Page 8 of The Game

Anderson flicked his gaze to the Lancashire Lion who was standing on the opposite side of the table. "We aren't going to lose are we, Cap?"

There was the briefest shake of the head. And when I say brief, what I mean is that I've shaken my head faster at the approach of a fly. "No."

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you?" I said, my words pointed directly at him. A deathly silence lapsed around the table and the gathering of grown men glanced between their captain and I like they were watching a game of ping-pong.

Icy blue eyes, fierce enough to sink a ship, glared at me from under sandy lashes. "I said, no."

I laughed. "Oh, good, it's just I thought you were mute." I shouldn’t have said it. The moment the words were out of my mouth I regretted them but having him behave like that to me in public was mortifying and inside of me a molten river of resentment filled lava ran through my veins.

He didn’t respond. He walked right out the bar. Gone, just like that. His tight arse striding away from the team without a backward glance.

Everyone stared. Fuck the git. Any tangible remnants of remorse evaporated. "Wow, he really does hate women," I announced, probably louder than I strictly needed to, but the arsewipe had just totally blank-faced me in public. There were far worse things I wanted to call him than sexist.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then someone cleared their throat. I found Bailey's dark eyes and offered him a smile and a wink. "Come on, let’s drink."

Bailey picked his glass up and tipped it to his lips. "Is this a trick, are we going to pay for it tomorrow?"

I grinned. "Hell, I can assure you, Sean Bailey, that tomorrow you will pay."

He leant over and clinked his glass against mine. "It'll be worth it, I'm sure."

I shrug. "Maybe."

The team, minus the captain, clinked glasses and we drank to the start of a new season, and hopefully, I prayed to the god of sport and all such things that could help, the start of some friendships.

I didn't stay long. I needed to get home and make packed lunches. But I left everyone enjoying themselves, I thought.

Shit. Why was this so much harder than I thought it would be?

I was heading down the corridors from the bar in the public area to my changing room when I saw him in one of the practice areas. Facing down a wicket, he was wiping balls up and down the front of his thigh. It's a test cricket ruse. It's what bowlers do when they try and psych the batsmen into thinking it's going to be an easy shot. Also, it's a habit that bowlers have; a clean ball makes all the difference as it slices through the air.

He backed up, and I found myself pausing by the door ready to watch the master at work. He took three powerful strides forward, his right leg pulled to his waist as he balanced to throw, his body arcing like a tall blade of grass pulled by the wind, but his arm never rose. He just placed his feet back on the floor and melted the wickets with his glare, shoulders dropped, and hands by his side as the ball rolled down his leg to his trainers.

I didn’t want to watch. But I did. Right until the point the Lion turned, and his icy blue eyes found me staring, and the mouth that smiles in posters but barely lifts in reality, formed itself into a flat line, his eyes glinting like hardened diamonds.

Then I rushed away.

The next day after Maria collected the little guy from school, I ran up the stairs and grabbed my stuff. I was running behind but figured there wouldn't be that many early birds. Training officially started at nine on the dot, but I'd noticed of late it was slipping to ten past...quarter past...I was hooking my bag from the floor when my phone went.

Glancing at the number, I groaned. This could only be bad.

"Is it true you told the bar he hated women?" Waller snapped without a greeting. I could feel the vein in his jugular pulsating down the phone.

"Am I dealing with a snitch now as well as overpaid lazy bastards?" I paced down the staircase to the ground floor and pressed the alarm on the wall as I stepped outside.

'Fuck, Rivers, you aren't making this any easier."

"What because I tell the truth?"

"He doesn't hate women." Waller didn't sound convinced, so I let out a derisive snort at his words.

I wanted to tell him that I knew firsthand how much he despised women, but I’d promised myself when I took the gig I was going to leave it in the past. Although, him acting like a prize tosspot daily was making that promise hard to keep.

Pulling open the car door and throwing in my bag I buckled my seatbelt, my phone under my ear. "I am yet to have him prove otherwise. To be honest, I don't know why you hired him. He's doing nothing for morale, he's impossible to work with, and basically, to be honest, he's a moron and you could have got two other decent players for the money he cost."

Waller hesitated and it made me wonder if he knew I was right. "He pulls in the crowds though and the sponsors, and that's what matters." I stuck my tongue out at the handset in my hand.

"More than winning, more than the team?" I fired back.