Page 9 of Playing Rucking Hard

Fucking Fleski:Physical therapist canceled next weeks session. How could you let the bills fall so far behind?

Fucking Fleski:I know you don’t give a shit about your brother but at least pretend like you do

Me to Fucking Fleski:On it.

Me to Little Squid:Need another jersey?

Little Squid:fyi dads losing it again

Little Squid: blaming you

Little Squid:im not broken so skip the shrink talk.

Me:I didn’t ask about therapy. I asked about a jersey. Can’t have my baby bro turning up in last year’s gear

Little Squid:who snatched your rep spot last season?

Me: You tell me

Little Squid: I want his jersey.

Little Squid:I don’t wear loser merch

Me:Just for that, you’re going to therapy

Little Squid:You’re the meanest brother in the history of brothers

Me: Right back atcha

Me:You still got my spare key?

Little Squid:appreciate it

Chapter 4

First Game

Emma

The lead-up to the first game is more intense than I expected. Luckily, I’m fitter than I’ve ever been, and the routines are simple when you break them down. I mean, there was a time when I was expected to learn a new competitive dance routine each month. Then there were the times when my dance teacher threw me in at the deep end as a last-minute replacement for injured or dropped dancers.

I’m not just flexible in body, but in nature. Look at me doing as many online courses as I can so I can study in the same room as Sage. My schedule is a moving beast based on Sage’s appointments, uni deadlines, and cheer training or games. I’ve become a meal prepping queen, color-coding lids so Sage doesn’t spend half an hour going through the freezer. Green for vegetarian, blue for fish, yellow for mum’s signature comfort food, and white for curries or stews. I choose what is cooked and frozen, Sage chooses what we eat. See? I’m as flexible as they come.

But nothing prepared me for first-game nerves. We are the background entertainment to a local band pumping up the crowd. It’s part of the Mavericks culture—supporting local businesses and local talent. They want the club to be seen and felt everywhere.

Kareene only created the new routine a week ago when the band handed over their original song. Luckily, it’s a series of basic steps that work as a warm-up for our normal routines. My body moves on autopilot, while I count the beat in my head and ensure that any camera will get my best smile. At the end of the song, we escort the band from the field, keeping the crowd’s attention on us while groundmen clear the field.

“Make some noise for the Southern Mavericks, led onto the field by Captain, Cooper Bradley, followed by …”

One by one the players’ faces flash across the screen and nervous butterflies in my stomach decide to do cartwheels when Dylan’s face appears. I shouldn’t be surprised. He is their starting fullback. But, still, when the raw sensuality of the man appears on a screen larger than most houses, what’s a girl to do other than ogle?

Dylan. Otherwise known as Fleski. All the cheerleaders have their favorite players, and he’s up there. Not that anyone has risked their career trying to hook up with him before the seasoneven starts. There are players who play and players who are just players. In the locker room, we assume who has and hasn’t hooked up with players by them talking in “hypotheticals”, and “rumor has it.”

He keeps looking at me. Not that I’m always looking his way, but whenever the guys are training near us, or walking through the corridors, I see him scan the lines of cheerleaders until he spies me.

Why does he care? I mean, it was one night—which is all his reputation has him pegged for. If I were brave enough to tell my new friends, I’d hit legendary status just for being the one to leave him rather than wait for his trademarked, “Well, darlin, that was fun, but it’s time for you to go. Do you have a usual driver, or do you want me to order a car?”

Whole conversations pull apart the players and the unique and boring ways they get rid of womenafter the deed. The props are brutal, with Loki more likely to fall asleep and forget that he had a woman in his bed. Rumor has it that one of his fan girl hook ups decided to see how long she could camp out in his house before he discovered she hadn’t left. Three days. Granted, he was interstate at an away game for two of those days, but she made herself at home with his refrigerator, emptied his fully stocked bar, and put holes in each of the three hundred personalized condoms. I don’t know what was more impressive—that some random woman took the time to ruin three hundred condoms, or that a guy cared enough about his sexual reputation that he wanted to give each woman a keepsake.

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