Chapter 1
You know how they say, “when it rains, it pours”?
Well, when the tenant in the condo upstairs leaves their bathtub faucet running for six hours and is unreachable because they’re on a plane to Cabo, it pours.
“Oh, Rhea.” Sunday stands beside me in her adorable red rubber boots, holding a mop.
I’m so distracted by the water flooding my condo that I don’t even realize she’s arrived.
When I called her I thought maybe it would be a smaller problem, but as the caretaker tries to access the upstairs unit the tub continues to fill, and now there is a solid two feet of water destroying every square foot of my place.
“I loved that couch,” I whine, my voice cracking a little. The long black velvet couch I bought with my first real paycheck is soaked through to the wood supports, and both it and I look like a rained-out cat.
“Neil Lancaster fingered me on that couch.” Sunday offers up the grossest memory she can come up with to make me laugh.
All five foot three of her beams with a certain kind of light; the kind you find at sunset during music festivals or at sunrise when you're still riding your bike around with your best friends at fifteen, at four a.m., during summer vacation.
“Ew,” I laugh.
She gives me a nudge, “pretty sure he finger-banged you there too, so don’t even start with me.”
“He was such a cute little man-slut. I almost miss him.” I nod, trying not to be absolutely depressed about my drowning living room. “He was British, right?”
“Irish,” Sunday corrects me. “He was so good at it.”
“It was the extra length on his middle and ring finger…” I stare across the living room sadly at the water still leaking down the wall. “His last name always threw me for a loop.” I sigh.
“It was very English… Have you heard from the caretaker?” She asks, leaning the mop against the wall. “This is bad.” Sunday looks from me to the damage and back to me.
“You think? My favorite couch is ruined, I just replaced the flooring, and I only got half my art off the wall, so my signed CM Punk poster is destroyed!” I say as calmly as possible. “This sucks.”
“Okay, okay… maybe it’s not that bad?” She holds up the soggy frame and chews on her lip. The poster itself is curled and warped inside the frame, and as she sets it down, the nails pop off the bottom, and the glass slides out, hitting the water with a heavy slosh.
“Sorry.” She grimaces.
“It’s okay, can’t make it any worse.”
“At least with the front door open, the water is draining into the parking lot?” She smiles at me.
“It doesn’t matter, it’s everywhere. My room, the kitchen, the bathroom. Everything is underwater,” I say, “this is not what I meant when I said I idolized Shrek’s swamp for its solitude.”
“You did say that,” Sunday gently laughs.
I wish I could see it like that, but I can’t seem to find a light in all the destruction around us. “The association emailed me saying that they’ll have someone in here to assess the damage as soon as the condo is dry.”
“That’s going to take weeks,” she scoffed. “Let Kaia talk to that old twit, what’s her name again?”
“We’re not quite at threatening them yet,” I brush her off. “Can I crash at your house for a couple of days?” I ask her, and she nods immediately. “I’m going to try to collect what dry things are left, and I’ll meet you for warm-ups in an hour?”
“Are you sure? Can I stay and help?” She suggests.
“I’ll be fine, I’d rather be alone in my sadness for a bit anyway. And that mop isn’t going to do much,” I add, giving her a soft, limp smile.
She stands there for a couple of minutes longer, hesitant to go.
“I got it, promise. I can handle it,” I convince her, shoo her out the door, and get to work. I turn back to the condo and the tears start to fall, but I have too much work to do to break down, so I keep moving.
I grab the dry duffel bags from the top shelf in my closet after wading through the water and shove what clothing isn’t drenched inside, along with as many boots and sneakers as I can fit.
I take the bags right out to my Bronco, grateful that I still have her, and head back inside for more things.
My DVD collection is underwater, and so is the expensive leather armchair with its pretty silver studs.
Everything smells like a damp dog, and it’s overwhelming to say the least.
I swallow tightly, trying to control the panic attack that’s bubbling up in my chest, and continue to move through the house.
I unplug the fridge begrudgingly, cursing myself for filling the damn thing with food the night before, and then return to the bathroom with my last bag to grab everything I can from there.
Taking pictures of everything for insurance breaks my heart, and my camera roll goes from photos of the girls and me to my newly minted swamp.
I hate myself for not spending the extra money on the bigger condo to avoid having upstairs neighbors, but the damage is done, and there’s not much I can do now besides be sad.
My laptop is the last thing I take, safe and dry on the kitchen island before wandering down the drenched steps to the driveway. The caretaker is coming down the stairs when I toss my belongings into the backseat, and his expression is tight with concern.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Drake, that’s an awful call to get.” He swipes his hat off his head and ruffles his hands through what little grey hair is on top of it. “I’ll make sure they get fixed up as soon as they can.”
“Thanks, Leon, I appreciate it. Say hi to Hattie for me?” I say, popping the shiny black handle on the Bronco.
“Of course,” he says.
“Oh–if you can salvage my posters…” I add.
“I’ll do my best, Ms. Drake. Have a good game.” He turns back to the soggy condo and leaves me to stare at the open front door for a moment longer.
At least it can’t get worse.
When I finally get to the field, the girls have already changed, and the stands around the open-air field are starting to fill with people coming to watch the game.
It's our first time out of the indoor arena we use to avoid the cold weather at the start of the season and the smell of grass and fresh air is a welcome break from everything.
Cosy stands talking to Coach, looking over her shoulder as I return from the locker room, stretching out in my gear. I pop my mouth guard between my teeth to chew on as I start to fix my hair back into a tighter braid.
“Sunday got us up to speed,” she comes over to me and tells me to spin around with the wave of her finger. “Lower,” I squat down so she can reach my head with our height difference. “You alright?” She asks as she tightens every strand carefully.
“Yeah, it just sucks.” I grind my teeth together, trying not to think about how not alright I am.
“Well, you can stay with any of us,” she offers, “and anything we can do to help. We’re in. They opened a new thrift shop in Lorette. I'm sure we can re-furnish the condo in no time with a little elbow grease.”
“Thanks, Bones,” I hum. It does make me feel better knowing that, no matter what, the girls have my back through the mess.
She finishes the braid, and I stand up to my full height.
“Today’s game is going to be rough.” I chew on my lip.
The Devils rugby club is coming off a couple of hard losses and has a point to prove.
“Yeah,” Cosy swallows tightly, “and Kaia’s in a mood, so keep her close.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“Christian has been ignoring her calls for three days,” she says with a small sigh. “Let her get out the rage, but stop her before anything goes too far?” Cosy suggests, and I nod.
“I can handle that,” I agree.
“Good.” She starts to walk back toward the group of players, and my eyes trail to the opposition's bench, where they all seem to be in foul moods as the clouds pour in and the rain starts to fall.
“Great.”
The rain stings my face as I come to a halt in the grass.
The wind kicks up the smell of dirt, blood, and sweat into my nose as the sound of a sharp whistle cuts through the noise.
My fingers tingle from the cold air, and my chest is tight from the lack of oxygen, but I can feel my heart racing in my chest. Rhea!
I can hear my name being called, but it feels out of reach.
Rhea! It isn’t real, nothing more than a whisper.
Rhea! The scream comes again, and I shake free of the dazed state, slamming headfirst into a wall of rain and a field of players.
The play is dead, and Kaia is in the dirt, again.
They’ve been targeting her all game with their biggest players.
“Get up!” I haul her off the ground. The downpour makes her skin slick and her cleats slosh through the mud, but she finds her footing and shoves away from me. Two dark braids whip around her sharp features as she searches the field with violence tight across her jaw.
“They’re cutting inside,” Cosy yells from her position. Mud coats her red ponytail, it stains her jersey, and drips down her thighs into her cleats. Beside her Margie leans on her thighs with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, ready to follow her down the field.
She tugs on the elastic around her hair, tightening it as we shuffle back into our line. With only a minute left on the clock and tied at fourteen, it’s anyone’s game, but we need it more.
Across the line Lacy is glaring at me, her cheeks red and her expression dead set on murder.
She’s one of the bigger girls who play for the Devils.
To my right, Sunday, our smallest player, taps the ball against the side of her cleat before giving it a hard kick.
Our line moves in unison down the squishy turf, Cosy stepping out of line just after half to slot herself right behind Kaia as she spins clumsily to get away from an attacker.
I push harder, willing my legs to move faster. I file in behind Kaia, rolling my hands into her shorts in an uninterrupted motion, lifting her from the ground without effort to give the advantage and pocketing the ball into her arms.
That’s my girl.