Tricky Girls (Girls of Hazelhurst #1)

10. CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 10

Nic

Hockey bag slung over one shoulder, I enter the kitchen to fill my water bottle.

‘All set?’ Haz says, making up a black coffee by the kettle. Last time I had the shit she peddles, my heart was palpitating weirdly for a week.

‘Reckon so. Guess we’ll see.’

Her eyes flick to mine, a rare seriousness in them that gets my hackles up. ‘You know it’s not the end of the world if they don’t let you back, yeah?’

‘They’ll let me back,’ I huff. ‘They’d have said if not. Not wasted my bloody time.’

‘Alright. Just saying, if there’s anything there to throw you off your game, don’t let it. But also…it’s cool if you choke too.’

I frown, screwing the lid on my bottle. ‘What are you saying?’

She shrugs, turning back to her drink. ‘Not saying nothing.’

‘Double negatives,’ I mutter reflexively. ‘You in later?’

‘Nope. Got me date, haven’t I.’

‘Who’s the unlucky bastard?’

‘Just that girl you seem to hate for no fucking reason.’

I falter by the door, all thoughts of hockey evaporating.

It’s that quick, like Tilda has her hands around my throat, ready to squeeze at all times.

A date. A fucking date.

With Haz.

When I glance over, she’s regarding me closely. ‘Gonna say what your deal is with her? I’d assume she fucked you over or something except she has a thing for telling me just how straight she is.’

‘Then take the fucking hint.’

‘I’m no quitter,’ she scoffs.

‘You’re pathetic, is what you are.’

‘Love you too.’ Picking up her coffee, she retreats into the lounge. ‘Have fun at hockey, won’t you.’

I’m late.

All going well so far.

With it raining like hell and the wind up as much as it is, I shouldn’t have been surprised to find the outdoor field empty apart from the fat raindrops pocking it.

It’s a frantic jog to the sport’s hall which is heaving with girls already running drills, their shoes squeaking on the polished floor.

‘Prodigal daughter returns,’ Coach says without turning her head. Assessing the girls already, arms folded, eyes sharp.

I’m too winded to speak, an awful stitch in my side which almost folds me in half.

‘Did you just come to watch?’

I shake my head, wincing from the pain. Fuck.

‘Get on out there then.’

I’m about to do just that when my gaze snags on the last person I want to see. The last one I expected to.

She’s jogging up and down, hair flying behind her, eyes both focussed and vacant.

She bends her knees, tapping the floor with her fingertips before looping back round.

Those green eyes meet mine, then away again.

Nothing.

No recognition.

Just a wariness I put there.

‘Nic,’ Coach growls.

I wave my hand in acknowledgement, jogging to the other side of the hall from Tilda.

Fucking Haz.

So this is what she meant.

I’ll kill her, I swear.

If I’m able to survive the next couple of hours.

Some of the girls I was on the team with last year tap my hands as I pass, a feeling of belonging pulsing over me as the stitch eases up.

Fuck her.

She’s not taking this from me. Not this. Not when she’s taken bloody everything else.

Including my best friend, by the looks of things.

I can’t play on the team with her. That’s just out of the question.

She’ll fail tonight. Make third team if she’s lucky. Nothing to do with me.

I can probably bump that along somehow…

When we’re all good and winded, Coach calls us for some dribbling practice. I’m on the other side of the hall from Tilda, watching her wave her stick along the ground like she’s here as seriously as me.

She’s watching too. As assessing as Coach. I wonder what she’s thinking. Can she guess mine? I hit the head of my stick on the ground, bending my knees as the balls are passed down, never taking my eyes of Tilda’s. Maybe this can be played in my favour. Little bit of hatred never ruined anyone’s chances of making first team.

My eyes are low on my stick as we pass within centimetres of each other, hair from her ponytail brushing my bare arm. There’s that scent again, fruity and cloying. I exhale it from my nose as I draw up to the opposite line and turn.

We do that dance a few more times until I’m almost able to forget her presence.

Almost.

By the time we’re grouped up for scrimmage, I’m red faced and sweaty.

And of course Tilda’s on my team.

She’s in forward position, ass jutting from those dumb little gym shorts. She bangs her stick, moving it in waves along the floor. She’s ready.

But so am I.

The whistle blows. I pitch forward. Coach is facing the other way, and it only takes me a second to reach out and hook my stick around Tilda’s ankle.

She goes down. Hard.

I sweep past, hoping to fuck no one witnessed that.

Coach didn’t, at least. Though she’s frowning at Tilda now, the game faltering until she’s back on her feet, dusting herself off.

I’m almost disappointed when she doesn’t react. Just blows out a breath, mind back on the game.

I put mine on it too, reminding Coach exactly why I belong here.

By the time the final whistle blows, I’m shaking from exertion. My tattoos are shiny with sweat, my hair probably too.

Despite that green-eyed hiccup, I’m not disappointed in my effort.

Sucking up further, I spend some time gathering equipment, watching the others file out. Tilda stands before Coach, fingers twisting her hair. Eyes squinted, I try to decipher the verdict. It’s hard though. Tilda’s face remains expressionless. She nods a couple of times and at last turns away with a satisfied smile.

She made one team then, but which?

Dropping the remaining cones in the net bag, I swipe my water bottle and make my way to Coach.

She doesn’t look approving, but when does she ever?

‘Not going to let me down again, are you?’ she says, eyebrow raised.

I shake my head. ‘I’m better now.’

‘I need actions, not words.’ She pushes past me with a backhand to my arm. ‘Next Wednesday 5pm. First team.’

It’s only then I allow my first smile of the day.

I raise my bottle to my lips as I exit the hall. I’ve barely cleared it when I’m shoved viciously from behind, shoulder bouncing off the wall, rim of the bottle clanging painfully against my teeth.

Tilda storms past, eyes spitting venom, her cheeks red with splotches of exertion.

So she hadn’t been indifferent, merely concealed her fury until the right time.

She’d been committed to the bit, just like me. Maybe more than.

Sizing each other up in the corridor, I expect her to say something, anything, but she only turns and flounces off.

Off to her date with Haz.

The high of making first team dissolves, an empty kind of anger in its place.

Scab wholly picked, the infection’s spreading fast.