Page 32 of Tricky Girls

It’s a frantic jog to the sport’s hall which is heaving with girls already running drills, their shoes squeaking on the polished floor.

‘Prodigal daughter returns,’ Coach says without turning her head. Assessing the girls already, arms folded, eyes sharp.

I’m too winded to speak, an awful stitch in my side which almost folds me in half.

‘Did you just come to watch?’

I shake my head, wincing from the pain.Fuck.

‘Get on out there then.’

I’m about to do just that when my gaze snags on the last person I want to see. The last one I expected to.

She’s jogging up and down, hair flying behind her, eyes both focussed and vacant.

She bends her knees, tapping the floor with her fingertips before looping back round.

Those green eyes meet mine, then away again.

Nothing.

No recognition.

Just a wariness I put there.

‘Nic,’Coach growls.

I wave my hand in acknowledgement, jogging to the other side of the hall from Tilda.

Fucking Haz.

So this is what she meant.

I’ll kill her, I swear.

If I’m able to survive the next couple of hours.

Some of the girls I was on the team with last year tap my hands as I pass, a feeling of belonging pulsing over me as the stitch eases up.

Fuck her.

She’s not taking this from me. Notthis.Not when she’s taken bloody everything else.

Including my best friend, by the looks of things.

I can’t play on the team with her. That’s just out of the question.

She’ll fail tonight. Make third team if she’s lucky. Nothing to do with me.

I can probably bump that along somehow…

When we’re all good and winded, Coach calls us for some dribbling practice. I’m on the other side of the hall from Tilda, watching her wave her stick along the ground like she’s here as seriously as me.

She’s watching too. As assessing as Coach. I wonder what she’s thinking. Can she guess mine? I hit the head of my stick on the ground, bending my knees as the balls are passed down, never taking my eyes of Tilda’s. Maybe this can be played in my favour. Little bit of hatred never ruined anyone’s chances of making first team.

My eyes are low on my stick as we pass within centimetres of each other, hair from her ponytail brushing my bare arm. There’s that scent again, fruity and cloying. I exhale it from my nose as I draw up to the opposite line and turn.

We do that dance a few more times until I’m almost able to forget her presence.

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