Page 4 of Playing Rucking Hard

“Sage, sweetheart, please open your eyes. You had a nightmare. I know it felt real, but you are safe.” All thoughts of Mr. Perfect die a natural death as I gently rock my sister until her eyes open and her breathing returns to normal.

“Today is the day I start my new job,” I remind her. “Remember, I’m a last-minute replacement for a cheerleader who got cut because of a scandal involving a married player from another team. I know part of my appeal is so the team can play up thefresh face country girl,but at least it is a job, and I get to dance when I’m not at university.“ If the Southern Mavericks knew about Sage, I’m sure they would play up that angle, and I’d be faced with the same sympathetic looks I ran away from.

Even though Sage hates my long speeches, she doesn’t respond. I try another question. “Are you up for school?” It’s her final year before high school. Is it too much to hope she gets her speech back before next year? “I mean, I’m nervous about meeting new friends, so it would be nice to talk about it with you tonight. You can tell me about your new school, and we can compare bitches.”

Six months ago, we would have laughed at comparing pre-teen bitch brigade and dancing divas. Now, nothing. Sage gives me nothing. Not a nod or shrug or anything other than blank eyes.

Sighing, I leave her room to finish getting ready. Full hair and makeup are required. A customized uniform is waiting for me at the stadium, but just like the first day at school, appearances matter. I match a white tank over white crop top with pale blue three-quarter yoga pants and pretend not to be surprised when Sage gets dressed and joins me at the breakfast counter.

“Toast or cereal?” I ask, waving between both for her to nod at toast. “Juice?” At least we both laugh at her disgusted face. She’s either a no-frills water or a hot chocolate with as many marshmallows as the cup can hold, kind of girl.

Thanks to three sets of green traffic lights, I drop Sage off at school and head to the Southern Mavericks training facility. Lucky me, I arrive without getting lost and only four minutes late. I’ve been there three times for auditions and medical screening, but it’s nerve-wracking to turn up and realizeI’m part of them.

I’m a tiny, almost insignificant part of the newest rugby league team.

I’m dancing for a living. It’s always been my goal and dream. Years and years of punishing training with a single-focused goal got me noticed internationally. The best day of my life was receiving a cheer scholarship to a prestigious college in the States where they take dance seriously, and I could study sports medicine.

Attending a trial in the States meant I wasn’t in the car.

Being in another country meant I didn’t have to identify …no.

I missed the first seventy-two hours of hell, arriving as they brought my sister out of a medically induced coma. Only, the girl in the bed didn’t have my sister’s sassy mouth or dramatic eye-roll. She didn’t give me grief about chipped nail polish or dog-marked books that disturbed her sense of order. She didn’t want to see her friends—even those she once insisted were better sisters than me.

One moment of indecision. One speeding car. One person survived, only no one can tell me if I’ll ever get my sister back.

I couldn’t accept the scholarship, not when it was the reason I lived and …no. It’s enough that the scholarship helped open the door to the Mavericks, and my student counsellor helped me transfer to an Australian university and switch from sports medicine to occupational therapy.

Now, I’m four minutes late to the first day of the rest of my life. I get to wear the cheerleading uniform for the Southern Mavericks, study my ass off for three years, and start a new life with my sister.

Cheer practice wraps hours after my muscles scream their protest. Mental note to self—get here early and warm up for the warm-up. There’s no time to collapse or even exhale. Our lead choreographer, Kareene, calls us in, and I hope my poor legs can move to the front of the room.

“Ladies, listen up!” she barks, heels clicking as her eyes drill us, looking for our weakness.Hello. Mine is a twelve-year-old girl who refuses to yell at me.

“You will see media counting down to this weekend’s first game of the season. The starting team will be announced tonight in front of sponsors, VIP fans, and the media. The event will be live-streamed. You will be introduced as a group. There will be photos. I expect full hair, makeup, and in uniform. You are not just cheerleaders—you’re ambassadors for the Southern Mavericks. That means professional, polished, and poised at all times.”

Her eyes narrow, scanning the group. “And let me be absolutely clear—no flirting with the players, no hooking up with the players, no exceptions and no excuses. Don’t evengive out your contact information to the players.If you don’t understand, read your contract.”

We nod, but I catch a lot of eye-rolling. Why would anyone be stupid enough to risk their career for a guy who won’t remember them in the morning? For me, the warnings are overkill. I don’t need a reminder—not after last night. Mr. Perfect will do nicely as my inspiration during boring lectures, lonely nights, and the best male-whore footballers can throw at me.

Kareene isn’t done. “You’re here to work, not to catch a boyfriend. If I find anyone acting like a groupie with the players, management, or sponsors, you’re gone. I don’t give second chances—just ask the girls who thought they couldn’t be replaced. Understand?”

“Understood,” we mumble in unison.

I grab my things and hurry out, already mapping out the rest of my day. I need to shower, do my hair, find Sage a snack before the sitter arrives, and somehow transform myself from sweat-drenched to camera-ready.

Sage first, then shower, hair, check Sage again, makeup, turn up and smile. Easy, right?

Sage is at the table when I get home, her laptop and math book open. Even though she’s using her laptop, there’s a stash of chewed pencils next to the keyboard. Is she struggling? Or just chewing to maintain concentration? I hope she doesn’t need help because I maxed out with math years ago.

“Hey, Sage,” I say, setting my bag down. “How’s the homework?”

She shrugs without looking up. A harsh pang of guilt hits me that I’m not enough. Sage needs me, but I need to work to pay the bills, and I also need to study to build something for ourfuture. I’m resigned to having no time for myself, but it destroys me that I’m not enough for my sister.

“I’ve got a work thing tonight,” I say gently, crouching next to her. “The sitter’s coming. Same one as last night.” Because if Sage can’t open up with me, perhaps she will with someone closer to her age.

Another shrug, and she goes back to reading.

“I’ll be home earlier tonight, promise.”

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