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Chapter 1
For just one moment I thought I was back in school and I had been pushed into the boys’ toilet block – I remember the half a dozen faces that scowled at me, while I grappled with the smell, that huge water trough thing that we don’t have in our toilets, and … well, I didn’t stay around long enough to notice the other thing that we don’t have, before tearing back outside to confront Susan Snowden, the bully that had pushed me in there. Fast forward about twenty years, and I’m almost in the same situation.
I’m due to record a quick interview in the Club Room with a player nicknamed Buzz – a Defender just back from injury and playing for the hottest sports team known to man, well woman – the Saints. Room Three; I check the number, wander in and holy-naked-guys-getting-rub-downs … it appears I’m one of the few with clothes on.
Half a dozen faces turn and smile at me; I see a flash of glowing tight, tanned butts, muscly legs, toned arms, even a groin or two that was just ‘out there’.
“Ah, sorry wrong room,” I say, as I stumble backward, trying not to look anywhere but out the door.
“Are you looking for the coach?” a voice from the corner booms.
I put my hands over my eyes, web my fingers a little which sets them off laughing again and look towards the voice. It was The Russian.
“No, I’m after Buzz, he said to meet at this time in Room Three.” My face was burning red, but I think other parts of my body were enjoying it.
I could see several of the physios shaking their head, smiling, and the youngest answered.
“It’s his party trick. He thinks it’s funny. Don’t worry, you’re not the first journo to fall victim.”
“I’ll give him funny when I see him,” I muttered.
“Room eight, Carla,” the deep baritone voice said again. The Russian. He knew my name.
“Thank you,” I said, spinning on my heels to leave before I was magnetically drawn to that tall, dark, and gorgeous hunk of a man in the corner. Mm, The Russian.
*****
Yep, it was match day. Not my match day: my basketball team—the Suns—would have to go on without me, I was out of action with a knee injury, but I was reporting on the Saints’ match day. Yep, the Saints – a tough gig but someone has got to do it.
After the interview with the very not-amusing Buzz, I settled into the media box, set up my laptop, made sure the WiFi was working and then stopped to look around. Sasha Saxon, the Saints’ media officer, was walking towards me with two diet colas. She always grabbed them before the boys in the press box got them. Not that many of them wanted diet drinks, but we wanted them more ... it was our biological right. She looked super stylish as always with her cute, bobbed blonde hair and her interpretation of the Saints’ match day uniform.
“Hey Carla,” she said, sliding into the seat next to me. I noticed she said hello while keeping her eyes on the boys warming up on the ground – one boy in particular. A few months ago she had hitched up with Niklas Wagner, or the Kaiser as he is known – a truly beautiful specimen of German glory and the Saints’ Midfielder. Mm. I watched her and laughed when she finally decided to give me her one hundred per cent attention.
She flushed. “What? It’s my job?”
“Sure it is,” I agreed. We greeted a couple of other journos who arrived in the box – Dan from radio K-talk and Brian from The Sports Guide. They grabbed desk space and began to set up their gear.
I had to ask Sasha something, and I wasn’t looking forward to doing so. I looked around and lowered my voice ...
“Sash, I wanted to ask you a favor ...”
“Sure,” she said.
I cleared my throat. “Next weekend I’ve got the Suns’ Gala Ball and Auction Night ...”
Sasha frowned. “Really? You’re cutting that fine if you want a dress made.”
Sasha was a really good part-time designer when she wasn’t working with the Saints.
“No, it’s not that, but thanks,” I said.
“Well that should be fun,” she continued, “especially if you’re not organizing it. Or do you have to do something?”
“I’ve been asked to give a speech about the Suns and the importance of the team, given I played my hundredth game this year. Once that’s over, I can relax,” I said, taking a sip of my diet cola.
“Right,” she said, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “So, what’s the favor?”
“I want to take a date.”
