Page 165 of Men in Shorts

He went to sit beside Katie, who had her right foot resting on a green Lucozade cooler. “How’s the ankle?”

“Better after the ice,” she replied. “The physio says it’s probably a first-degree sprain, so hopefully I’ll only miss a couple of weeks. If it swells up in the next hour, I’ll need an X-ray.” She shook her head in disgust. “I should’ve gone down when Mitchell hit me instead of trying to stay up. If I’d just rolled with it, I’d be fine.”

“You were only following instinct. We all do it.”

“The whole point of training is to help usovercomeinstinct.” She fidgeted with the tiny silver elastic at the end of her braid. “I don’t get enough practice being hit. No one wants to hurt a girl. Maybe I should be flattered Mitchell didn’t go easy on me like most guys do.”

Robert presumed “most guys” included her teammates. “I promise once you’re fighting fit again, I’ll tackle you so hard at training session you’ll see stars from other galaxies.”

“Thanks.” She beamed at him and patted his leg. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Robert’s face warmed at her touch as he remembered what lay beneath his shorts. How would Katie react if she knew about the knickers? Would she think it sexist? Was he co-opting femininity, taking on the fun parts of being a woman from within the safety of being a man?

Then again, the whole idea of labeling clothes “male” or “female” was kind of ridiculous to begin with, so it was probably pointless to sit here and overthink it.

One of the subs came by with orange wedges and energy drinks. Robert took twice as many as usual.

“Must be exhausting adjusting to a new center-back partner,” Katie said.

“Hm?” Robert asked through a mouthful of orange.

She pointed to the double serving of fruit in his hands. “Extra hungry.”

“Oh. Aye, that’s it.” But was the change in lineup really the problem, Robert wondered, or was something else going on with his body?

Liam scuttered up to them then, brimming with excitement.

“Looking good out there,” Katie told him.

“Not as good as you, but thanks.” He did a mini-jig. “They want me to go forward more in the second half. When the Barrowfield fullback drives Colin inside, I’m to do an overlapping run on the outside and try to put a cross in. Craig will move in behind me to make sure that gap’s filled.” He looked at Robert. “You and Fergus’ll probably need to shift too, in case I leave you stranded.” He pressed his palms to his temples. “Och, I hope I don’t fuck up.”

Halftime soon ended, seeming briefer than usual to Robert. His pulse rate was still up from the first half, and his legs still felt a bit rubbery. With a growing dread, he realized what was wrong, and that he’d only himself to blame.

Barrowfield pressed forward immediately as the second half started. The striker Mitchell bobbed and weaved like a boxer, maintaining constant motion. Robert marked him as closely as possible.

At first it was easy. Mitchell was big and strong, but he was slow, especially for a center forward. Perhaps all that hair was killing his aerodynamics.

Yet as the half marched on, Robert could feel the energy draining from him. At every break in play, he was gulping air just to stay on his feet. But he kept his head up and his body language positive, so that no one—especially their opponents—would know he was tiring.

He adjusted for his waning stamina by positioning himself even more conservatively to avoid being caught out. So when a long pass came from deep in the Barrowfield midfield, sailing up toward Mitchell, Robert was ready.

Mitchell sprinted to meet the ball. Robert kept pace with him…

…and then suddenly fell behind.

What is happening?Robert was losing this footrace despite his head start.

Instead of uselessly staying on Mitchell’s heels—where he could accidentally trip him and be called for a foul—Robert moved to put himself between the striker and the goal, hoping to block the shot.

But it came too fast, too soon. Robert lunged feet first into the ball’s path. It scraped his toes as it flew by. Heather leapt sideways, her long dark ponytail streaming behind her, but the ball zipped past the ends of her outstretched fingers.

Robert got to his feet, ignoring the shouts of triumph from Mitchell and his teammates, who were swamping the striker with hugs and high-fives. “Sorry,” he said to Heather.

She shook her head as she picked the ball out of the back of the net. “You had the jump on him. He shouldn’t have got by you.”

“I know, he just…” Robert felt suddenly swoony. He bent over and put his hands on his knees, hoping he looked dismayed instead of exhausted.

Fergus was at his side in an instant. “You okay? What happened?”

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