don't you have a response?"

"That ... ah ... surprises me."

"What does?"

"That you want to get married. And that you aren't married already. I can't imagine you would find it difficult to get dates."

"I don't want to get married," he clarified. "I want to marry the right girl."

"Do you think you will know when you find her?"

"I'm sure of it."

Lois determinedly pushed away any and all possible conclusions from his statement. She grinned casually and slipped him a sideways glance. "Oohh ... very confident, Mr Kent," she said. "Now, all you have to do is take that confidence onto the footy field, and we should win by ten goals."

He smiled but said nothing.

And Lois was again alone with her thoughts.

||_||

There was, Clark had to admit, a very real feeling of comradeship in gathering with the other players from his team in the locker rooms. There was an upbeat atmosphere fired by nervous energy and an almost palpable resolve. It reminded him of his high school days ... before he had decided that competitive sports were incompatible with super powers.

Toggy moved among them, patting a shoulder here, offering a few quiet words of encouragement or advice there. "I'll be shtarting ye on the bench, Rubber," he said when he reached Clark. "But ne'er fear, lad, to be sure we'll be needin' ye afore the day is out."

When Clark and Lois had arrived at the ground, he had been shocked to discover that quite a crowd of spectators had already gathered. He remembered being told that this was a game to raise money for charity, but he hadn't translated that knowledge into the expectation of a crowd of, in his estimation, at least a thousand people.

Also unexpected had been Lois's quick hug as she'd bid him good luck. She had opened the trunk of the Jeep for him to take out his bag. After shutting the trunk, she had given him a so-short-he-didn't-have-the-time-to-grasp-what-she-was-doing hug. Then she'd smiled and said, "Go well, big guy."

Clark had walked into the dressing rooms in a daze.

Toggy called his players together and outlined their strategy, illustrating his points with dizzying diagrams on a whiteboard.

"She's howlin' a blast that'd flatten your house without blinkin' an eyelid," he said. "When she's behind us, ye're to kick it long up the guts. When we're agin the wind, I want ye to be sure and shtick tight to the flanks. Close it down. Dinna give 'em an inch."

The players nodded, and there were a few grunts of agreement. Clark hoped that anything vital to the game-plan that he'd missed would be discernable by the time he was actually called upon to implement it.

After Toggy's pre-game speech, the Print Media team, dressed in their green shorts and green-and-gold jumpers, ran onto the ground together for their warm-up. The opposition, dazzling in blue and red, were already there.

As they jogged a circuit of the ground, Clark searched for Lois in the crowd. He found her quickly, standing next to Browny deep in conversation. Clearly, he'd forgiven her for Hawthorn beating Carlton. As the team passed them, Lois clapped wildly and screamed out, "Go the Print Boys."

After what was basically a mini-training session, they ran back into the rooms. Toggy got them to huddle around him, arms across each other's shoulders. He reminded them what the Electronic Boys had done to them the previous year and told them that today was the day for revenge.

Raucous cheers of agreement greeted this statement.

Then they dispersed and ran onto the ground again. The crowd had built up and was now probably close to double Clark's original estimation. He snuck a look at Lois. She waved, and he hoped it was meant for him.

Ten minutes later, Clark found himself sitting alongside two teammates on the bench as the umpire thumped the ball into the turf for the opening bounce. His team had lost the toss, and the other team had chosen to kick with the strong breeze. Aided by the wind, the Electronic Media scored eight goals by quarter time. The Print Media had one. Other than occasional sprints along the boundary line to 'keep warm', Clark hadn't left the bench.

"OK, lads," Toggy said when his team congregated for the quarter-time break. "To be sure, that wasn't the shtart we needed, but the wind is wid us this coming quarter. Just git it on yer boot, and git it forward. Banjo an' Barney'll do the rest."

One of the trainers held up a board with the players' names stuck in the various on-field positions. Clark noted he was again on the bench. When the team dispersed, he jogged back to the sidelines and looked towards Lois, unsure whether he felt relieved that, being on the bench, he could do no damage ... or embarrassed that so far he was the only player Toggy hadn't felt the need to call upon.

Lois was chatting with Browny and Gazza's wife, Narelle. Lois saw Clark, and she responded with some enthusiastic applause and a loud cheer for the Print Boys.

With just a few minutes left in the second quarter, the call came that Clark had dreaded. He was to go onto the ground and play in defence. He was told that his opponent was wearing number four - and Clark was to follow him wherever he went.

He ran onto the ground, and a teammate saw him and pointed to a huge guy standing alone in the Electronic forward line. Clark didn't need to check the guy's back to know he wore number four.

"What are you?" his opponent scoffed before Clark had even reached him. "An escapee from a library? Or a science lab? Where's yer white coat?"

Clark extended his hand. "I'm Clark," he said.

"I'm not shaking your hand 'til the end," Number Four sneered. "That's assuming I haven't put you in hospital by then."

Clark retracted his hand.

His opponent looked Clark up and down with clear derision. "They've put a *Yank* on me," he said. "A Yank wearing glasses. This should be fun. I bet Toggy doesn't have the guts to keep you here when we have the wind. That would be a slaughter. I reckon I could kick a dozen goals if I'm on you. Though you probably won't see either me or the ball, Four Eyes."

The ball remained at the other end of the ground - which allowed Number Four to continue his stream of monologue aimed at Clark. He denounced Clark's glasses, his looks, and his parentage, and gave a detailed, highly inaccurate history of the United States of America.

Up the field, one of the players in red and blue broke away from the group and ran towards Clark and his opponent. The player bounced the ball and then kicked it. Clark's opponent ran towards the oncoming ball. Clark trailed behind him. The ball bounced in front of them and lobbed high over the opponent's head and straight into Clark's arms.

He needed half a moment to overcome the shock of actually having the ball. Twenty metres away, Clark saw Bluey, arms raised and screaming, "RUBBER!" Without much thought, Clark kicked the ball in that direction, and to his very great relief, Bluey marked it. He turned around and kicked the ball further forward.

The crowd were cheering, but from amidst the noise, Clark heard the voice he knew belonged to Lois.

"Yay!! Clark!! Well done! Great kick!"

Clark's smile died as his opponent turned on him, grabbed a fistful of his jumper, and glared at him, their noses a mere half an inch apart. "You try that again," he snarled. "And you'll be going home in a coffin. And when they open the lid, not even your own mother will recognise you."

He released Clark's jumper, and Clark turned away to watch where Banjo was preparing to kick for goal.

Clark looked into the crowd and found Lois. He'd been expecting her to be watching the play, but she was staring directly at him.

Banjo's shot resulted in a goal. Clark could tell by the cheer from the crowd. Lois, however, didn't take her eyes from him.

He smiled.

She smiled back.

Clark's spirits soared.

||_||

Clark spent the third quarter stranded in his own forward line as he watched the Electronic Media team use the wind to great advantage and pile on seven goals.

His new opponent was the silent type. He didn't say a word. Clark didn't repeat the mistake of offering to shake his hand.

By three-quarter-time, the Print Media were eight goals down.

Toggy was in fine form. "Jusht kick it long, lads," he said. "Yerra, to be sure we can shtill win this game. 'Tis ours if we want it. We have a howling gale at our backs, jusht bang it onto the boot, and kick it up the guts. Go shtraight for home, lads. I want bold football. I want quick football. I want relentless football. If ye see the ball, ye go for it."

He made a few positional changes and then said, "Rubber? Where are ye, lad? OK, I want ye on that there number four agin. Shtick close to him; dinna give him an inch."

Clark nodded.

After a few more urgings from Toggy to 'fire up, lads,' the group broke apart, and Clark headed into the backline with the other five defenders. He approached the number four and stood next to him.

"You again," Number Four spat.

Clark said nothing.

"It's not like Toggy to give the game away this early - even when you're so far down the gurgler."

Clark still said nothing.

The umpire bounced the ball. It was cleared by an opponent and kicked towards Clark and Number Four.

Things happened very quickly. Clark ran to the spinning, skidding ball and bent low to pick it up. He saw a flash of red and blue from his right and had less than a second to relax his muscles. The opponent cannoned into Clark's shoulder and neck with such force he ricocheted off Clark and collapsed onto the ground.

Before Clark had the time to check on the opponent, he was attacked on all sides by a pack of angry men in blue and red, all clutching a piece of his jumper and making a decent attempt to rip him into a hundred pieces.

One of the players drew back his fist, threatening to punch.

Clark felt a moment of panic.

They couldn't hurt him, but they could hurt themselves. Badly. And that was going to lead to some very awkward questions.

From nowhere came Gazza and Bluey. They took hold of an opponent each and hauled them away. Two other teammates arrived, and Clark was left standing alone as a cluster of wrestling matches played out around him. The guy who had been flattened was sitting up ... unhurt, but looking, not surprisingly, like he didn't know what had hit him.

Clark hesitated. Was he supposed to go and help his teammates? Or go and check on the player he'd, albeit accidently, felled?

A few feet away, Bluey and a significantly bigger opponent were engaged in what looked to be the most ferocious of the tussles. Clark went to them and tried to pull them apart.

The umpire ran up, frantically blowing his whistle. "Boys! Boys! Break it up, boys. No need to be stupid."

Clark managed to separate Bluey and the opponent, and stood between them. Bluey had a trickle of blood leaking from a gash above his right eyebrow. Number Four rose from his tussle and menacingly strode towards Clark.

Gazza released the opponent he had hauled away and blocked Number Four's path to Clark. "You so much as lay a finger on the Yank, and you'll have me to deal with," Gazza warned in a low, ominous voice.

"He flattened Smiddy," Number Four accused darkly.

"He was going for the ball," Gazza said. "Smiddy hit him high."

"He's a Yank," Number Four shot back with contempt. "He's probably never played a game of real footy in his life."

"He's a mate of mine," Gazza said in a tone that clearly ended the matter. Gazza turned to Clark. "You right, mate?" he asked.

Clark nodded.

"I'll be watching your back," he said with a pointed glance to Number Four.

The umpire handed the ball to Clark. "It's your free," he said. "For a head-high hit. Are you able to take your kick?"

"Ah ... yes."

"And you get fifty metres," the umpire said. He ran away, towards the Print Media's goal.

Bluey came over, blood still oozing down his cheek.

"You got fifty, mate," Bluey said. "Run forward to where the umpie is. Then just kick it as far as you can."

"Are you OK?" Clark asked. "You're bleeding."

"She'll be right," Bluey said cheerfully as he used his jumper to mop up the blood. "So long as the umpie doesn't see it." He ran away before Clark had the chance to say anything else.

Clark jogged forward to where the umpire had set the mark. He was about eighty metres from the goal. Clark knew he could kick the distance easily. He was tempted to slam it home for a goal - he really wanted to give something back to his teammates.

They had come to help him when he had been outnumbered and in a situation that could have led anywhere.

Clark took a few shuffling steps forward and swung his foot through the ball. He used a little super strength - enough that the ball went about sixty-five metres. About five players flew for the mark, and the ball spilt to the ground - where Banjo swooped in, picked it up, and kicked a goal.

"Way to go, Clark! Great kick!"

Clark smiled at Lois's voice.

On his way back to his position in the backline, Clark passed Bluey, who was still trying to stem the drizzle of blood from above his eye. He grinned. "Great kick, Rubber," he said.

"Are you OK?"

"Ssshh," Bluey said. "If the ump sees me, he'll send me off with the Blood Rule."

Clark kept jogging and stood next to Number Four.

Number Four said nothing.

The umpire bounced the ball, and it was swept into the Print Media's forward line. Clark risked a look to Lois. She was watching the play, her hands clenched in excitement and her body giving little jumps as she tried to urge the ball towards their goal.

Clark smiled.

He loved her.

He loved her so much.

Suddenly, he couldn't wait for the game to end so he could be back with her.

During the next twenty minutes, the Print Media kicked five goals and kept their opponents scoreless. Suddenly, Clark's team were only ten points down.

"Two more goals," the players said to each other as they jogged back to their positions after the goal had been kicked. "Come on, mate, just two more goals."

The umpire bounced the ball, blew his whistle, and gave a free kick to the Electronic Media ruckman. He kicked it directly at Clark and his opponent. It was a wobbly kick, and, realising it would hold up in the wind, Clark ran forward. He felt his opponent jostling at his shoulder. Clark held his line, and somehow, the ball landed safely in his outstretched arms.

"Great mark! Go, Clark, you're killing him!"

Clark looked up-field and saw Gazza sixty metres away. Clark kicked long. It skewed a little off his boot and missed Gazza, but it was marked by a teammate who'd run at least thirty metres to meet the flight of the ball.

The teammate went back and kicked the ball directly through the goal posts.

Four points down.

The runner came out to Clark and offered him the bottle of water. "One minute to go, Rubber," he said. "One minute. We've just got to get one goal. If you get the ball, just bomb it long like you've been doing."

Before Clark could reply, the runner had taken the water bottle and gone to the next player.

The umpire bounced the ball and it flew high into the air. Once back on the ground, it was held under the desperate bodies from both teams. The ball didn't come out. The umpire blew the whistle, called "Mine," and retrieved the ball. He bounced it again.

Clark watched, willing his teammates to find a way to clear the ball and get it towards their goal. Bluey dove at the ball, gathered it, and shot out a handball. Banjo took it and was immediately tackled. The ball fell free, and at least six players crashed on top of it.

"Come on," Clark muttered. "Come on."

The umpire bounced again. It was pushed out of the congestion and fell at the feet of a teammate. He picked up the ball and tried to kick it forward. An opponent flew across the ball and smothered it. The ball was picked up by a player in red and blue. He ran ten metres, bounced the ball, ran another ten, and kicked it towards Clark and Number Four.

The ball was still in the air when the siren sounded.

The game was over.

They'd lost.

By four points.

Clark felt a savage, burning disappointment swell inside him.

They'd lost.

||_||

Football terms.

Coach - sets strategy, selects which players play where, encourages team spirit.

Trainer - looks after the details of clothing and minor injuries.

Runner - takes water and messages from the coach to the players.