Kick Back

by K J

  “Can’t believe Louise overdosed on these.” She plucked a strip of pills from the box.

  “It’s definitely weird.” Cam dropped her chin into her cupped hands.

  Sophia flicked the strip of pills back and forth like a little fan. “I can’t make the link between the supplements and paracetamol, if there is a link at all.” Cam hummed under her breath, because her brain had been firing electrical currents of connectivity all morning about the link between the two.

  Suddenly, Sophia tipped her head to the ceiling.

  “God damn it to hell!”

  Her muscles bunched and she hurled the entire box at the wall, so that strips of pills burst like fireworks against the microwave and cupboards. Cam didn’t jump. Sophia’s grumpiness had increased all morning, and this was all so very understandable.

  “Soph,” she said quietly.

  Sophia thumped a fist into her own thigh, then tossed the pills in her hand at the pantry. She strode to the far cupboard, wrenched the door open and poked about in the darkness, eventually coming away with another bottle of whiskey—half full—in her hand. Clutching a glass from the sink drainer, Sophia twisted the top aggressively, so much so that it spun out of her hand and vibrated about on the bench. She poured in almost a third of the glass, then stared at Cam.

  “Want a drink?”

  Cam blinked. “Um. No. No, thanks.” She blew out a quiet breath, and wound some of her curls about her fingers. “Maybe it’s not a great idea if you have that, Soph.”

  Sophia swallowed a mouthful, grimaced, then glared at Cam, bracing her hand on the bench. “Stop being so bloody considerate and understanding.”

  Cam held the glare with her own. “You’re being an arsehole, but I forgive you.”

  “You forgive me? Why, thank you very much.” Sophia punctuated the sarcasm with another swallow.

  Cam gave her a long look. “We’re going to say things we’ll regret in about a minute, so I think we should stop.”

  “Why? What were you going to say?” Sophia’s blue eyes were chips of ice.

  The tension between them was palpable, the kind where if they were in a film, they’d be having fast angry sex on the floor by now. However, that scenario wasn’t going to happen, because Cam really did have things to say.

  She inhaled carefully. “You called me last night. That must tell your brain something.”

  “Tells me I need to reinforce my walls,” Sophia mumbled into the glass.

  Cam dropped her hands, palms flat on the bench. “You’re unbelievable,” she ground out. “Jesus, you drive me crazy.” Cam’s indignation stilled Sophia’s movements. “You.” Cam pushed her hand at Sophia, and then emphasised words with little chops in the air. “You are complicated, and frustrating, and intense, and generous, and sexy, and funny, and have an enormous capacity to hold people in your heart, and I’m in the annoying situation where I’m doing what I swore I would never do again.” She bared her teeth. “I’m falling for a bloody jock. You, specifically. And it irritates the hell out of me.” She tossed her hands in the air. “And another thing. You’re going to disappear inside your head and I can’t come after you. And another another thing.” She stood and shoved the seat under the bench. “You are not the only one who’s grieving Louise.”

  Sophia flinched, then after a beat, her lip curled, and she rested the glass on the bench. “You, yourself.” She shook her head, then shoved her hands into her hair, pulling great clumps of it sideways. “You. I only have the tiniest amount of space for people in here.” She tapped her head. “And,” she smacked herself in the chest, “definitely a tiny amount in here, despite what you think. They’re meant to be two different places, okay? Two different places for people.” She made a fist and smoothed it in circles on the surface of the bench. “But you? No, you’re here,” she hissed, pointing to her own head. “And you’re here as well,” she poked herself in the chest again, “a lot, and I don’t know what to do about that.” Sophia pulled her lips into a thin line. “You’re under my skin, Cam. You make me itch.” And her expression revealed how completely bewildering that concept was.

  They stood in silence for a moment. Cam studied Sophia, who was clutching the edge of the bench, the shapeless sleeves of her sweater curled into her palms, and her blonde hair in disarray like someone had attempted to create hashtags from the strands. Finally, she gave a series of small nods, the ones people make when they’ve realised something, and stepped back.

  “Okay.” She reached for her backpack and jacket. “Well, you let me know when you’re not so allergic.” And she spun on her heel, marched to the door, wrenching it open, so it could close quietly behind her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was the same room they had met in way back at the beginning of the season. Sophia looked around. I think I’m even sitting in the same seat. She widened her eyes, stretching the skin around them, then blinked furiously. The hangover she’d fed all Wednesday seemed to be sliding back into its hole, and now—Sophia peered at her watch—at eleven o’clock on Thursday morning, it finally felt like her eyeballs were ready to renew their friendship with the rest of her body. She twisted in the chair, the denim of her jeans rasping on the plastic. Every seat was occupied. The managers and coaches filled the first and second rows, except Dominic, of course, who had resigned yesterday and promptly disappeared.

  From her position at the side of the tiered seating, Sophia could see Craig’s drawn features, his eyes staring at empty space a few metres in front of his feet. His phone call yesterday afternoon to share the details of this meeting had been brief, almost devoid of emotion, but based on his demeanour and having known him for nearly two years, Sophia knew that Craig would have spent every minute since Louise’s death letting guilt excoriate his heart. It was the same for the woman sitting next to her. Nadine had entered the auditorium, taken two steps inside, and all colour had rinsed from her face. Sophia immediately analysed Nadine’s expression, and figured she had approximately two seconds before her team mate collapsed onto the floor. She’d executed a quick side-step around the loose chairs to lean her shoulder into Nadine’s, then held her hand in both her own. She had led Nadine to the spare seat, and joined her as the players all settled.

  “How’re you doing, hon?” Sophia whispered. Nadine swallowed and squeezed her hand, then she held Sophia’s gaze. For a long minute, unspoken words travelled between them, then Nadine slid her head onto Sophia’s shoulder as if exhaustion had entered the room and soaked into her body. Sophia leaned in and nodded. “I know,” she murmured.

  Another photographer scurried in to join the two already parked in front of the lectern. The news crew—Sophia assumed a crew could be a person operating a TV camera stuck on a tripod, and another holding an iPhone—had created their own space to the edge of the first row, which enabled them to swing the camera around to catch everyone’s reactions. The media presence brought images of Cam to Sophia’s mind. Her grin, her crazy curls, her glasses that fogged up when she was kissed, her humour. Just her. Telling Cam that she made Sophia itch had been idiotic. And hurtful. And yet Cam hadn’t yelled or fired back with something as equally petulant. No. Cam had simply told her to get over herself, in the most Cam way possible.

  The atmosphere in the room was muted. Grief had a profound effect on volume. Although, a touch of curiosity was adding to the sadness as much of the murmuring was definitely the ‘what’s going on?’ variety.

  Barry Gillespie strode through the door at the corner of the room, across the grey carpet in front of the first row of seats, and halted behind the lectern. His forehead shone in the lights, and he spent a moment fossicking about in his pocket for a handkerchief to dab at the sweat. Grasping the sides of the lectern, he finally looked up, darting his eyes about and eventually settled his gaze somewhere up the centre steps at about the seventh row. Despite it being late autumn, his blue business shirt was decorated with semi-circular wet patches under his arms, and his jovial bloke-next-door demean
our seemed to have been left somewhere in the carpark. The audience immediately hushed, and the journalists—photo or otherwise—leaned forward expectedly.

  “Right. Right.” He cleared his throat and threw a nervous glance at the news camera. “First of all, the news crew is here at the insistence of…” he swallowed. “Representatives from Sports Australia, the sports ethics and human rights authority in this country.” Barry’s lips pursed, telegraphing the message to the entire audience that someone important had directed him to open the meeting with that sentence. He shifted his feet slightly. “On behalf of the Australian Football League, I would like to express our condolences to the Verheer family. We are saddened by the unfortunate situation that arose on Tuesday night—”

  “Louise died, Barry. That’s the unfortunate situation. She died.” Craig’s voice was jagged glass. His tight words cut through the air so cleanly that each person in the room gasped in pain. The news camera swung from Craig to the players, then back to Barry, who was chewing at the air near his mouth.

  “Yes. Yes, she did. And the police are investigating that.” He nodded, and inhaled deeply, as if rewarding himself for getting through the first part of an altogether unpleasant experience. “In light of the events of this week, the AFL has decided to cancel the preliminary final on Saturday and—”

  The undulation of bodies moving in seats—lurching forward, half-rising, recoiling—was the turbulent wave across an ocean of voices overflowing with frustration and dismay.

  Barry pressed his hand to the air in front of his body, appealing for quiet, which came eventually, and was probably more in response to his shaken expression more than the gesture. Sophia stared. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear that Barry was genuinely upset. Frankly, he looked lost, like he couldn’t quite understand the situation or even the events that had led to this meeting.

  “The preliminary final has been cancelled as Ms. Verheer’s funeral is scheduled for Saturday, if you…” He gestured limply, then seemed to pull himself together. “If you wish to attend. However, it is important for the season to have closure as well, so the following Saturday will be the grand final.” He raised his voice to speak over the tumbling waves of murmurs and mumblings. “The two teams at the top of the ladder, Yarra Valley and South Melbourne, will play in the grand final.” The announcement calmed the waters, and the news camera swivelled about, catching players’ reactions. However, his next sentence angered so many that Sophia hoped the bolts on the seats were tightened securely.

  “I’ve decided, because of the unfortunate event this week, that it would be nice for you to play the grand final on the main ground of the MCG.” Clearly, Barry thought he was a benevolent uncle, patting the head of the child who’d lost their toy. The stunned silence hung like low clouds from the ceiling, which meant the next words filled the air.

  “Let me get this right.” Fitz’s voice carried across the room, shifting and shimmering with grief. Sophia lifted her head and spotted her captain sitting four rows across. The chiselled lines in her features burned with fury. “You’re saying that all it takes for the women’s matches to feature on the main ground in this stadium,” she jabbed her finger in the direction of the ground outside the room, “is for one of us to fucking die?” Her mouth twisted into a snarl. “Is that it?” There was a collective gasp, particularly from Hara, Naomi, Mel, and Leigh who were sitting alongside Fitz, and wearing identical expressions of distress.

  “Now, we don’t…we don’t…Just calm down now,” Barry blustered, his hands raised in conciliation. Fitz surged to her feet, ramrod-straight.

  “Don’t you dare tell me or any woman here—” she cast her arm about, “to calm down. I am the captain of a team where a player has died. Fucking died.” Her voice cracked and she bunched her hands into fists, the muscles in her forearms corded with tension. “And I didn’t catch it. I didn’t see it. I didn’t do my job as captain, which I will wear. But it doesn’t matter what killed Louise. The fact that she is dead is reason enough for us all to feel guilt. All. Of. Us.” Tears were streaming down her face. “And you,” she stabbed her finger at Barry and he flinched as if she was right in front of him rather than four rows away. “You and the entire AFL failed her. You’ve failed us. With the promotions that didn’t promote anything except these women as commodities to be mocked. With the sprinklers, and the lights, and the second-rate grounds, and the rookie umpires, and the lack of sponsorship, and the player’s non-payment, and the lack of equipment even though Craig and all the other coaches and managers requested it.” Murmurs and nodding from the front two rows confirmed Fitz’s pronouncement. “It’s almost like you didn’t want a women’s league at all.” She choked out a sob, then suddenly her fire was extinguished. Her broad shoulders slumped and she slid backwards into her seat, her hands cupped over her face. There was a moment when no one seemed to breath.

  Barry cleared his throat. “I’m…I didn’t know,” he said quietly. The microphone collected the sentence and whisked it around the large space, tucking it into the corners. “I didn’t know about some of that.” Sophia watched as Barry swallowed deliberately, like he’d suddenly realised how dire the situation was for the women’s AFL. He pulled his shoulders back, stretching the limits of his already tight business shirt. “Look, the board has been sacked and I’ve requested that a new board oversee the women’s league next year.”

  “Because it worked out so well this year.” The comment came from one of the Wests players high up in the ninth tier.

  Barry gripped the edges of the lectern. “I’m now aware that Dennis, Lawrence, and Carmichael had vested interests in not advocating for the women’s league and—”

  “Tell them about the QuickComp, Barry.” The news camera spun around to focus on the manager from Bayside. Barry blanched.

  “Ah. Well, the QuickComp, and let me make this clear, it’s not going ahead—”

  “What’s the QuickComp?” The other member of the news crew called out.

  Barry’s face flushed. “The QuickComp was going to be a men’s competition of ten-a-side fast football games of fifteen-minute quarters, and some of the rules would be altered so it was more exciting for the spectators.”

  “Why isn’t it going ahead?” The same reporter fired again.

  “Well…well, the three people who initiated the QuickComp league and were invested in its operations, scheduling, and overall success for next year have just been fired…” He inhaled deeply. “…From this league.”

  A collective gasp rippled through the room.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” Sophia said in disgust. Nadine growled beside her, as she connected dots as well.

  “So, believe me ladies, when I say that I truly wasn’t aware of some of the goings-on. It’s why next year’s competition will be scheduled properly, you’ll have all the equipment you need, you’ll be paid, you’ll get the grounds that you so rightly deserve, you’ll—”

  “You’re doing this only because you feel guilty!” one of the players called from the back.

  “Yes!” Barry shouted, his voice booming around the room. Silence fell. “Yes, God dammit. I do feel bloody guilty. I’m the CEO of the AFL. A sport which is seen as the national football code of Australia. A sport that I love, and you lot do as well, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. And I didn’t know what was happening in my own executive board.” His voice shook. “I admit that I’m a bit of a bloke. I don’t say the right things or act the right way when it comes to dealing with women, but I can fix that. And I can also fix this. Okay? I can fix this and this…this league can flourish.” His hands gripped the lectern so forcefully that Sophia was surprised great chunks of wood weren’t splintering off the frame. “The first thing I want is a player’s voice. Someone appointed from each team to advocate for the players.” He blinked as at least one-hundred hands shot into the air. A forest of arms. “Okay. Right. Well, we can—”

  “A scholarship.” The camera operator whipped the camera
around as Craig slowly stood at his place in the first row. He held fierce eye contact with Barry for a long moment, then turned to face the players, the rugged surface of his face wet with tears. “The players who become the advocates should set up a scholarship, with funding from the AFL. One scholarship for each team. It should be in Louise’s name, for a young woman who wants to play but can’t afford to get to training, or the games, or needs help with—”

  He wasn’t able to finish his sentence because applause from nearly three-hundred people rolled through the seats like rain on a corrugated iron roof. It took hold of the room and Craig nodded, his eyes filling again with tears, and his fists pressed together at his chest. His mouth moved and Sophia made out the word. “Good”.

  ***

  “So glad you could grace us with your presence this fine Friday morning, Weathers.” Eddie adjusted his chair, rolling it back and forth behind his desk, then folded his hands over paperwork scattered across the surface.

  Cam levelled her gaze. “I was helping a friend.” She crossed her ankle over her knee, making herself comfortable in the visitor’s chair.

  “What? Move house?” Eddie pursed his lips.

  “No. A friend of my friend died.” She persisted with her gaze.

  “Oh,” Eddie muttered, then his eyes lit up. “Oh, it’s not the football girl?”

  Cam’s top lip lifted at one side. “Louise. Her name was Louise.”

  “Yeah,” he said distractedly. He hunted about on the desk, sliding papers across. “Yeah. This one.” He squinted at the text. “Louise Verheer.” He tossed a glance at Cam. “One of yours.” Then he read from the page. “‘Has loved football ever since her dad took her to a game when she was four. Finished high school last year with top marks in English and Theatre’.” He dropped the page, then shrugged. “Too bad she was a druggie.”