Page 6 of Freckles

“Bitch!” Alice yells, giving chase.

My heart pounds faster and faster, battering my rib cage. My lungs are already burning. I jump over a splayed leg, skid on a spilled puddle of sports drink, and dart around the corner.

I’m built for late nights in the library studying, not speed, and only measure five-foot-two in heels. My pitiful stride leaves me taking two steps to their one and my head start quickly vanishes.

But my size makes cornering easy, and I gain ground by scurrying between a dumpster and the rear of the cafeteria hall, a narrow passage that I fly through, but slows them as they squeeze past.

The admin building would be safest.

I don’t think I’ll make it.

Instead, I pick my moment and double back, heading for the gymnasium. Maybe I can lock myself in a stall and scream until help arrives or find a cupboard to crouch inside until they get bored with looking for me and leave.

From the entrance, I scan for a hiding place. The cavernous space of the indoor court is no use, and my shoes squeak across the polished floor to the corridor behind.

I turn left, towards the female locker room, but stop when I hear peals of laughter. Reversing direction, I hurry to the opposite end, stomach clenching against the potential embarrassment as I push the boy’s door open to check inside.

Empty.

Even better, there’s a cleaning cart with used towels piled in a canvas bag hooked to the side. I climb into it, pulling several on top to disguise my presence. The strong whiff of disinfectant makes my head giddy.

I’m safe but don’t know how long my hiding place will hold or what the hell I’m meant to do tomorrow… and every day until the end of the school year.

Clasping my knees to my chest, I put the future out of my head, screw my eyes shut, and fight to control my breathing.

CHAPTERTHREE

KINCAID

On the ref’s whistle,the first five eighth takes the drop kick, and the ball touches a hair’s breadth past the ten-metre mark. The opposition takes hold, but our forward prop wrangles possession soon after an aggressive tackle, sending it back along the line.

A pass comes my way. The play turns to slow motion as I claim the ball and scoop it under my arm. Cleats digging deep into the mud. Thighs pumping.

An opponent blocks and I dodge, my body working like a machine, driving me forward. The other players—teammates, opposition—turn into nothing more than the flash of colour on their shirts.

I dodge and duck and push my hand against the back of a player who leapt too soon into a tackle, earning himself a face full of mud instead. A last-ditch effort to knock me flat fails, it failsmiserably,because I’m in control, taking another step, manoeuvring closer to the posts.

Another player sweeps my legs, but they’re too late. I fall on the ball, driving it into the ground, then leap to my feet, hands clenched, roaring with the glory, the accomplishment.

Fuck, yes.

This is how rugby is meant to feel.

“Fantastic effort,” Coach Jenkins calls, clapping his hands while the ref blows his whistle for the conversion. “Keep up the pressure.”

I barely hear the words, standing back, waiting, watching as Coxey kicks the conversion. A groan erupts from our side as it hits the left-side post and bounces away instead of through.

“Nice attempt,” I yell in support. “Your lift’s fantastic.”

He grins at the compliment, raising his chin in an eyebrow flash.

The early high keeps me steady for the remainder of the game. Even when I fumble an easy catch, I recover quickly enough to tackle it from my opponent, passing it behind.

By the time the ref blows the whistle for halftime, I’m exhausted and ecstatic.

“Great game so far, King,” a girl calls from the sidelines, encouraged by the wolf whistles from her friends. “Would you like some company afterwards, while you shower?”

“Or get your kit off here,” another hollers. “Show us if your little king is all he’s cracked up to be.”

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