Page 67 of Fire Fight

He shouts something further, but I can’t decipher a single word, following along behind him with a laugh when he heads towards the corner of the stand.

At the last minute, he ducks underneath, the sound instantly dulling. “That’s better. You want to come along to the changing rooms to say a quick hello?”

With my popcorn already spilling from its tub and the can of soda in my pocket warming to body temperature, it’s an awkward trek, instantly worth the price of admission when I see the room full of half-naked men.

“No girls,” Viliami shouts, rushing to slam the door, then he leans on the handle instead. “Didn’t recognise you,” he chortles, swiping a finger through my face paint. Then he widens the door, hand gesturing me inside.

“You’re all right.” I pat Hudson’s shoulder in goodbye. “I’ll catch up afterwards. Don’t want to put anyone off their game.”

“You’ll be the first person I come find.” He squeezes my hand before releasing me.

“Not if I find you first,” Viliami adds, waggling his eyebrows before slamming the door in my face.

His constant innuendos are just outrageous enough to be funny and I’m laughing as I duck and dive through the crowd to my seat. There’s a good view of the field and I watch an amateur haka form on the sidelines, fists raised to the sky, feet stomping in the mud.

I open my can, the warm, shaken contents spraying my top and bubbling over my fingers. Before I left the house, Mum pressed a couple of twenties into my hand, scolding me not to skip dinner. I fish one of them from my skirt pocket, hunting for my ID in another before returning to the refreshments stand.

With a beer and hotdog in hand, I collapse into my seat just as the players run onto the field and the stadium explodes into applause, everyone standing. The girl next to me jumps up and down, nearly earning a sleeve painted with tomato sauce and mustard before she retakes her seat, giving me a broad smile.

I nod, then my gaze moves past her to the sidelines where Drake and Gretchen weave through the crowd and my pleasure drains away.

He puts a hand on her shoulder as he leans close to hear her talk, giving her a wider smile than I’ve ever received as he pulls back and strides ahead to clear a way to the stands. It’s only when they take seats in the next bleacher along that I relax, my focus returning to the game.

At this time of year, it’s outside the official competition season, but no one mistakes the game for a friendly. Both teams have their heads down, pushing for the win.

I have a fleeting allegiance to my old school when they score the first try, a solid effort, our side fumbling when they attempt to intercept. When the conversion fails, Ashcroft regroups, the focus passing from one team member to the next like an electric charge.

Two minutes into the next play, Salesi gets the ball and flies along the field, barrelling straight through the opposing player who tries to tackle him. His inexorable forward momentum drags the hapless opposition two metres along the field before he detaches himself, sprawling on the ground.

With his way forward mostly clear, he runs the ball directly behind the goalposts, making life easier for the fullback to dropkick the conversion, leading to a two-point advantage and earning back my fickle allegiance for the remainder of play.

At half time, I high-five Hudson as coach leads them to the changing rooms for a pep talk, then head for the bathroom, joining the tail end of a dismally long queue.

In ten minutes, I’ve barely moved, and I leave the line, heading around the rear of the stands, taking the path into the main school grounds.

A gate stops me halfway along, but a quick peek assures me no one is nearby. I scale it and drop down the other side, runningfor the bathroom block at the end of art wing, pleased to find the door unlocked and the space inside empty.

I’m afraid to draw attention by turning on the lights, peeing in the dark like a criminal.

Voices snag my attention as I wash my hands, and I dry them on my jeans, cautious as I move to the door.

“… better than I dreamed,andhe knows exactly what to do with it.”

The giggle tells me it’s Gretchen speaking, and I try to close my ears to her words, not wanting to hear a thing. Except she’s too excited to keep her voice down.

“Those muscles are even harder than they look and his arse…” A long groaning sound follows, my jaw clenching tighter with each second of wordless appreciation. “If you lose me at my party, don’t come looking, okay?”

Rox says something I can’t interpret, then Gretchen loudly responds. “Don’t worry. The moment Hudson reports a win, it’ll be over, and you can bet no one else is hanging around for the leftovers.”

I sneak out of the room, letting the door go when they giggle in unison, the sound cruel. The fact she said Hudson’s name makes me uneasy.

A win means she’s talking about the game, but my nerves are convinced otherwise. Possibly an overreaction because trespassing in the dark has that effect.

Their voices place them on the path, so I head in the opposite direction, circling around the back of the art block and making for the side gate to the rear carpark. Gretchen has ignored me since last Tuesday and I don’t want to remind her I exist.

It means I’ll have to walk around the footpath back to re-enter the grounds but at least it’s better than bumping into a clutch of potentially mean girls in the dark.

The secondary carpark gate is far harder to scale than the first. It’s made of metal panels running lengthwise, leaving no bars to cling to and no footholds for my sneakers to grip.

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