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“Yes, I expect she will. She’s a good keeper.”
They turned past the shops. Beth glanced across at her. “You’re not even a little curious to know what I found out from Jenna this week?”
“No. I’m not remotely interested in Lauren. Or her love life.”
“No. You’re far too busy to care about a woman you haven’t stopped talking about all week.”
Carly’s hands locked on the wheel. “I haven’t been talking about her at all.”
“Which, for you, is basically the same thing.”
“Drop it.”
They drove in silence. Outside, the trees blurred past in a wash of copper and red. Carly could still hear Samantha’s voice in her head, Beth’s beside her, her father’s silence underneath it all.
At the next junction, Carly broke the silence. “You don’t have to come this afternoon if you don’t want to. I’ll be fine on my own.”
Beth snorted. “That’s your problem. You always are.”
Carly didn’t take the bait. She slowed as a child chased a football across the verge.
She hummed along to the radio and pretended the knot in her stomach was anything but dread. She could control a business. She could just about control Samantha. She only hoped her resolve was strong enough to control this too.
9
Lauren
“Talk to each other!”
Lauren’s voice ripped through the cold air as both centre-backs went for the same ball, missed it, and left her scrambling to scoop it up on the edge of the box.
Her gloves were slick with mud. Every kick sent clods flying. She stamped her boots into the ground, forcing grip back into the studs, then scanned the field.
Carly stood on the touchline, collar pulled up against the wind. She hadn’t moved during the entire match. She’d just watched, probably picking apart the same flaws in the defence that Lauren had been shouting herself hoarse over for eighty-five minutes.
“We’re holding this,” Lauren yelled. “Stay switched on.”
The words felt hollow. Her teammates looked exhausted, gaps opening in the back line where tired legs refused to close space. It was only a matter of time before the opposition striker went clear on goal, and Lauren wasn’t sure how many more saves she had left in her.
She hurled a long throw to Jenna, who had chased back from attack just to get a touch. It was their only chance of possession. Frustration had radiated off their captain since half-time, when the ref waved away a penalty shout. Now, with the opposition ramping up the barrage on The Blues’ goal, things looked bleak.
Lauren flexed her fingers. She wanted a clean sheet—her first of the season—and she wanted the point. But mostly, she wanted Carly to see her get it.
The winger stole the ball from Jenna and cut inside, whipping past the labouring right-back.
Lauren’s stomach dropped.
She didn’t think. She threw herself towards the edge of the area and smothered the ball a heartbeat before the winger’s boot connected. Metal studs branded her upper arm like a set of pokers.
“Son of a—” Lauren roared into the turf, the cold air making the impact burn hot.
She rose to her feet.
The winger didn’t. She squirmed in the mud, clutching her left shin.
“Jesus Christ,” the winger wheezed, rolling onto her bum. “It’s only a game, mate.”
“Sorry.” Panic spiked as Lauren offered a hand. “Are you okay?”
