"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.
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’.
A looming mountain of disdain, with his wide arms folded across his big chest, and his leather gym bag by his feet, he looked like he was contemplating murder. With his long legs encased in navy tracksuit trousers, even the bright pink of the team polo shirt could do nothing to undermine Jase Willis’ extreme manliness.
Don't look too close. I told myself, but then looked all the same. It was hard not to; the convex muscles of his chest were like a magnet for my weak-willed mind, unable to resist the pull they held over my eyes. I wanted to puke at my pitiful attempt at self-restraint.
"What are you trying to do to them?" His words were a bark, but I forced myself to bury any reaction at his snapped words deep within the pit of my stomach.
I stared him straight in the face, ignoring the sun-induced freckles and fair stubble on his jaw. "It's called endurance. You know about that right? Didn't you run the London Marathon the other year?"
His eyes lifted from under the peak of the team's navy and pink cap and a quick flash of what looked very much like conceit marred his handsome features. "How did you know that?"
I raised an eyebrow and hoped my top lip wasn't sweating too much, not that it should matter; the guy was an ignoramus on a monumental level.
"You're the captain of the team. It's my business to know all the players." I squared up to him. "Right down to the nitty gritty." The threat in my words hammering loud.
In the dark recesses of his icy eyes, I saw a flicker of darkness, and hate. "You will kill them. They aren't used to this level of training."
I shrugged. "Then they shouldn't be playing. Training isn't supposed to be fun."
He swept from the waist in one fluid movement and grabbed his bag off the floor before barging past me, his shoulder glancing a bruising blow off mine. “Go back to your girlie teams, Rivers.” His words were a chilled blast. I watched him storm away, his legs striding with unrestrained power. That man was more of an idiot than I’d given him credit for. Shame for him.
Well, well, it looked like this job was going to be more interesting than I thought. The important thing was that I kept it. The job was mine by hook or crook and no one—not some sexist twat or a group of overpaid guys who couldn’t run to save their lives—was going to ruin it.
I shook off the Lancashire Lion's attitude and made my way home to the normality that I was beginning to call my own.