15. Noah
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘FIRE’ BY BARNS COURTNEY
I touch the handle of my favorite bat, a willow from one of the oldest companies in the world. It’s signed by Aiden’s older brother Joe Gilcrest, one of my personal idols.
My fingers tremble. For the first time in eight months, five days and, eleven hours I’m going to pick it up and play cricket. Professionally. And the coaches are going to see the playing twenty-two perform for the first time.
Nerves eat up my insides like acid. I take a deep, centering breath. Remember my old coach’s advice.
It’s just about the ball, Noah. See the ball coming. And keep your bat ready to swing at it. That’s all you have to do. It’s not brain surgery.
“Alright, then,” I murmur to myself.
“Bet you’re excited, brah,” Martin Van Joost, the South African pacer from the opposing team tells me. I’ve seen him during net practice. His fastest ball clocked at ninety-eight miles an hour. Just a fucking blur of red and speed.
Scary when it’s coming straight for your face.
“Excited?” I repeat.
“Captain of the Barrons Bay Challengers.” He nods at the tiny C on the pink and black jersey of the kit I’m wearing. “You’ve not been captain in six years, yeah?” He spits the words out with the gum he’s chewing incessantly.
It’s seven years but who’s counting.
“It’s a big responsibility.” And I’m shit in my pants scared I’m going to fuck this up. I have forgotten to play the game. That my stance is wrong, I’ll make the wrong call as captain. Doubts plague me along with the nerves.
“Indeed, it is.” Martin smiles and pockets the ball, nods at me. “See you out on the field, brah.”
His eyes are mean, hard glints of power and confidence.
They are familiar to me. I’ve faced down many bowlers who want to take me out – either my wicket or my body – when they see me down the field, in front of the stumps. Martin can try too.
The nerves settle a bit, and I start jogging in place. And move the bat up and about.
A few of my teammates pour in and I am caught up in the euphoria of pre-match preparation. Everyone’s talking, laughing, trying to release the tension of playing a match. There are lots of fart jokes and the music is energetic, barn-burning hip-hop.
I assess the team as we josh with each other. The batting order is decent, since I’m opening for the team. Best to get the nerves over with. We have depth till the eighth wicket. And the bowling attack is evenly spread between fast bowlers and spinners.
Ares is my secret weapon, the pacer who gets the ball to swing when he really puts his mind to it. Fox is the best keeper with miraculous reflex timings.
I huddle with my best mates, my brothers an hour later. “Waited forever to huddle with the two of you idiots before a match,” I grumble.
Ares shakes his head and Fox murmurs something under his breath.
“I’ll do a formal speech in a minute, but I want to say…” I hesitate. “I am so fucking psyched to play my first match in almost a year with the both of you. Let’s win it, okay?”
“This dog wants to hunt,” Ares quips.
One of the batters, a Caribbean giant named Marshall Gaines echoes Ares sentiment. Then the Indian pacer – Amanpreet Khurana – picks it up. And yells it to the ceiling. Everyone follows suit. And soon the room is filled with chants of This dog wants to hunt!
I grin like a lunatic. Match adrenalin, which psychologists have said resembles the adrenalin experienced by soldiers during war, pours through me. Suffusing me with superhuman strength and an invincible mindset. I love it. I missed it.
This is what I’m born to do.
I go to pick up my bat when Fox saunters over. “Listen, before you head out, our new roommate wants to see you. She’s in the tunnel. She just texted me.”
Why did she text you? I keep the flicker of anger off my face. Anger I have no business feeling.
“She said she tried calling you, but your phone’s switched off,” Fox continues quickly.
Right. Yeah. I didn’t want any distractions while I prepped for the match. And I’d driven to the ground at first light, because I wanted to walk the outfield. Get to know the pitch as intimately as I could.
“What does she want?”
Fox shrugs. “Fucked if I know. Do you want me to tell her you can’t make it?”
Yes. Yes, I don’t want to see her. I’m surprised she showed up, considering how completely unforgivably rude I was to her on Monday. Blindsided by her luscious curves barely hidden by a towel. It’s still no defense for how I behaved.
“Alright,” I say. “We still have ten minutes before coach comes in. I’ll check what she wants.”
Fox snickers. “Maybe she wants to complain about the protein shake mix again.”
I snicker along with him. Oh yeah, the second day of Queenie moving in – she’d wandered into the kitchen. And shrieked when she found protein shake in the coffee she put in the filter. Her first task had been to label the coffee and protein mix with Sharpies.
It was hilarious. And kind of sweet.
I’ve kept my word and stayed away from her. Practicing, even during the first thunderstorm. She’s settled down okay because she blasts her girl rock music every night till midnight before she goes to sleep.
Thank God she’s on the top floor or the foundation would shake.
Ares digs it and dances along with the songs when he’s home. Which is not often.
And, our refrigerator’s now full of leftover pies, courtesy the diner. Ares wolfs them down before me. Which makes me mad. And hungry.
All in all, it’s a weird living arrangement which works.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
I discard my batting gloves and place them next to my bat. Then I walk out of the changing room and take a hard left. The tunnel is situated under the bleachers, the stands where the spectators sit. But, of course, this is small town America. No one’s interested in cricket here.
The stands are completely empty.
Queenie’s leaning against the end of the tunnel. She’s highlighted by the sun shining bright on her side. Her hair’s piled on her head.
She’s wearing the jersey I gave her over her waitress denim skirt and neon green sneakers. The top’s yellow and green and a riot of colors against her dusky skin.
Something snakes into my blood, making it run a degree hotter than it already was. I don’t want to call it possessive satisfaction.
“What’s up?” I ask as I near her. “Fox said you wanted to meet me.”
She looks me up and down, her braid sliding over her shoulder. I resist the urge to fidget with my pants’ waistband. “Pink suits you, Aussie Boy,” she murmurs finally. “Much better than yellow and green.”
My cheeks warm at her offhand compliment. “Did you just call me here to insult me?”
“No. I actually wanted to wish you luck before the big game, you jerk,” she snaps back. And pushes away from the wall. “It’s what jock girlfriends do, right?”
I am tempted to make a funny about what exactly jock girlfriends do but I don’t want to argue with my fake girlfriend right before my match.
“That’s…bloody nice of you, Queenie. Thanks.” I finger the edge of the jersey sleeve. “You wore it.”
“I keep my word.” She juts her pugnacious chin out. Her curls are tied up in a ball on the top of her head, so they spill over her ears. She’s only slicked on gloss over her lips. The no-makeup look works on Queenie.
She looks mad and hot… and like a jock girlfriend.
“Where are you sitting?”
“Wherever I want.” She smirks. “There’s no one in the stands, Noah.”
“The best seat’s on the ground. Row B6. Sit there, then,” I instruct her. “You’ll follow the action up close and personal.”
“You know Rohit Chachu’s coaching Pennington. I’m betraying him by supporting you.”
“It’s for true love. Your Chachu will understand.”
She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re playing a cricket match in Connecticut. This is unreal.”
“I’m going to win a cricket match in Connecticut, desi girl,” I correct her loftily. “And I’m very fucking real.”
“Good luck, Noah,” she says again, after a small pause. “I hope you do. Win. That is.”
“You know it’s tradition to kiss the captain for luck right before he goes out to play,” I say lazily, leaning a hand beside her shoulder.
She flicks my chin and blows me a kiss. “That’s the only kiss you’re getting, captain. Anything else comes from your teammates.”
I grin, unashamed. At least, she’s not looking at me like she wants to drink my blood with her bare hands. I’ll take this nicer Queenie. “I had to ask.”
She slides out from near me and walks away.
And I notice the embellishments she’s done to the jersey with my name on it.
Before, DUMAINE #22 was written in dark green against the sunny yellow of the rest of the uniform. Now, my name is sparkling and sequined in orange, green, white, and blue. The colors of the Indian tricolor. I know it as well as I know the Aussie national flag.
“What the fuck, Hellcat?” I yell at her. “Did you just sequin my name in the Indian flag colors?”
She shrugs and blows me another kiss from the other end of the tunnel. “I can betray my Chachu, Dumaine. But not my country. Not for the enemy. I might wear an Aussie jersey that says Dumaine but I’m still a number one India fan!” She makes a heart shape with her fingers. “Team Blue for life, roomie.”
I don’t know whether to be mad or impressed. So, I just shake my head.
I will deal with her once I win this match.
My chest feels funny seeing Queenie wear my jersey, even if it is bedazzled in India colors. I’ve never had a serious girl. All of my adolescence and early twenties were spent in perfecting my game. And all my hookups were just that. Hookups. Casual. Nothing I wanted to pursue after a few days or weeks.
So, this…this is new. Watching someone with my name on their back…it’s pride and possession and this need to not let them down. To make them proud of me. To make her proud of me.
Even if she supports my rival team and made it clear on the jersey.
Game on, Hellcat, I think to myself as I enter the changing room and find Coach Alastair in the middle of his pep talk.
Game on.