Marked (Playing Games Book 1)

by Rebecca Barber

  “My f-future?”

  “Tasha. Anyone who can generate this kind of buzz and get this much traction from a simple blog post overnight is someone I need on my team. And now with Logan’s rebuttal, social media’s going crazy. I want to get on this as soon as possible. So, do I want to meet you? Absolutely. Do I have a job you want? I hope so. Is this something you’d even consider? Writing full-time I mean?”

  “Absolutely it is,” I answered quickly, not wanting him to get the wrong idea. He was talking about offering me my dream on a silver platter. I wasn’t stupid enough to turn it down.

  “Good to hear!” He gave me the details of where and when before we exchanged our goodbyes.

  For a full five minutes after he hung up, I sat there staring at my silent phone in my hand. I could barely believe it. My dream was so close I could almost taste it. All I had to do was not fuck it up. Something easier said than done.

  “Tasha Louise! Get your cute butt out here and tell me what the hell is going on!” Giselle called out.

  Honestly, in all the drama, I’d completely forgotten she was sitting on my bed, no doubt flicking through the pile of trashy magazines on my bedside table. It was a habit I wasn’t proud of but one I couldn’t shake.

  “Give me ten minutes!” I called back before climbing back in the shower and rinsing the drying conditioner out.

  By the time I emerged, I was a different person. My mind was whirling, and I was trying to plan what I could wear. There wasn’t really a dress code for a job interview at the football. At least not one I knew of.

  “About bloody time,” Giselle said dramatically as she tossed aside a magazine and folded her hands over her chest.

  After explaining what had happened and trying not to go deaf from her excited squeals, I sat on the edge of the bed and begged her to save me. It was barely nine and I had to be at the ground by one. There was no way I was going to be late, so I had to be ready. As Giselle dug through my closet, I was glad she was here. When she pulled out a pair of dark denim jeans, white blouse and navy linen blazer I smiled. It was perfect. And something I never would’ve put together for myself.

  “Alright. You’re up and dressed. Now it’s time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “You need to look at your phone. Have you even seen all the replies to your post?”

  “Well, no,” I admitted.

  I’d been so caught up in Gerard and what was happening as a result, I’d forgotten about what had gotten me here in the first place.

  “Then you need to.”

  “Have you read them?” I asked nervously. I may have gotten the attention of Melbourne Advocate’s powers that be, but that just meant I’d gotten someone else’s attention too. Replaying Gerard’s words over for the fiftieth time, I remembered him saying something about Logan’s rebuttal. Shit!

  “A few,” she admitted with a half-hearted shrug.

  “Which ones?”

  “Logan’s is interesting.”

  “So, he really did it then?”

  “If by ‘did it’ you mean he read it and replied, then yeah he did it.”

  “On a scale of one to ten, how screwed am I?”

  “Just read them.” Giselle handed me my iPad. “I’m going to head out. You’ve got some light reading to do before your big interview.”

  “It’s not an interview,” I protested. Even though deep down I knew that’s exactly what it was, I didn’t want to admit it. Interviews meant formal. Interviews meant pressure. And I tended to crack under pressure.

  Knowing me as well as she did, Giselle let me off lightly. I knew there was a reason I loved this girl. “Well, good luck with whatever it is this afternoon. Remember they called you. Out of the blue. They called you. Wear your black boots and leave your hair loose and you’ll be fine.”

  “Promise?” I lifted my pinkie finger and locked it with hers. It was childish and immature, but we’d been doing it forever and I didn’t see any good reason to stop now.

  “Promise. Call me when you get home. I want to know all about it.”

  “Will do.”

  Giselle scooped up her jacket and bag from the kitchen bench and headed for the door. She was almost out when she turned back and offered me a tight smile. “You got this, Tash. You deserve it. Go get them. Show them who you really are, and they’ll love you. They’ll have no other option.”

  I loved her positivity. That was the thing with best friends. When they knew everything about you, they were exactly what you needed them to be when you needed them to be it. They weren’t afraid to kick your arse if you were being dumb, but they were always there to pick you up whenever you fell, well, after they finished laughing anyway. And I was lucky enough to have Giselle as that person for me. I wouldn’t trade her for the world. Most days I wouldn’t anyway.

  By the time I was standing out the front of the MCG, staring up at the colosseum in front of me, my knees were trembling. I’d been inside more times than I could count. Ever since I was a little kid Dad had been bringing me here on Saturday afternoons, buying me a bucket of hot chips and cheering as loud as we could. By the time I was old enough to know better, I was hooked. Instead of knowing which celebrity got caught cheating on their partner, or who’d been arrested on Hollywood Boulevard for public urination, I knew footballers’ height, weight and time trial records.

  Wiping my sweaty hands against my butt, I started towards the gate.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LOGAN

  When I woke up this morning, I thought the most painful thing I’d have to deal with was my leg. Turns out I was wrong. Very fucking wrong. After having my arse chewed out for forty minutes by the team media guru, Alison, I was sitting at the airport with a headache and an appointment the moment we landed for damage control. The perfect way to ruin a Saturday if you asked me.

  Hobbling on the crutches the doctor insisted I use, I wobbled down the aisle and fell into my seat before slipping on my headphones and closing my eyes. I needed a time out. From what I could figure out, me reacting to the damn blog post had caused the whole thing to go viral, drawing even more attention to it. I should’ve kept my big mouth shut. One day I’d learn.

  The seatbelt light turned off and Coach appeared, towering over me. With only a look, Luke leapt from his seat and vanished. I’d never seen a guy his size move that fast. When Coach took his place, the overpowering stench of old man aftershave made me sneeze.

  “Logan,” he began.

  Swallowing down the lump that had mysteriously formed in my throat, I stuttered. “C-c-coach.”

  “How are you doing?”

  Part of me was convinced it was a trick question. Coach was the kind of guy you didn’t want to disappoint. And I had this sinking feeling, I’d done exactly that. “Fine,” I lied.

  “Want to tell me what the hell you were thinking?”

  “Not really.”

  “Try.” It wasn’t an invitation I could turn down.

  Scrubbing my hand over my face, I wished I had something to take the edge off this migraine building behind my eyes. “I don’t even know. Her article just… it got to me. Some of the things she said…”

  “She said what a hundred other journos say every day. What made this one stand out?”

  “Have you ever been called a small-dicked jerk who couldn’t kick a ball if his life depended on it?”

  “Not exactly in those words, but pretty much. Everyone does. It’s part of the job. If you’re not being criticised, if the media aren’t printing your name, good or bad, you’re not doing it right. When I was your age, I lost six games straight.”

  “You mean, your team lost six straight.”

  “No. I mean I did. You have no idea how much I wish it was my teammates’ fault, but in six games straight I had the last kick which decided if we won or lost. The first time I missed, I shrugged it off. Anyone, any day can miss. It was just bad luck I told myself. By the time I was lining up for the sixth, my legs were shaking so bad I c
ould barely stand up. When I took the kick and put it out on the full, I headed off the field as quick as I could and hid in the bathroom. A few minutes later as my teammates streamed through the door, having lost again because of me, I threw up.”

  “They blamed you?”

  “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? But you know what? They never did. The very next game you know what they did?”

  “Kicked it to anyone but you?”

  “I wish. No. With two minutes to go, the scores level, they kicked it straight to me. Thirty metres out, directly in front. It was my shot.”

  “You got it, though, didn’t you?”

  “You bet your arse I did.” He smiled, and I realised it was the first time I’d ever seen him crack one. Maybe he wasn’t the icy, gruff, hard-head I always believed he was.

  “So, what are you saying?” While it was a good story, I couldn’t figure out how it related to my situation.

  “How do you think the media were talking about me after game number four? Then number five? Then number six?”

  “Pretty shit I’d imagine.”

  “That’s an understatement. At first, I wanted to hide, so I spent all my time at home. If I wasn’t at the club or in the gym, I was barricaded in my house. Then as it continued, I wanted to punch someone.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “Honestly? Some really good friends and knowing it wouldn’t help.”

  “Makes sense,” I grumbled. I hated that he was right. Shame I hadn’t had that sort of straight-thinking last night when I’d stupidly commented on her article.

  “You’re a good guy, Oliver, just don’t let a little criticism get to you.” With a firm clap on the shoulder, one I knew I’d be feeling for the rest of the flight, he rose from his seat and ambled towards the back of the plane.

  With his words bouncing around inside my head, I dug my iPad out of my backpack and waited impatiently for it to load. Normally on flights like this I’d be catching up on reading or studying but today I was too distracted to take anything in. Instead, I found myself doing something I swore I never would. Googling myself.

  Wi-Fi up here was sketchy at best, so it took a lifetime to load. Then there it was. The source of all my troubles.

  ‘The Million Dollar Boy falls short…again. What is it with this guy? Is he too precious to play in the cold and rain? After another less-than-impressive performance, the poor guy went off early in the third quarter with what appeared to be nothing more than a little knock. Isn’t that what happens in a game? I know pretty-boy Oliver hasn’t made a tackle in the last five games but surely he remembers the concept.’ Sucking in a deep breath, I clenched my fist and kept reading. ‘But then again physical contact isn’t really his thing. It’s not the first time he’s only half completed the job and sadly, I doubt it will be the last.’

  I couldn’t read any further. Maybe it was me, maybe it was the way I was reading too much into it, but it just sounded personal. There was more to her words, more meaning behind them than football. Shame I had no idea who ‘T’ was. I’d love to have a conversation with her and see about removing that stick that was shoved so far up her arse she could use it to clean her teeth.

  Ignoring any more of her words, I started reading the comments. It was no wonder the club had gotten wind of it. The comments were in the thousands and completely varied. Some were taking my side, others wanted to know if I was actually hurt and how long I was out. But it was the third type that brought a confused smirk to my face.

  ‘What’s T know about Logan that we don’t?’

  ‘Sounds like someone got knocked back and is more than a little jealous.’

  Then there were others that turned on me, asking the same questions that were gnawing at me. ‘Why’s Oliver so pissed? Did her words cut a little too close to home?’ Did they? Probably. It’s probably why I’d gotten so worked up and had that snap of sanity which caused me to hit reply.

  Then I saw my reply and the number of thumbs up I’d received. I’d written a letter back to T who was quickly becoming my arch nemesis. ‘T – I must call you T because, like the keyboard warrior you are, you hide behind the screen. You know me, at least you think you do but I don’t even know your name. Here are the facts that you may not know: 1. In tonight’s game, I didn’t break a nail, I didn’t stub my toe, and I didn’t sneeze and throw my back out. What did happen was I received a knee to my thigh which corked the muscle. I was taken off and immediately iced up. I’m scheduled for scans on Monday morning. 2. For some reason you seem to be caught up on my looks. I’m flattered. I’m glad you’re impressed but I don’t give a shit either way. 3. You asked if the conditions made me want to stay in my hotel room and stay warm and dry…obviously. Who wouldn’t? I’d be lying if I said it didn’t appeal. But it doesn’t mean I’d ever do it. Playing football is my job. I have to play whether it’s raining, hailing or in the scorching heat. It’s exactly the same as most people on a Monday morning. And finally, you’re obviously paying close attention to my tackle count and you’re right. I haven’t been pulling my weight in this area of my game. I’m just thankful I play a team sport and I can count on my teammates to help me out when I’m having a bad day. Have you got anyone who’d bail you out?’

  “Shit!” It was no wonder Alison was waiting for me when the plane landed.

  ***

  “Have a nice trip?” Alison asked sarcastically as I sank into the couch in her office. I didn’t even bother to answer. “Wanna tell me what you were thinking?”

  “I wasn’t,” I admitted honestly.

  Did I wish I hadn’t done it? Of course. Do I wish I could take it back? Absolutely. But now I had to clean up the mess I’d made, or Alison was going to kick my arse.

  “What are your plans now?”

  “Shower and a sleep?”

  “Nice try. What are you going to do about this…this disaster?”

  “Whatever you tell me.” My answer must have satisfied her because she grabbed her notebook and pen from her desk as she rattled off the list of things I was going to do next.

  It only took twenty minutes before I had my list of instructions and was heading home. As soon as I walked through the door, I went straight for the fridge. After gulping down a bottle of water, I grabbed an apple that had seen better days. Sitting down at the kitchen bench, I dragged over the heavy physics textbook waiting for me. Exams weren’t too far away, and I was behind, and it was stressing me more than I wanted to admit. If anyone ever said aeronautical engineering was easy, they were full of shit.

  When the front door opened, the smell of ginger and garlic hit me, and my stomach rumbled. Looking up at the clock, it was no wonder my eyes were blurry. I’d been at this for hours.

  “Dude! You didn’t answer your phone, so I grabbed food anyway.”

  Standing up, I patted my pockets checking for my phone, coming up empty. “I don’t know where I left it. Probably in the car.”

  “Go check. I’ll set this up. You want a drink?”

  “Water would be good,” I answered, snagging my keys from the bench and heading out the door.

  Opening the car door, my phone wasn’t in the console or on my seat. Groping around under the seats I found a pair of socks that I had no idea how long they’d been there, an empty water bottle and my phone. As soon as I touched the screen, I thought about leaving it there. It was filled with missed calls and unread messages.

  Trudging up the stairs, I silenced it and stuffed it back in my pocket. It could wait. Another couple of hours of blissful ignorance wasn’t going to kill me. Making my way into the lounge room, I found Bryce loading up the console and enough food to feed an army laid out in front of him. Thank god he’d brought that much. I was starving.

  Dropping into my chair, I grabbed a plate and loaded it up with rice and chicken with broccoli. Bryce just watched me as I hoovered it down, barely pausing long enough take a breath.

  “Have you eaten today?” Bryce asked as I set my empty plate do
wn, leaned back and rubbed my bloated belly.

  “Yeah.”

  “Obviously not enough.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Well, eat up then. You playing?”

  “Yeah.” Even though the last thing I wanted to do right now was focus on another screen, since Bryce had brought food, I felt obliged. This was the part of having a roommate I disliked the most. Participating in social activities when all I wanted to do was curl up and sleep.

  After two hours of mind-numbing NBA Live, I called it a night and headed for the shower. Today had been a lot more brain draining than I would’ve liked. Tomorrow I’d start the day in the gym. A good workout would help clear my head and then I could figure out my next move.

  I stood under the water until it ran cool. When I climbed into bed in my boxers, I noticed the purple bruise on my thigh. It still hurt like a bitch and even standing on it made my eyes water. Not that I was going to admit that to anyone in a hurry. In fact, I’d told Coach the exact opposite this morning. Pretending it wasn’t as bad as it was seemed like the smart thing to do. Denial was a great place to hang out and I was quickly becoming a permanent resident.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TASHA

  I could barely believe how quickly things could change. Not even a week ago I was trying to balance waiting tables at the cafe, writing my blog articles and studying. Now I was sitting at the MCG at the weekend’s highest profile game, and not in my usual nosebleed seats either. This time I was reclining in the comforts of the media box out of the freezing wind.

  To say last week’s visit had been a dream come true was an understatement. I’d spent four hours with Gerard talking about anything and everything. He’d introduced me to people I’d only ever seen on TV. We’d watched the game, eaten hot dogs and shared a beer, then he’d laid out his offer. My dream. A job writing alongside my heroes. Even the fact I was still studying and wouldn’t commit to a full-time position didn’t dampen his offer. If anything, it increased his interest. He agreed to work around my schedule with full flexibility. To say I floated home on a cloud was an understatement.