‘For the last ten years.’ The man held out his hand. ‘Rob Traynor.’
I shook his hand. ‘Gosh! Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t tell her I let on about having a crush on her.’ I gave a little nervous laugh.
‘On one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You go and get changed into some suitable gear and get out on that pitch.’
‘No! No, no! Not now. Not in my jeans!’
‘There’s kit inside the clubhouse.’
‘What? Someone’s sweaty socks and top in Lost Property?’ I pulled a face. ‘I don’tthink so.’
‘So,’ the man said, ‘for my sins, I’m in charge of both Upper Merton’s football and hockey kit. I make sure it’s laundered and match ready. Come on, you can play in those trainers. You just need a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a top.’
‘No! And, anyway, I’ve no stick.’
‘Carole always has two or three with her. OK, I’ll go and tell Carole you spent your teenage years dreaming about her when you should have been?—’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ I tutted loudly, but stood from the wall I’d been sitting on, following the man round the corner and into the clubhouse.
He moved to a large cupboard, quickly unlocked and opened the doors to display laundered kit and, with a flourish of his hand, indicated both that I should help myself, as well as the direction of the changing rooms.
Ten minutes later, just as the fifteen or so women were making their way to the side of the pitch and reaching for bottles of water, I stood nervously on the periphery, wondering what the hell I was doing here. I’d quickly texted Mum to say I was going to be a lot later than I thought – was actually changed and about to play – and was she all right looking after Lola and Arthur for another hour or so?
‘Jessica! Jessica Allen! How the hell are you?’ Carole Moorhouse – Traynor now apparently (how appropriate) – beamed in my direction and I was instantly fourteen again, glowing in the praise Carole would mete out at the end of hockey lessons and matches. ‘This girl’ – Carole turned to the rest of the team who were more intent on checking phones and drinking water and Coke than being introduced to another potential player – ‘was once my star player! She could do no wrong. County level. Could have played for England if she hadn’t given up.’ Carole tutted. ‘So, Jess, you look as if you’re changed and ready for a bit of action?’
‘Can’t remember which end of the damned stick I actually hold,’ I muttered. ‘And’ – I patted my behind ruefully – ‘bloody unfit.’ Gosh, had I just sworn in front of my teacher?
‘Well, in that case, we’d better get you bloody fit again then.’ Carole grinned. ‘Stick? Here!’ She threw a hockey stick in my direction and I deftly caught it.
‘Good start! Come on! All of you. And keep your sticksdown, this half,’ she bellowed. ‘You’re not bloody morris dancing…’
Thirty minutes later, I thought I was actually going to die. My breath was coming in great rasping roars, echoing and pounding in my ears, and I knew if I didn’t stop, I’d very possibly vomit. I held up my stick to indicate I was going off for water before I had a cardiac arrest, leaving the pitch and bending over to try to alleviate the stitch that was rendering me immobile. Drops of sweat dripped from my nose and, as I closed my eyes, I panted loudly as though in the throes of labour.
‘Having a baby, darling?’
I remained bent over, knowing I’d totally overdone it, determined as I’d been to get my side’s only goals. Three of them and one after the other, I thought proudly as I eventually righted myself and turned to face the man, looking up at him through the stinging sweat now running into my eyes. I rubbed at them, mascara and eyeshadow mingling with the salt so that my eyes actually hurt.
‘I’m sorry?’ I finally managed to get out, while glaring at the man standing at my side.
‘Didn’t know you were an athlete!’ George Sattar grinned.
‘Well, obviously I’mnot,’ I said crossly, trying to breathe normally. Hell, was this man always going to be coming across me when I was out of control of some aspect of my bodily function? I brought a hand to my mouth as I remembered what had happened to him only a few evenings earlier. I gave him a perfunctory glance: no bruising, black eyes or limbs in plaster to show for his being in the car that had been the cause of Blane Higson’s terrible accident.
‘No, I can see that.’ George smirked.
‘See what?’ Hell, he was an effing smirker. I reached for my bottle of water and necked the contents in one thirsty gulp. I didn’t at all feel like asking him how he was after the accident. Knowing him, he’d probably make light of the whole thing; end up saying something derogatory about the poor dead kid. And I couldn’t bear that.
‘Mind you,’ George went on, ‘you obviously know what you’re doing on a hockey pitch. I’ve been watching you for the last ten minutes. The club needs new talent like you.’
‘New talent?’ I glared across at him. Did the man think this was some sort of Upper Merton’s Got Talent competition? ‘I’ve played hockey foryears– well, not for the last twelve or so…’
‘You need to get fit.’
‘Oh, don’t you start.’ Wiping at my forehead, I made to go back onto the pitch. ‘I’ve enough on with my husband telling me to lose weight and go to the gym.’
