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FOUR OF OURbest players were currently benched thanks to the fight in the cafeteria on Thursday afternoon.
Coach was livid yesterday (and everyone at practice knew it and suffered) about the boys’ getting into an all-out brawl. The four of them had to do about a million drills on the sidelines while Coach ran new plays and switched people around to accommodate for the loss.
Which was howIended up in Niall’s spot.
There weren’t big differences between our positions (I was taking his center defensive midfielder spot, we have a sub who will cover my position), but the way I played was a lot different than Niall. We played welltogether—ever since our first game we’d just seemed to have clicked on the field—but at the end of the day we had different styles on the field.
Luckily, whatever mistakes I was making trying to get used to the new position, was largely overshadowed by everyone else’s disdain about having to play with the subs. I was glad for the distraction, even at the expense of those poor boys.
Niall, JJ, Joey, and Finn hadn’t got off scot free though. No way. They were all here today, and Coach had them in their tracksuits doing the same “corrective conditioning” they had to do in practice yesterday on the far side of the grass during our warm-ups.
Now, they were in the stands, and we were on the field.
The worst part about playing against a new school was that it meant they were seeing me for the first time, the girl on the Saints. It might have been the new normal for our team, but for them, it was like a gateway to all sorts of nasty new things they can trash-talk about.
I jog toward the center circle, head down, blocking out the catcalls from the Stratford supporters.Boys are so... ugh!
As I cross the midfield line, a solid wall of muscle slams into my shoulder, making me stumble a bit but I don’t fall.
“Wrong pitch, princess,” the player who knocked into me drawled. He let his gaze drag slowly over my body, lingering on my chest long enough to piss me off. “Netball is down the road. This is a contact sport for the big boys.”
I put on my nicest smile. “Oh, I’m sorry. I must be confused, being female and all. Is this the game where you kick the ball or the one where you just stand around acting like a total dumbass?”
He leans down—because even though I was tall, he still had to have been at least six feet—and sneers at me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
I roll my eyes, shoulder checking him back as I walk past. I did not have time for insecure boys and fragile masculinity.
I had a game to play.
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I’D THOUGHT THEgame against Ballymore was the worst of it, but the Stratford team put a new level on playing dirty. Mainly because it wasn’t that they were targeting everyone—the slide tackles, the elbows to the ribs, the shoulder shoving—but they were only targeting one player.
Guess who?
This is a contact sport for the big boys, the voice of that guy—who was number five and had done plenty to participate in “contact”—echoed in my head.Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.
Even worse, the ref is either blind or thinks I deserve it for daring to be here. I’m feeling so defeated during the whole game that by the time Stratford’s Five shoves me two handed from the back—when I don’t even have the ball yet—I just let myself go down.
I’m beyond pissed off. Angrier than I was at the end of the summer when Mom came back and moved us to Ireland.Who do these guys think they are; acting like dogs, pushing me around and treating me like a chew-toy? Who does the ref think he is, letting this happen?
And better yet, who does Niall Blue think he is, kissing me and then completely blowing me off?
Boyssuck, they all suck, every last one of them. Even if they’re nice, even if they’re pretty, even if they’re such good kissers you feel as though the universe has turned upside down—they suck!
“Y’alright?” Gerard Keane holds out his hand for me, helping me up. He glances at the ref over his shoulder and then gives me a sympathetic look back.
“Fine. Thanks, Ger.”
“Don’t mention it. Keep yer head up, Mols.”
The only upside is that so far, we aren’t losing. We’re up 1-0, thanks to Maxwell (who’s subbing for his older brother) and his goal that surprised everyone—even him.
Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Jamie always used to say when I was little. I shook the memory of her out of my mind, hating the intrusion on my thoughts. God, she intrudes on the rest of my life enough already.
I get back into the game, and finally I manage to get the ball at my feet. And like a shadow, or maybe a bad smell, Stratford’s Five is right there behind me while I’m looking for a lane.
