Chapter Thirty Five
Thank you, Thiago. You’re the best, Thiago. See you later, Thiago.
That’s all I’ve heard. All. Week. Long. I thought I’d made our arrangement clear.
When Meg and I are on the pitch, we’re in game mode.
When we’re in public, allow people to think our co-captainship is developing.
He can have her behind closed doors, in the shadows, anywhere far enough away from me that I can pretend he doesn’t exist.
Not him turning up to every practice with some variety of food or bribe.
He’s even had new jersey’s printed, giving our white and yellow an upgrade, inverting the colors and improving the Vultures’ logo with a caricature of the bird wearing headgear.
Do they look better? Yes. Are they comfortable?
Hell yes. Did I get a say before they were rolled out to all? No, I fucking didn’t.
Not that it matters now. Game day is here, and the weather has taken a turn for the worse.
Rain pelts against the ground, bringing with it a sulphur scent that clings to the back of your throat and promises misery.
It’s the kind of weather that seeps into your bones, making everything feel harder than it needs to be.
The absolute worst conditions for a rival match, and I have no one to blame for this scenario but myself.
I made a rash decision knowing we weren’t ready.
All that mattered when I placed that call was Meg putting everything I’ve worked so hard to control at risk.
Now I’m standing on the edge of a soaked pitch, ready to coach our team against an opponent who’s been playing together for years.
Not merely a matter of weeks, barely able to run through a single play without causing an injury, like us.
So much for not drawing any negative attention.
My father is going to burst a blood vessel over this.
Rolling my neck slowly, pulling the muscle tight with tension that never quite leaves anymore, I step onto the slick turf to start my warm-up. I’m not down to play, but skipping my game ritual would be as good as handing over the trophy without even showing up.
The rain doesn’t let up for a second, soaking through my jersey instantly, the fabric clinging to my skin as I jog the perimeter of the field in long, steady strides, testing the ground with every step.
My cleats still bite the earth, but not perfectly.
There’s some give, a slight slip that could cost someone a trip to the ER and a sport-less future if they’re not careful.
I suppose the only glimmer of hope I have is that this won’t be a match of skill.
It’ll be pure, dumb luck who makes it out unscathed.
I pick up my pace, cutting across the field steady with sprints, pivoting hard on my heel and driving forward again, forcing my body to adapt to the conditions instead of fighting them.
My lungs quickly start to burn in the cold air, each inhale dragging in the tang of rain and turf, but I welcome it.
I lean into my pre-game warm up, letting it strip everything back until all that’s left is the game.
No Thiago. No social politics. No expectations beyond what happens in the next sixty minutes.
A whistle pierces the air, drawing my attention to the gathered company.
There’s not many of them, given the conditions.
Just a handful of spectators clustered beneath oversized umbrellas that bow under the weight of water, their outlines blurred, shifting shapes rather than faces.
Coach Collingwood stands among them, his umbrella doing little to shield his clipboard from the water pouring off its edges.
At his back, the Vultures are making their way over, boots dragging through the slick turf.
Meg and I bickered over the ten players who would play today, but ultimately I managed to convince her that she and Claire are the only women who are ready for a match against a team as aggressive as Radley.
This won’t be like women’s matches they’ve been in before.
This will be a blood bath of muscle and rage.
As such, the Vultures near with their shoulders hunched against the cold, their jaws set tight and their expressions already set stubbornly.
There’s no chatter between them, simply focus laced with nerves. I know the feeling.
“Looking lively out there, Captain,” Coach dips his head. I drag a hand through my soaked hair, pushing it back from my face.
“We’ll see if the rest of them can keep up,” I reply flatly, keeping my eyes on Meg, striding towards me with all the determination she can muster. She doesn’t bother to hide her irritation at being out here, nor that she’s going to hold me personally responsible if she catches a cold.
They move straight onto the pitch and fall into formation as we’ve been practicing for days, gripping their sticks tight.
They look like a team on the surface, the fresh uniforms standing out even under the gray sky, but beneath it, I can see the hesitation Radley is going to sniff out within minutes.
Speaking of which, the Rangers are right behind, spilling onto the scene in a wave of red and black.
I stand at the edge of the field with my stick resting against my shoulder, tracking each face for a hint of recognition.
I’ve played the Rangers before, but the only name I bothered to learn was their captain’s.
Marcus is an asshat. Broad-shouldered, a cocky tilt to his head.
He’s the kind of player who thrives on intimidation and making a spectacle to cover up the fact that he’s just shit at the game.
“Captains,” Coach calls, and I don’t hesitate. I step forward at the same time Meg does, rolling my shoulders back, the familiar weight of control settling into place even as the rain continues to pour. Marcus joins us too, grinning wide as his attention locks onto Meg.
“Two for the price of one. Lucky me.”
I casually insert myself into his eye line, and Meg huffs dramatically at my back. Not one to be ignored, she yanks on my jersey and I peer back to look at her narrowed stare.
“Everest, Radley are a fully male team,” she hisses. I blink through the water dripping from my hair.
“So?” I shoot back. Apparently, that was the wrong answer, as Meg’s face scrunches up and she twists my jersey into her fist harder.
“So?! What are me and Claire? The token bitches?”
Marcus chuckles, earning himself a slap check to the balls from me later on. Holding her blue gaze, my jaw works.
“It’s gender equality. I’ve seen you play, you’ll have half of these assholes crying on the way home.” This earns me a half smirk, and Meg is satisfied enough to release my jersey. She retreats back to her position on the field, leaving me and Marcus to call Coach’s coin toss.
“Tails,” I state before it lands. Coach nods and points to our goal.
“Vultures start,” he announces. I don’t give Marcus the satisfaction of a reaction, as I move into position at the sidelines, tightening my grip on the shaft of my stick out of stress more than anything.
Across the field, Meg is already set, her stance low, her eyes sharp beneath her helmet as she tracks the defensive line ahead of her.
For the briefest second, everything aligns the way I’d hoped.
She’s here, focused on the game, aware of everything around her.
That’s what Meg really needs. Structure and complete control.
Had she been this focused the night she was kidnapped, that fucker wouldn’t have gotten within an inch of her.
She let her guard down that night, and I’m going to make sure she never does so again.
Beside me, Coach blows the whistle, and reality crashes back in.
The opening play is cleaner than I expect.
The ball snaps from our midfield straight into Meg’s stick, and she moves quickly, cutting through the first line of Radley’s defense before they’ve fully settled into formation.
At least something has come out of our grueling back-to-back training days.
Claire shifts wide creating space for herself while Samson shifts up field to support her.
It’s just like we practiced. Put the pressure on early, lead with aggression.
Except Radley has been a team for years, and Marcus doesn’t even need to signal for them to adapt.
A good team acts like a hive mind, knowing the plays inside and out.
Two players close in, doubling on Meg before she can break through the center.
Sticks clash, the crack of it slicing through the rain as they box her in.
She pivots in an attempt to shake them off, but the turf betrays her.
A slight slip throws her off balance and the pass she sends out is a fraction too high. Claire fumbles the catch under pressure, and I watch helplessly as the ball hits the ground. My lids shut as I force air through my nose. Watching on isn’t in my nature. I can’t control what I’m not a part of.
“Reset!” Meg barks, shouldering the play by herself. My eyes burst open, suddenly remembering I’m not carrying this alone. Win or lose, probably the latter, we’re sharing this burden.
Radley surges forward, passing and catching with the kind of flow that’s going to take us all year to achieve.
Each movement feeds into the next like a well-oiled machine that knows exactly how to function.
The Vultures scramble to match their energy, but it’s clear from the start, we’re always going to be half a step behind in every direction.
The first goal comes far too quickly, and the remainder of the first half fails to recover.
Stomping off the pitch and dragging her helmet off, Meg snatches the drinks bottle I offer her.