Micah Johnson Goes West (Get Out, #2)(17)

But for now he should just enjoy it. He said good-bye to the rest of the boys and walked through security to the waiting area, and in a sea of expectant faces, found his family. They all looked happy to see him, but he would take the bet he looked happier. Micah had to restrain himself from running over and throwing himself bodily at them—instead, settling for heartfelt hugs and manly slaps on the back from his father.

Joanne was already crying.

“Mum, I’m back, not leaving.”

It didn’t seem to matter to her. “Yeah, and you’ll be gone in a couple of days again.”

“Awkward,” Alex drawled.

“You’re telling me,” Micah said, hugging his brother again.

“Oh, man, you’re being just as bad.”

“I’ve missed you, you little freak,” Micah told him.

Alex smiled, as if he had doubted it. “Really?”

“Of course. Did you miss me?”

Alex harrumphed to himself.

“You liar,” his father admonished him. “He practically has a shrine of you in his bedroom.”

“A shrine?” Micah asked. “Ugh, kinda creepy, Alex.”

“A poster!” Alex cried. “Just one bloody poster!”

Rick and Joanne laughed. It was obviously an ongoing joke between the three of them, and it gave them a shared history Micah wasn’t a part of. He tried to keep the smile plastered on his face.

“You really have a poster of me?” he asked his little brother.

“Don’t get too big-headed,” Alex grumbled.

“Too late for that,” Rick said, all smiles.

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Micah agreed. “Can we go home now?”




AT LEAST his room looked basically the same. Micah hadn’t taken a lot of stuff with him to Perth, so there was enough left behind to be familiar and comforting. He could almost believe he had just come home from a holiday, except his shelves were a little empty as he had taken his favourite books and DVDs with him to Perth.

He flung himself onto his bed and sighed with contentment as his body moulded into its familiar pattern. His bed in Perth still felt like one in a hotel, as Micah hadn’t been in it long enough to break it in. He briefly wondered how much it would cost to ship his bed across the country, and if doing so would make him feel any better.

He doubted it. It was a bed, not a magic pill.

There was a knock at the door, and Micah rolled over to see Alex standing in the doorway.

“What’s up?”

“Can you come here for a second?”

“Where?”

Alex cocked his head to indicate his bedroom across the hall.

“But I’m comfy,” Micah protested.

“Suck it up, princess,” Alex said. He grinned. “Did I sound like your coach?”

“I think he would be too scared to say ‘princess’ in case it was taken as a homophobic slur,” Micah told him.

“So what does he call you, then? Maggot?”

“Rhymes too much with the F-word. He doesn’t really tend to insult us.”

“Really?”

“Funnily enough, insults don’t lead you to push yourself. It probably leads to mutiny.” With a strangled and exaggerated moan, Micah staggered to his feet and followed Alex into his bedroom.

And there it was, in pride of place, catching your eye as soon as you entered.

Micah Johnson, Fremantle Dockers rookie, stared down at him from the wall with a self-conscious grin Micah couldn’t remember flashing the day his portrait was taken. His two-dimensional self didn’t look that comfortable in his guernsey, as if he was wearing a tuxedo for the first time and knew he was just playing dress-up.

“Wow,” he said, trying to sound like he wasn’t close to tears. “At least I know some of these things got sold.” He should really get onto their PR person to send his number one fan, Carter, a copy.

“Even Emma has one.” Alex was looking up at him with unmistakable pride. “But she says she drew a Hitler moustache on it.”

That would be right. Micah laughed, and it helped the tears that were threatening to fall to evaporate instead.

Alex handed him a sharpie.

“What’s that for? To draw a Hitler moustache? Or do you want me to add glasses and some pimples?”

“No, I want you to sign it, dummy.”

It was so dusty in here. Micah sniffed, uncapped the pen, and scrawled his signature across his guernsey. He stood back to inspect his handiwork.

Alex was unimpressed. “If people want your autograph, you should at least try to make it look like your name.”

He was right. Was Micah going to have to practice signing things? It looked more like “Meerah Jacksam” than Micah Johnson.

“I guess it will have to do,” Alex sighed.

“It’s very hard to sign a poster that’s hanging on a wall,” Micah said in his defence.

“Wait until you get some girl wanting her boobs signed.”

“Alex!” It wasn’t very often his little brother got to shock him, and he was now dissolving into a mess of giggles. “I doubt girls would want their boobs signed by the gay guy.”

“Okay, then, it will be hard to write on men’s hairy chests. Or their hairy butts.”