When Max came out of the loos, Robbo was going off at the team. Dad called it Robbo’s half-time chat, which was kind of weird because Robbo didn’t talk, he yelled. Max noticed Leon standing off by himself and nobody talking to him. Max didn’t get it—these days, Leon scored nearly as many goals as Mooney. Whenever Mooney kicked a goal, the team went nuts, jumping on him and giving him hugs and slapping his back. But when Leon scored a goal, the men just nodded and said good work, like he’d done an okay job but not as good as Mooney. In the games, Max had seen the other men push Leon off the ball. At least they kicked and handballed to him now, which they never used to. Max knew how awful it felt to be ignored, because it happened to him all the time.

Dad came off the field carrying the crate of drink bottles and called out to him, ‘Hey, Max, can you give us a hand?’ That meant Dad wanted him to refill the bottles while Dad watched the game. Max wanted to say no, but he knew Dad would get angry. It was easy lugging the bottles into the clubroom but not so easy bringing them out, full and heavy. Max went into the kitchen where the ladies were brewing cups of tea and coffee and selling them through the window. Robbo’s wife, Trudi, gave him a smile and let him use the kitchen sink. ‘Heard you kicked a goal today,’ she said. ‘Good on you.’ Max puffed up with pride. Word was getting round. He was already halfway famous.

He had a hard time trying to haul the rack of full bottles back outside, so Trudi helped him. She grabbed one side of the crate, while he gripped the other. She was older than Mum, with black hair and sad eyes—Max didn’t know how he could tell this about her, but he knew it was true. When she looked at you, it was as if all the sadness of the world was locked inside and couldn’t come out. But she liked him; he knew that too. If she was outside watering her roses, she always waved when he walked past down the street.

‘How are the pups going?’ she asked.

‘Good.’

‘Found homes for them yet?’

‘No.’ The kids at school had been keen, but their parents weren’t so excited.

‘That’s bad luck.’ Trudi’s eyes were even sadder.

‘What’s the time?’ he asked as they put the crate of bottles on the ground near the interchange bench.

‘Four o’clock.’

‘I’d better go home and feed them.’

Trudi put a warm hand on his shoulder. ‘You do that,’ she said. ‘And give them a pat for me.’