Page 1 of The Game

"Everyone wants you here, Lyssa." His biro drummed the table with an increased intensity. "It's going to be an incredible season."

I narrowed my eyes and shifted in my seat, not believing the bullshit line—my six-year-old nephew spoke with more sincerity. The heat in the small office resembled a post-game sauna, and a bead of sweat ran down the middle of my shoulder blades under the band of my sports bra. My legs were now sticking to the plastic of the visitors chair but I wasn’t going to worry about that until I had to stand up and take the seat with me. "But?" I prompted.

The clue not everyone was thrilled with my arrival was evident not in Simon Waller's tone, or his words, but rather that beat of his pen against the cheap wood. Well, that and the fact he looked like he wanted to puke, which in turn made me want to puke—this could unravel to a hurl fest quicker than you could say pass the bucket. I’d known Waller a long time and he couldn’t spin me a line no matter how hard he tried.

It’s okay. It’s okay. I repeated in my head as I jiggled my legs like a schoolgirl sat on an oversized chair. This is just cricket. It’s just bloody cricket.

Except it wasn’t the cricket that I knew.

I swallowed down the nervous bile as he waved his hand at the gleaming silver trophy in the corner cabinet of the room. I'd been surprised that the BPL silverware hadn't been the centre point in the team headquarters foyer, but here it was squirreled away in Waller's office. The offices were new. A wall of fresh paint and detergent had hit me as I walked past security in the foyer telling me the Red Cats were having a facelift that went deeper than changes to their coaching staff. Sighing, Waller adjusted his dark cap, scratching at the thinning hair hidden underneath. "It's a big thing; this is all so new. In truth, Lyssa, no one knew it would take off the way it has."

I tried to smile, but it was more of a frozen grimace. He was right, no one had known the British Premier League—an idea franchised from India, and The Big Bash in Australia—would catch alight the way it had, or that it would suck money and sponsors out of other areas of the game. The quaint British sport was no longer what it was. Cucumber sandwiches, afternoon teas and matches that could last days were a thing of the past. Now it was chanting fans, fireworks, cheerleaders, and evening games that were more of a party than a sporting event. I palmed my hands down the front of my neutral chinos, wiping a streak of sweat along the cotton. "Who is it?" I edged my elbows onto the desk, leaning closer to Waller. "Come on, you may as well tell me so I can deal with it now." I wasn’t surprised a member of the team didn’t want me. I was lacking the all-important penis.

Waller wasn't the clean-shaven coach that was seen sitting on benches in the cool, shady dug-outs, pitch side. His sagging face was prickled with a grey foresting within the depths of his scraggly stubble. It looked like the out of season training had been taking its toll on him, rather than his players. He blew a gust of air through his lips. "Jase." A long sigh followed his words.

My heart pounded, and I sat a little straighter. "And do you know why?" A wince inducing churn turned my stomach into a pretzel shaped knot. Jase Willis, former England test cricket captain, was a thorn in the side of cricket and a vile excuse for a sexist pig. He was also a sexist pig that was rumoured to have been enticed to the Red Cat’s team by an indecent amount of money. And when I say indecent, what I mean is that it could keep a struggling African country afloat for months. But this wasn’t what was turning my stomach into sourdough. I had a nasty idea I knew deep down why he didn’t want me here.

He couldn’t remember, surely?

Waller shrugged like he didn't know, but the lie was written all over his face.

"Fine." I began to stand from my seat, my legs squelching like a suction cap. "Should I talk to him, break the ice, maybe?" I flashed Waller a grin. "Show him my more appealing side." I winked. I didn't have a more appealing side. You took me as you found me.

Waller waved his hand and sunk in his seat. "Nah, don't worry about him. He will come around." His lies fell flat within the cramped confines of the head coach’s office.

I pulled on the door, again admiring the silverware gleaming in the corner. "Course he will, I'm the best." I puffed my chest out. I was the best and I was more than capable of the being the fitness coach the Red Cats needed, but whether I could win Jase Willis around or not was a bravado that was all front.

Waller offered me a weak smile. "That you are. That's why you're here."

"Are you coming to practice?" A glance at the clock told me that my first session was due to begin. I ignored the trembling belly that promised to magically make my morning toast reappear.

Waller pushed from his chair. "Wouldn't miss it." His face told me he’d rather have his fingernails extracted with tweezers or a root canal without anaesthetic.

As he joined me at the door, he popped an antacid, making me snigger. "Has something given you indigestion?" I enquired with feigned innocence.

He shook his head. "Nope, but it sure as hell's about to."

Taking a breath that was so deep and full it felt like my lungs would burst like overblown party balloons, I waltzed through the red door to the Red Cats changing room. A wall of Deep Heat and sweat knocked me straight between the eyes, and caught at the back of my throat. If I'd been less of a professional, I would have gagged on the stench, but instead I swallowed it and stared at the mass of men in front of me. I don't think even one of them was under five-foot-eleven and they towered over me, by a clear four inches and more.

My eyes wanted to have a party. There were just so many well formed specimens of the male species that I had a feeling my eyeballs might start rolling in my sockets. It wasn’t very professional though, so I cleared my throat and went in with my opening line. I’d rehearsed it in the car, glaring at myself with a level stare in the rearview mirror. "Right then, jockstraps. What are you all bitching about?" I asked, hands on my hips. Okay, that line had sounded much, much better in the car.

Silence fell and the cream of English cricket stared at me—players who had perspired for the country, caught balls for their pride, and then sold their soul for the glitz and money of the premier league—all forty eyes focused on my chest.

It was so ridiculously cliché you could have written a book about it, but then I could hardly talk, my eyes were thanking me for this job. However, they didn’t need to know that.

I dropped my bag onto the bench and snapped my fingers level with my head. "Yes, I have tits. You’d better get used to them because you're going to be seeing them every day." I thrust them out; hell they needed thrusting and even then the use of a magnifying glass would be beneficial. “This is left,” I pointed, “This is right, and now we’ve all been acquainted, let’s move on.” I was supposed to stop at ‘every day’. I wasn’t supposed to poke my tits in their faces. That was not in my rehearsal run through.

Someone sniggered, and I spun to find the culprit. "Never seen boobs before?" I quizzed, with a glare.

It was Bailey who’d laughed. He was only twenty, and I knew his card already. His cheeks flushed a stunning red, spreading a stain under the dark stubble along his throat. "Yes, of course, I have." The flare on his cheeks made my lips lift a little, and I repressed a giggle that would have considerably undermined my jockstrap line. Bailey needed to work on his blushing—that shade of red told me he'd probably only seen two sets of breasts before, at best. He adjusted his cap and studied the floor of the changing room as if inspecting the cracks, his ears pink.

I smiled. "Well, then you don't need to look at mine." Reaching into my bag I grabbed my folder. I’d spent the previous day revelling in new stationery heaven and I was all set to go. "Okay, so as you all know, and have no doubt been sitting here gossiping about like a launderette filled with old women, I'm your new fitness coach." Another person snorted. I kept my eyes averted; I didn't have to turn to find them to know who it was. I point blank refused to look. It was the snort of a sexist pig. Oink. Everyone else trained their gaze onto the floor, probably too scared to be caught staring at my boobs. "And," I continued regardless of the ridicule-filled splutter from along the bench, "We've got our first game in just over a month. Let me make this clear." I allowed my eyes to rest on the heads of each of the players in turn. Fresh out of the shower, none of them had their hair styled in the quiffs for which the team was famous. The Red Cats were just as famed for their looks as they were their T20 play, and didn’t my damn eyes know it. "If you aren't fit, you don't play. It's simple." There was a hushed murmur, so I decided to give them the killer line and get it over and done with. "The buck stops with me. If I say you aren't fit then you don't play. It's no good whining to anyone else. My decision, my rules." Twenty faces watched me with open mouths and I glanced at their faces. All fresh, all young, all handsome. Somewhere there must be a pool of water that infected the local women with the ability to give birth to handsome cricket playing hotties. I was biased I knew, but cricketers were sexier than footballers by far, and well let’s not even joke about the poor rugby players.

Waller attempted to make himself invisible against the wall as they watched me with burning indignation. Okay, I’d threatened to bench them and I hadn’t even seen them walk, yet let alone run, but I knew I had to go in strong, otherwise they would try to walk all over me. And I couldn’t afford that because I needed this job. Needed it more than anything. "Come on then, you gaggle of girls. Let's get out there and see what you've got." I turned on my heel, holding my folder tight in my slick hands.

That went well. I think.

I knew most of the boys on the team. I'd been studying their files, their form, since Waller had called and offered me my way back into cricket and the job as Red Cats first fitness coach. My knee still creaked every time I thought of my early retirement from the game. See, I of all people knew why you had to be fit to play because if you weren't, if there was the slightest chance you weren't at your absolute physical best, you would pay the price. The pain in my knees towards the end of my last season playing for the Women's Essex test team still haunted me. One lunge at a ball too many and the tearing of my ligaments had meant getting in and out of the car had been excruciating, and leaving the house to play had become a drag. So, in the end I stopped leaving the house. The pain was less that way.