Chapter Two
Shower Scrum
On the sidelines, the discouraged Rapids huddled for a final pep talk from Coach Jess.
She meant well, but the coach’s grief-stricken face and halfhearted tone betrayed her attempt to cheer up the team.
The girls smashed together for a farewell group hug, then each player collected their belongings and slowly dispersed.
“Now the rain stops,” remarked Vanessa. The team captain glanced up as a sliver of sunshine poked between the thick gray clouds.
“Won’t do much to lift my spirits,” Giselle replied. She laid a hand on Vanessa’s shoulder. “Nice calls out there, Cap. You did great all season, and I loved playing with you.”
Vanessa worked up a lackluster smile, the weight of the loss evident in her expression. Mud spattered her face, and her soiled uniform wore a coat of muck. “Hey, we’re not done yet. It’s the losers bracket for us. Anyhow, that was a beautiful goal. We tied that shit.”
Giselle nodded. Despite her exhaustion, sleep would be tough tonight, something she needed more than anything. “Thanks. I’ll see you next practice, Cap.”
“Go get laid or something, it’ll make you feel better,” Vanessa said, laughing. “See you on the pitch.”
Most of the raincoat-wearing fans had departed, the sidelines cleared and the bleachers empty. Around the area where the match took place, the Stone Bluff Sports Park housed several fields where the county held its league games in Giselle’s very own Wood Hollow.
Baseball and softball diamonds, football and soccer pitches, even tennis and pickleball courts packed the popular sports complex. In a large building near the middle of the expansive park, a community center also housed pools for swimming and diving competitions, lockers, showers, and a gym.
Giselle tossed a wet towel, her water bottle, and an extra set of cleats into her sports bag.
She zipped it closed and caught movement further down the field.
The linesman who had destroyed the Rapids’ season also packed his things.
She sighed, torn between giving him another mouthful or walking away.
Deciding to approach him in a civil manner—as long as my temper holds—she threw the bag over a shoulder and picked up her muddy practice ball.
She strode up to him and tucked the ball under an arm.
Overhead in the gray sky, the sunlight pushed through another crack in the clouds and showed promise of a warming afternoon.
“So what’s your deal?” she asked, keeping her tone even. “First, the corner kick. That Bolts player almost eviscerated me, and you said nothing. Then the offsides call. Did you have money riding on this match or something?”
The linesman used a towel to dry his hair and pat his face.
Like the players, mud also caked his uniform and dotted the skin on his arms and legs.
The scrubbing done, he dropped the towel into his gym bag.
His fatigued—and annoyed—expression matched Giselle’s mood.
He seemed younger than he did when she first yelled at him.
Being nineteen, she figured this guy couldn’t be much older than her.
“What’s your name, number nine?” he asked.
“Giselle Chalmers,” she stated.
“Tony Rinaldi.” No hand extended as he seemed to brace himself for an argument instead. “Listen, Chalmers. Regarding the corner kick. In those thirty seconds of chaos, both the Rapids and the Bolts committed at least eight fouls in front of the goal. Including your jersey grab.”
Giselle’s eyes widened, and her cheeks flushed. He saw that? I could have cost my team a penalty kick! If the Bolts scored off that, then we really would have lost through nobody’s fault but my own.
Tony read her reaction as he continued. “Yes, I see everything in that mess. I could have called fouls on both teams, but no one wants a game to end that way. Sometimes it’s best to just play it out and let talent decide the outcome.
” He shrugged. “Anyone else might have raised a flag or blown a whistle, but not me. Maybe that’s why I’m not a linesman for the World Cup. ”
Giselle crossed her arms. “Let talent decide the outcome? That sharp set of nails in my gut by the opposing player doesn’t represent playing skill. What if the Bolts had scored off that cheat?”
Tony finished packing his things. He zipped the gym bag closed and hoisted the strap over a shoulder. “If you had any talent at all, Chalmers, then things like that wouldn’t matter.” He turned and walked briskly away through the muddy grass.
Giselle’s mouth dropped open. No he didn’t!
Still gripping the practice ball, she tossed it on the ground a few yards in front of her. Observing Tony striding toward the parking lot, she measured the distance, calculated his speed, and determined the correct angle.
Giselle eyed the ball, then charged. Her toned right leg swung forward in a powerful kick.
Mud and water drops sprayed. The soccer ball sailed toward its target and slammed into the back of his right shoulder.
She had aimed for the back of his head, but the meaty smack of flesh and the jolt of his body provided sufficient satisfaction as she grinned in triumph.
Tony whirled around. From the long distance between them, an intense staring contest began.
Neither kicker nor receiver moved. After a minute, he shook his head and picked up the grimy ball.
Tucking it under an arm, he turned back around and walked into the parking lot next to the playing field.
Popping the trunk of a blue sedan, he threw his bag and the muddy ball inside, then sat in the driver’s seat.
He didn’t leave, but sat there checking something on his phone.
Giselle clucked her tongue. Keep that ball as a souvenir and reminder to watch your manners. Not wanting to soil the inside of her car with her wet clothes and filthy body, she picked up her sports bag and headed for the community center to hit the showers.
Inside the locker room, she placed her bag into an empty cabinet and stripped down.
Not having a lock, she closed the metal door and stepped into the open shower area where a dozen nozzles poked from the tiled wall.
Standing to the side of one, she turned on the water and hoped for the best while recalling the lady’s words at the front desk when she checked in.
“The showers are open, but I can’t guarantee the temperature of the water,” the woman had said. She then added, “Or the color of it.”
After a minute, the water’s ice-cold temperature settled into a comfortable heat.
As for the color? A milky wetness burst from the nozzle.
It took another minute for the shower to mostly clear up.
Not bothered by the suspect public water system, Giselle’s throbbing muscles and aching bones welcomed the hot streams.
She inspected the injury where Pony Tail had clawed her as they struggled for position in front of the goal. Five skin punctures and a set of parallel, bloody grooves ran across her side. She hissed when applying soap to clean the gashes, then shook off the pain while continuing her shower.
Lathered up and feeling better, she began to rinse off when someone bumped her out from beneath the nozzle. Startled, she stared in shock as a naked Pony Tail from the Bolts stood in the streaming water. She had unfastened her hair, and the long black strands draped to mid-back.
“What the hell is your problem?” Giselle barked.
“I don’t see one,” the girl replied in a nonchalant tone, hot water dribbling down her nude form.
“Look what you did to my side, you lumbering oaf,” Giselle said as she pointed at the injury. “We do have a problem.”
The girl turned around and showed a nasty bruise on her back the size of a fist. Beneath the purple discoloration, a long cut marred the skin near her tail bone.
“Your teammates are also oafs, number nine. When I was on the ground after a tackle, I received an elbow to my back and a cleat to my spine.” She faced Giselle, her brown eyes cold in a stone face. “It’s all part of the game. Chill.”
Giselle suddenly felt like a scolded child. She also felt foolish. Am I seriously whining over a sports injury? That sounded weak, and this Bolts player is right. It’s part of the game.
“Well, I stopped you from a header on that corner kick,” Giselle remarked. “So I guess we’re even.”
“Yeah, nice jersey grab, number nine,” the girl replied. “But I guess that’s also part of the game.” The barest hint of a smile flashed, then disappeared as her hard countenance returned. Giselle returned the smirk and introduced herself.
“Janice,” the girl responded. She took Giselle’s soapy loofah from a peg and began rubbing it over her body.
“Hey!” Giselle protested. “Use your own crap. And there are eleven other shower heads. Why are you using mine?”
“I liked what was beneath it,” Janice commented. She lathered herself down, her intense gaze roaming over Giselle’s body. Unashamed, she made the meaning obvious.
Heat painted Giselle’s cheeks. She swallowed, not able to help her own wandering eyes. Janice had years of soccer etched into her tall frame: firm and shapely legs, flat belly, toned arms. Athletic, strong, and a great player, the girl had been a critical factor for the Bolts all season.
Janice finished washing up. Giselle blushed again when she realized she hadn’t moved the entire time, frozen as she watched. The Bolt grabbed Giselle’s shoulders and pulled her under the gushing nozzle. Water drenched them both, hot rivulets racing down bare skin as their bodies touched.
Giselle’s heart quickened, her gaze locked on the girl’s taut features. Immobilized by Janice’s tough and intimidating presence, she could barely speak, let alone react. “W-What are you doing?”
“Committing a foul.”