Page 2 of The Game

Out on the field, the late April sun lingered on the vivid green grass as I pulled off my team coloured hot pink polo shirt leaving a running vest below. Knowing that twenty males had their eyes trained on my skin, I ignored the intensity of their stares and shimmied out of the chinos. There was no point being coy. At the end of the day, athletes and other sports players were all built the same—for the win. My only difference from the teams was in the most fundamental aspect, as in I owned a vagina and tits. Hands on my running shorts, I rolled my neck. "Once around the field and then pause for a HIT. I'll be with you so you can see what you need to do."

Twenty pairs of eyes stared at me in bewilderment. "Problem?" I sighed. The way things were going this could become the longest training session of my life, and I did have to get home at some point.

"We have a gym for training." There he was. Jase Willis. The Lancashire Lion. The soft burr of his Lancastrian accent did nothing to belie the ice of his glare. He held his hand to the sun, shielding his eyes, and bore such a look of disgust toward me I think he was expecting me to transform into a pillar of salt. I tried very hard not to look at him. By try, I bit my tongue making myself wince but still my eyes did a full-on body sweep.

Shit.

Wide shoulders, narrow waist and curved muscles that dipped through the material of his training vest. And let’s not look at the legs. Okay, let’s look at the legs: long and tanned, a sheen of fine golden hair catching the light and muscles over his knees that appeared, to me at least, around the same size as one of my arse cheeks.

I looked too long. I needed some chopsticks to poke my eyes out where I could stick them on the nearest bridge for being traitorous.

Then I noticed he was watching me. Was he? My eyes met his icy glare. Yes, he was.

Shit.

I stood a little straighter.

Keep watching buddy. I lifted my chin and sucked in my cheeks. "Thank you...” I didn’t know what to call him; his name got stuck in my throat like a cough lozenge bringing on an early death. “I got the full tour last week." I kept my voice saccharine sweet, despite the fact my pulse was racing and my skin was prickling with sweat under the weight of his glare. "Today we run outside."

Anderson and Bailey glanced around the stadium, their eyes wide. It wasn't that big. Maybe they were all a bunch of girls after all.

"Come on then." I set off at a steady pace and waited for them all to rush past me, which they did, their unlimited testosterone pushing them faster and faster as they set into a race against one another. I grinned and kept going at my steady trot.

The training I had asked them to commence wasn't a race. It was endurance. I’d known none of them would have been listening.

The BPL had changed the face of British cricket. Some hated it, most loved it, but it was a power sport. No more hanging around for five days playing the long game. 20/20 was fast and furious and to play it well, well enough to win, you had to move as quick as you could think.

The Lancashire Lion paced past me; his sun-brightened hair glinting in the wind. His frame was too tall for speed. He was built to spin bowl the shit out of the opposition, but still his run was easy and smooth. The rumours must have been wrong. I kept my attention focused on the deep cycle of his legs and the narrow set of his hips as he moved around the field, searching for any sign of injury. And that’s why I was staring—it was part of my job. Nothing to do with the ill-conceived and fruitless crush I’d had on him back before I even knew what a sexist pig he was, let alone the fact they came in an attractive disguise. Nothing to do with that at all.

The whole cricketing world knew he'd resigned as Captain of the England test cricket team after a spectacular loss of temper during an international friendly. However, the rumours flying through the press and within competitive teams around the world, like the beat of jungle drums, were that he was injured.

The Red Cats had been desperate for a star and hired him anyway, at any cost as far as I could tell, foul temper and all. The fans loved him, the fair-haired golden boy could do no wrong in their eyes, and his hot-headed outburst became a distant memory in the ashes of gossip just as quick as the fire had been stoked.

The team were waiting for me as I jogged up, all eyes on me except one pair who were studying the stands instead. "Give me ten burpees and then run again," I said, dropping to the floor and leading by example. My feet jumped a path from extended plank to tucked by my chest before springing from the ground into a jump with my hands above my head. My lungs laboured, but I pushed through, and my limbs were a twig ready to snap as my muscles contracted in dispute. Holy crap, that hurt like a bitch. Some of the guys were sniggering, but I just gave them a smile and carried on. I shouted, "Another lap," as loud as my lungs would allow and then jogged away, ignoring the murmur of discord that rippled through the group.

It was when I asked them to drop and give me fifty burpees after the fifth trip around the field that the Lancashire Lion stopped and stared. He had the classic line ‘If looks could kill’ down to a fine art and judging from the glare I received from beneath those sweat soaked sandy lashes I should have been six foot under. Without a word he turned for the changing rooms and I grinned at his retreating form, watching those tight hips and long legs stride away.

On the sixth lap, I jogged up next to Bailey and engaged him in some light conversation. I didn't know if he'd guessed my objective, but he'd slowed his pace to mine much earlier on, stretching his stride into a reasonable jog.

We chatted with ease, both of us gently nudging the other forward. Five years my younger, I still had him down, even with a dodgy knee. I knew we were supposed to be taking it slow, but my competitive edge wanted to keep my pace just half a beat in front of his.

"What made you take the gig?" he asked as we neared the second bend.

I shrugged. "I need the regular hours and playing full time is too erratic." I lifted my shoulders a little. Women's cricket was nothing like the men's, but I'd worked damn hard for twelve years to reach the England women's team. I'd never expected to end up a coach on a man's team.

"I'm glad you're here, you’re a legend all of your own." He flashed me a smile that made his dark eyes shine from under dark brows. "Don't let other people's egos make you think otherwise."

He began to increase his tempo, but I called him back. "Bailey, you've passed the first endurance test."

His fist punched the air. "Ha."

I grinned at his flash of a smile. He was a nice guy, and I reckoned in a few days I would forgive him for ogling my breasts like a sixteen-year-old boy.

Turning and running backwards I looked at the rest of the team who were all struggling, some limping holding onto their hips and thighs. I slowed to a halt and waved my arms in a circle, calling them all over. "Same again tomorrow," I shouted with a sweet smile, before turning for the building, leaving them stupefied in my wake. "Don't forget to stretch."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two runners collapse onto the ground and grab their shins. With a shake of my head, I went to the benches and stretched from my gluteus down.

Partially hidden by shade, he leant against a wall. Ignoring Jase Willis was impossible; he may as well be wearing a flashing sign above his head that shouted ‘Look at Me I’m a Miserable Fuckwit’.