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He clicked on the TV and snorted a humourless laugh when he saw it was a late night replay of the Talking Heads footy show with none other than Finn as the guest. What were the fucking chances? He took a swig and sat back, remote clutched in one hand, beer in the other.
Finn was leaning back on one of the couches, two of the hosts on the couch opposite, and another older one beside him. The old guy was a legend of the game, brought on to class this trash up and give a decent opinion. The other two, while knowledgeable, generally asked mundane personal questions and injected the odd remark on the style of play of whatever player was a guest that night.
The screen behind the couch had one of the photos of Finn and his sister from his social media. She was in a string bikini, Finn in loose boardshorts and nothing else, their matching grins with blinding white teeth against tan skin and dancing blue eyes met the camera.
“Yeah, that’s Soph,” Finn was saying, craning his head back to look at the picture. His smile was easy, not a hint of embarrassment at the producers selection of a rather revealing picture. Finn looked at it, then back at the guys like it was a normal family photo.
“She’s older?” the younger of the hosts asked. He was the TV man, not so much a football man.
Finn smirked. “By a few seconds.”
“Oh,” the guy laughed and looked back at the picture. “Why did we think she was older?”
“Think she edited my Wikipedia page,” Finn replied and gave the guy a knowing smile when he looked back at Finn and laughed again, caught. Finn smiled at him like it was okay and explained that yes, they were twins, yes she came out first, and yes, she liked having that over him.
“So, you’re not worried about her being around all these other players?”
Finn cracked another sly grin. “I reckon I’d be more worried for any guy Soph was with than the other way round.”
The hosts laughed and Finn leaned back. They went on in an imitation of banter, and Joq again hated to admit how likeable Finn was; how even under the loose script, he seemed genuine—his lazy smile and sleepy eyes twinkled like he knew something you didn’t. For all his youth, he could pull off the solidity of a man in a way that was unsettling.
The show moved on to one of those stupid activities they had players do—try and handball a football through a hole on a large, spinning wheel—and Finn participated good-naturedly, consoling the TV man as he messed it up, calling his own success, “Beginner’s luck,” and generally doing a good job of the PR exercise.
He was certainly not fully himself; he had the guarded persona all players put on when they went on these shows, friendly yet professional and private, but he was easy in it, and he seemed to sincerely want to put the presenters at ease and make a good show for them. His young eyes widened with ironic joy as they gave him a plastic trophy for making three successful shots, and he reverently placed the toy on the coffee table when they sat back down.
Joq took a swig of his beer. Finn was running a hand through his blonde hair as he sat back, smiling politely over at the older guy beside him as he started to speak.
“There’s been a lot of talk about Creed’s ascension to Head Coach.”
Finn nodded, his expression turning serious.
“Now, I know Creed,” the old guy went on. “Hell of a player, hell of a player,” he shook his head like he was in the memory, “but coaching ain’t playing and while he’s got you boys as finals contenders, I gotta wonder if you’d a done it without him anyway. You got the side for it.”
Finn was already shaking his head. “It’s all George.”
“Come on now,” the old guy sat forward, started counting on his fingers, “you got Lacy down there makin’ those same plays he’s been doin since he was playin’ with George last season—
“Sorry,” Finn cut him off, his quick smile apologetic, “but look closer. George put Lacy down there. He’s moved me and the rest of the mid-field to work with Lacy without taxing Lacy all over the ground.”
“Yeah, but, you get a player like Lacy, like yourself, you’re gonna do that anyway.”
Finn was shaking his head. “You don’t get it.”
The other two presenters made scoffing noises and Joq had to agree—it was a bit rich, a rookie trying to school a legend, but Finn just smiled at them all, his expression serious over that. “George sees every player. He like, sees us. And he’s not afraid to go old school if he sees that’d work better for that player.”
Joq thought about watching them in that hotel room. About what Finn had said about the game, and he felt like a whole series of conversations had taken place in that vein. He could almost see it—the mutual love of the game, the shared vision and understanding, the way George would’ve been able to take what Finn said and build it into a strategy for the team.
“Okay, okay,” the old guy was nodding, “I can see that, I can see that.”
“He’s still a bit green to be Head Coach though,” the TV guy said.
Finn shot him a smile; nothing friendly in it. “And when we make final four? Is he still gonna be too green then?”
“With you on the side, Finnegan,” the regular presenter interjected, “you were always gonna make final four.”
“And that’s where George gets what you don’t,” Finn replied. For the first time, he didn’t seem like the young, boyish rookie hamming it up for a PR exercise—he seemed like a young man who knew his shit, who respected his coach, trusted him, and was willing to go to war over it.
It was disorientating for a late night footy show meant as a humorous diversion. And it was a side to Finn Joq was pretty sure no one in the footy world had seen. He found himself sitting forward, watching Finn on screen staring the guy down.
