The next few days weren't any easier. The dressing room was silent when I walked in—the vast space which should have been a hub of activity eerily quiet—and then loud when I walked out again. Nice.
I could handle it, though. Cricket was a man's sport and a man I wasn't. Thank bloody god.
Every morning I got called by the tabloids, or heckled on my way into the building. "How was it to work with a sexist?" or "How did I plan to pull eleven men into rank?" And every day I bit my lips tighter together and gave a thin smile that felt cemented onto my face.
As the days slipped by I started to wonder more and more if I could pull eleven men into order, and the sexist in question didn't even acknowledge I was there. It was like Jase Willis, the Lion, wanted to be known as the person the slanderous headlines portrayed him as. I caught him looking on more than one occasion, but his pointed stare was filled with hate and resentment.
Betsy couldn’t have been further from the truth. Hate and fucking were continents apart.
And that was a good thing.
Three weeks from the opening match and the changing room was in a state of disarray, the behaviour on Sammy’s playground was more mature. That's how I found myself in Waller's office.
"Question," was my opening gambit. The air was stuffy again and I waved my arms like a bird trying to stimulate some breeze.
"Fire away." He steepled his fingers together and watched me over the tips. He was looking better than he had when I’d arrived; mainly because I was now looking a mess in his place.
I pulled on the strap to my team tank top. Bright pink, and blazoned with the head of a screaming cat, it was like Thundercats for the Twenty-first century. "Is this the same outfit as the cheerleaders?"
Cheerleaders were a joke. They hadn't arrived yet, but apparently, all the teams had them.
Waller's expression didn't give anything away. "It seemed silly to have another women's uniform designed."
"Silly?" I echoed. "You know I'm here to make sure your men are fit and to make them the best they can be so they'll win, not to wave pom pom's or have my boobs falling out all over the place, right?"
To his credit he managed not to look at my offending mammary glands as I mentioned them which was more than the rest of the team were capable of. "Of course, Lys, we know why we hired you." I noticed the royal ‘we' in his words. If I remembered correctly, it was Waller himself that had reached out to me at the end of last season and asked if I was keen for a new challenge. "How are they doing?" he asked.
I sighed and slumped back into a seat. "Well, apart from the team hating me, it's going just fine."
"They don't hate you, Lyssa. You're just making them work. I don't think they know how to read you." I glared at him open mouthed as he spoke.
"What, because I make them run?"
"Well,” he hesitated, “Cricketers aren't like standard sportsmen. Come on, Lys, you know this. They like a party, it's not all about intense training."
I sat forward in my chair, resting my elbows on my bare knees. "Yes, I know exactly how men's cricket is, but this isn't standard cricket. These guys need to be thinking with the mentality of Yank baseball players if they want to win. Not lazy Sunday cricketers who are waiting to down a pint and scoff a pie as soon as the game is over."
Waller stretched his arms above his head. "That's not fair. These boys are top flight, and they did win last season." He nodded his head towards the silverware.
"Sure, and then the other teams realised what they had to do to win." I cocked an eyebrow. "Do you think they paid to lounge around in a sauna waiting for the reason to start?" I slammed my hand on my thigh. "No, they are training because they want the sponsorship you won last year." Waller's eyes darted to the poster on the wall with the giant black tick. Hm. That's what I thought. I stood from my chair. "So with your agreement I'll carry on with my regime.” I waited for his answer. “Boss?"
He waved his hand at the door. "Do what you need; you know I've got your back."
I was walking down the air-conditioned corridors, pulling my hair from my damp neck and tying it into a loose bun when I decided to change my tactics, just slightly. "Sessions over," I called as I swung into the changing room.
"Whoa, low flying tackle," someone called, and I covered my eyes. Not that I was prudish, but I was learning quick these guys didn't like to bare all in front of me. I rolled my eyes at the thought. Like I hadn't seen it all before.
"What's up, Coach?" It was Bailey, who was fast becoming a firm favourite of mine. He never had a question for my instructions; he just did as asked and smiled while he was doing the job in hand. I can't lie; he was easy on the eye which added to his considerable charm. Shame the other fuckers weren't on the same page—especially Twatface No1 who permanently glowered in the corner and refused to do any of my training. Bailey bound a towel around his sculpted waist, and I ensured it wasn't obvious I was counting the grooves of his stomach.
"There's a bar on site isn't there?" I asked, feigning ignorance. I knew damn well there was a bar on site, same as I knew damn well they were going there most days after sessions like a group of overgrown pubescent boys.
More pairs of eyes that had looked at me in over a week turned to meet my face. It was good to know they weren’t all suffering from neck injuries that prevented them from looking up from my chest. "Yes." Bailey sounded like the schoolboy about to be caught for not handing in homework.
I clapped my hands together. "Cool, first drink's on me." And with my words, I spun on my heel and pushed back through the door. In the changing room that had been set aside for me, I peeled off the brilliant pink and allowed it to drop to the floor. Under the shower, I stood as the warm jets rushed against my tense shoulders, and I rotated my neck, allowing the needles of hot water to beat against my strained muscles. I wanted to bang my head against the shiny white tiles of the shower cubicle. I mean, I never thought this would be easy, but hell if I known I was going to be met with animosity as thick as an ancient brick wall.
It was him. It was that man.
I thought of the dark eyes and soft hair that waited for me at home. Then I thought of those dark eyes at the end of the tournament when I wasn't on the winning side, and I knew I'd do whatever it took to make sure we won. Rivers didn't lose, it wasn't in our blood. And I was a Rivers down to the very centre of my being, same as Sammy. We were cut from the same cloth, and I knew I would never fail to win while I had those dark eyes looking up at me with such expectation. After my shower, I dried and pulled on non-uniform jeans, and a pale-coloured checked shirt which I pulled to one side, tying it into a loose knot. I left my hair wet over my shoulders, letting the air dry it naturally. I didn't bother with make-up, I mean, let's not take this too far.
I don't know what the team gathered in the bar were expecting, but me in civvies came as a surprise, judging by the wide-eyed looks that darted around the table. Fredericks’ jaw was hanging slack.
"Yes, I'm a girl, and sometimes, just sometimes, I wear something other than shorts." I announced as I walked to the high tables and leant across the warm-toned wood. "Who wants what?"
There was a chorus of beer requests so grabbing my bank card I turned for the bar. "Someone come and help me please," I shouted back when I worked out that five pitchers of beer would be more than I could manage.
Order placed, and my bank card slid back into my jeans pocket, I turned for the person at my side, expecting Bailey. I don't know why I expected Bailey, but I did.
It's not. It's him. The Lancashire Lion.
He doesn't say a word he just takes a pitcher and carries it to the table.
Okay then.
I tried not to look at him because I didn't want to waste a single shred of energy on the guy, but as he walked away I noticed that his golden hair contrasted with his tanned neck and that woven within the gold was a barely hinted at, smudge of grey.
Repulsed with myself for even noticing anything about the obnoxious man—because I need to stop noticing shit about him, he was nobody—I studied the pitcher in my hand and slid it onto the table before lifting my butt onto a high stool. "Next round’s not on me, this place is a rip-off." They all stared at me, their faces frozen. "I'm joking, dudes." The round had been ridiculously cheap—I could see why they all hung out here so much. It stung a little that they’d been in here every night and I’d yet to have an invite. I glanced around the bar. After one week I should have been starting to know them: their quirks, their humour, their strengths. But I didn't. We were strangers surrounded by beer. I swallowed down the panic that maybe the Rivers blood wasn't going to win this time. "Anderson," I nodded to the ex-Sussex fielder. He was known for having the safest hands in test cricket. Looking at them holding his glass of beer, it was easy to understand why he never dropped the ball—they were huge. "How are you enjoying T20?" This was his first season playing the premier league. Sure, most of the players had played T20 for their county teams but it wasn’t the same. This was a level all its own. I’d spent weeks researching the Big Bash in Australia and The Indian Premier League, and the level the sport had risen to in those countries was insane. I still couldn’t get my head around it, yet still, there it was, a sign of the cricket times changing.
Anderson laughed and brushed his dark hair off his forehead. "Right now, Coach, I'm finding it rather physical."
I pulled a face. I'd taken it easy on them today: simple gym endurance, weights and balance. Someone was happy that we’d been in the state of the art gym, not that the someone had spoken to me or looked at me. Stop thinking about him Lyssa, he’s evil. "I've got some surprises in store for next week." I winked at Anderson.
"Oh god," he groaned and took a deep draft of beer. He was a good guy. I knew his wife and had done for years. I'd even gone to her baby shower the year before last, before everything had changed. "Nothing too out there, Rivers, you know you need to remember that Cricket is a slow sport."
I sipped my coke. "No, Anderson, test cricket is a slow sport and even that you have to be fit for. This is something else."
I splayed my hands against the table top and looked up at the guys through my lashes. "You guys don't want to be one hit wonders, do you?" I knew this would touch a nerve. No sportsman ever wanted to be a one hit wonder. The words were sacrilege.
A mutter spread around the table like Chinese whispers in a playground and I knew I’d hit that nerve and then prodded it with a sharp stick.
"I'm not saying you're going to lose. I'm just saying that I think the competition will be stiffer this year. Last year it was a surprise, no one knew how it was going to go, how it would take off. This season, there is more to lose: more money, more sponsorship, more glory."
Anderson flicked his gaze to the Lancashire Lion who was standing on the opposite side of the table. "We aren't going to lose are we, Cap?"
There was the briefest shake of the head. And when I say brief, what I mean is that I've shaken my head faster at the approach of a fly. "No."
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you?" I said, my words pointed directly at him. A deathly silence lapsed around the table and the gathering of grown men glanced between their captain and I like they were watching a game of ping-pong.
Icy blue eyes, fierce enough to sink a ship, glared at me from under sandy lashes. "I said, no."
I laughed. "Oh, good, it's just I thought you were mute." I shouldn’t have said it. The moment the words were out of my mouth I regretted them but having him behave like that to me in public was mortifying and inside of me a molten river of resentment filled lava ran through my veins.
He didn’t respond. He walked right out the bar. Gone, just like that. His tight arse striding away from the team without a backward glance.
Everyone stared. Fuck the git. Any tangible remnants of remorse evaporated. "Wow, he really does hate women," I announced, probably louder than I strictly needed to, but the arsewipe had just totally blank-faced me in public. There were far worse things I wanted to call him than sexist.
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then someone cleared their throat. I found Bailey's dark eyes and offered him a smile and a wink. "Come on, let’s drink."
Bailey picked his glass up and tipped it to his lips. "Is this a trick, are we going to pay for it tomorrow?"
I grinned. "Hell, I can assure you, Sean Bailey, that tomorrow you will pay."
He leant over and clinked his glass against mine. "It'll be worth it, I'm sure."
I shrug. "Maybe."
The team, minus the captain, clinked glasses and we drank to the start of a new season, and hopefully, I prayed to the god of sport and all such things that could help, the start of some friendships.
I didn't stay long. I needed to get home and make packed lunches. But I left everyone enjoying themselves, I thought.
Shit. Why was this so much harder than I thought it would be?
I was heading down the corridors from the bar in the public area to my changing room when I saw him in one of the practice areas. Facing down a wicket, he was wiping balls up and down the front of his thigh. It's a test cricket ruse. It's what bowlers do when they try and psych the batsmen into thinking it's going to be an easy shot. Also, it's a habit that bowlers have; a clean ball makes all the difference as it slices through the air.
He backed up, and I found myself pausing by the door ready to watch the master at work. He took three powerful strides forward, his right leg pulled to his waist as he balanced to throw, his body arcing like a tall blade of grass pulled by the wind, but his arm never rose. He just placed his feet back on the floor and melted the wickets with his glare, shoulders dropped, and hands by his side as the ball rolled down his leg to his trainers.
I didn’t want to watch. But I did. Right until the point the Lion turned, and his icy blue eyes found me staring, and the mouth that smiles in posters but barely lifts in reality, formed itself into a flat line, his eyes glinting like hardened diamonds.
Then I rushed away.