by Amy Andrews
‘Oh no, it’s a secret, remember?’ But she was laughing her arse off too.
‘Okay, very funny.’ She snatched the condoms up and stuffed them back in the box, her face probably as red as her dress. ‘Who wants some more food?’
At least if they all had food in their mouths they wouldn’t start discussing Darcy’s lack of sex life. In front of Levi, who they all seemed too comfortable with for her liking and who already knew too much about her lack of sex life.
And what she’d done to rectify it.
She stood, and started picking up the discarded wrapping paper. ‘Hey wait.’ Genevieve had ducked under the tree and was pulling out another present from behind the tree. ‘This is for you?’
Darcy frowned at the thin rectangular present, wrapped in green with a red ribbon. ‘What?’
‘Oh, that one’s from me.’ It was Levi’s turn to blush now, his cheeks flushing like he’d just done ninety minutes of Bikram yoga.
Genevieve thrust it into her hands. ‘Open it.’
It was about a foot long and felt like a box of some description as Darcy stared at it. ‘Oh but... I didn’t get you anything.’
They’d agreed to both do the Secret Santa thing this year with the others. They usually bought each other a small gift—usually something edible—but by the look on Levi’s face it was a bit more than that.
He shrugged. ‘That’s okay. It was just something extra for this year. You can open it later.’
‘Oh no, no, no.’ Her teammates practically all chanted it in unison. ‘You can’t do that to us,’ Wendy complained.
She glanced at Levi who shrugged, resigned to the power of four Banshees. The package was too slender to be a friend for Vlad... not that she thought even Levi had enough distance from the event to be giving her that kind of shit about it.
So... what could it be?
Darcy’s throat was thick and tight, her hands trembling as she pulled off the paper, studiously avoiding Levi’s gaze. The whole room seemed to have gone quiet. Even Bing’s voice had faded.
Beneath the paper was a plain cardboard package. ‘Oh I know what this is.’ Shayla clapped and rose up on her haunches a little, leaning in.
‘Me too,’ Genevieve said, smiling all big and excited.
A frown furrowed between Darcy’s eyebrows. She didn’t have a clue. Finding the zip tab at one end of the package, she pulled it and the top of the package split open. Shoving a hand in, she touched cool metal.
Number plates?
Her heart really beating now, Darcy pulled the plates out to reveal two sleek black plates with the word BANSHEE in silver letters.
Everyone gasped. ‘Levi.’ She stared at the plates for a moment trying to comprehend.
‘That is awesome, dude,’ Ally said, shoulder nudging Levi, who still looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
Darcy stared at him. They must have cost him a few thousand dollars. ‘I... don’t know what to say. They’re...’ She was at loss to adequately thank him.
He stood, wiping his palms on the chinos that hung low on his hips, his green Ho Ho Ho T-shirt pulling across his flat stomach. ‘You like them?’
‘Like them?’ Darcy blinked. Like was too bland a term for the rise of emotion in her chest. No one had ever given her a more appropriate, more thoughtful gift. ‘They’re... perfect.’ She clutched them to her chest, afraid she was going to cry. ‘I love them.’
He smiled then and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to walk towards him. Natural, too, when he opened his arms for her. Even more so when she walked straight into them and buried her face in his chest, sinking into him like she belonged here, like she’d always belonged here.
It was a curious feeling, one that both titillated and terrified. Darcy couldn’t decide whether she wanted to lean in or push herself on tiptoes—en pointe—and kiss the hell out of him. It was the kind of gift that required an extra-special thank you after all.
Which was very, very confusing. Particularly with four women all grinning at her as they watched the display. Excruciatingly conscious of them, she pulled herself back. ‘You shouldn’t have.’ She looked down at them. ‘You really shouldn’t have. They’re... too much, Levi.’ She glanced at him again. ‘I can’t take them.’
‘That’s okay. I’ll take them.’ Wendy reached for them playfully but, reflexively, Darcy again clutched them to her chest.
‘Of course you can. I insist.’ His gaze was intense as it bored into hers. ‘It’s just a one-off, that’s all. A special celebration for your achievement.’
‘But... they must have cost you a fortune.’
He shrugged. ‘I know a guy who got me a discount.’
Darcy didn’t believe him for a single second. Unless his guy was God. Because the transport department didn’t do discounts—not even for God.
Sighing, Levi took her by the arms and peered at her intently. ‘You’re a Banshee.’ He smiled then, slow and sexy, and it slid into all her good places. ‘You need to shout that from the rooftops.’
‘Amen,’ Wendy murmured.
‘I’ll put them on your car later.’
And that was that, apparently. He let her arms go and stood back as her teammates all talked at once, admiring the gift. Still a little stunned, all she could do was stare at Levi over their heads. He winked at her and she blinked hard to suppress the sudden burn in her eyes.
Best. Christmas. Ever.
Chapter 6
Darcy’s skin broke out in goosebumps. The ridges of scalp between the thin half-plaits that fed into her ponytail prickled with sensation. The crowd, which had far surpassed everyone’s expectations, was a roiling mass of cheers and clapping. And yellow and green—the colours on the Melbourne Griffins. Given they were in Melbourne, it was hardly surprising.
But there was enough black and gold to pick out the Banshee supporters. And they were a vocal lot!
A knot of nerves twisted like a fist in her back as the two teams on the field waited with bated breath for the umpire to perform the centre bounce to start the game. Darcy’s heart was racing like she’d just run a hundred metres in under ten seconds, thundering in her ears, every sense on alert, her vision narrowed down to one central focus—the ball.
Levi—who was in the crowd somewhere—had told her to try and find her centre, her Zen, if the nerves got the better of her; but they weren’t. She could use them. Use the adrenaline charging through her system to play faster, stronger, higher, to hone her decisions.
She was used to the adrenaline surge from her days in a tutu, she knew how to make it work for her.
It was hard to believe it had come down to this. In October, February had seemed like such a long time to wait. But now it was here and it was time to prove themselves. To show Brisbane and the country and young girls everywhere why they’d been picked in the draft and that chicks could do anything they set their minds to.
The umpire moved then, a slow walk to the centre circle, a dramatic pause of the ball above his head, then a hard bounce right in the middle. The crowd roared as it ricocheted straight into the air and two women leapt up, reaching for possession.
A shot of adrenaline fuel-injected her quads and Darcy ran towards the action.
Game on.
It was a long, hard game. A slog. Fast. So fast. And tough. Vicious. Plenty of knocks. Elbows to the ribs, knees in the back.
Plenty dished out in return.
If anyone had thought that women wouldn’t play just as hard and dirty as the men—they’d been wrong. The two teams did anything they could to gain and keep possession, including clawing their opponent to the ground and stomping right over top of them if that’s what was required.
Sweat poured off Darcy, her face flushed a bright red, as her legs and arms powered her along. She ran, she twisted, she turned, she ducked, she weaved, she kicked on the run, her legs splitting as naturally as they always had.
And yes, she leapt. Launching herself into the air, reaching for every mark.
The muscle memory of all those ballet leaps didn’t let her down but she didn’t have to split her legs or do anything fancy to maintain height, or prolong it, she had the purchase of the opposition’s backs and shoulders and heads for that.
And she used them.
To climb higher. To get that extra inch, to reach the ball with her fingertips, pluck it from the air, drag it into her arms.
She took mark after mark, flying like that angel Wendy had mentioned, the crowd gasping and cheering with every one, the commentators going crazy in their box at her height and skill, her team slapping her on the back, high-fiving her.
‘Good one, Dancer.’
‘Fly, Dancer, fly.’
‘You’re part gazelle, Dancer.’
Darcy soaked up their praise, but she didn’t let it go to her head. They were ten points down in the third quarter and there was still a long way to go. She was exhausted but running on adrenaline and raring to go.
***
And go she did. She gave her absolute all, until the last four minutes when they were five ahead and everything went wrong.
All her hard work came crashing down. As did a hefty six-foot Amazon from the Griffins, who landed on top of her as they went down after a mark, both still grappling for possession. The Griffin’s knee drove right into the centre of Darcy’s right thigh, crushing it against her femur and driving all the air out of her lungs.
Searing pain exploded like a bomb in her quad and Darcy almost blacked out from it. She definitely screamed and clutched her leg, her eyes squeezed shut as the whole world narrowed down to the expanding numbness of her thigh—how could numbness hurt so bloody much?—and trying to drag air into lungs that refused to work.
She didn’t hear the gasp from the crowd or the urgent calls for a medic, or see the myriad of concerned female faces leaning over her. It was just her and the pain and the sure and certain knowledge that she’d been injured really, really badly.
That it could be season ending and she bellowed again at the agony of that, hot tears leaking out from behind her tight lids as her dreams turned to dust.
‘Darcy. Darcy!’
It was Tony leaning over her, shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes and stared straight at him, at the concern and worry in his gaze. They’d established a great rapport these last months and she’d learned a lot from him. ‘I think it’s corked.’
‘Okay.’ He nodded and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but even through her pain she could see the calculations running through Tony’s head. How many weeks would she be down?
The same figures were running through hers. Two if she was lucky and it was mild, although God help anyone with a severe corking because this pain was excruciating. More likely four, if she pushed herself. And she didn’t want to think about the possibility of being out for the whole season.
God fucking damn it. It was so bloody unfair.
Next came a medic, then another one, poking and prodding sending shafts of pain right up into her groin, which she endured by breathing hard through her teeth.
‘C’mon,’ Tony said. ‘Let’s get you off.’
She clutched at his hand still clasping her shoulder. ‘I can come back from this.’
‘I know.’
Tears spilled from her eyes and she didn’t care. She hadn’t cried the day he’d walked away—not in front of him anyway—but she had no qualms about crying over this. Plenty of guy footballers had been reduced to tears by a sudden possible career-ending injury, she felt no shame in it. No need to fight them back because someone might judge her for girlie tears.
Tony nodded to the medics. ‘Let’s get her up.’
But Darcy shook her head, still clinging to his hand, desperate for him to know that she’d fight and claw her way back. ‘Don’t you dare write me off.’
‘I won’t, Darce. I promise. As soon as you’re fit to play, I’ll play you. You were a machine today. The very best.’
His compliments might have meant more had she not been in a crumpled heap on the grass, but his reassurances meant something.
He nodded to the medics again. ‘Okay.’
Tony moved out of the way and they grabbed her under her shoulders, helping her into a sitting position, but even that was too much as an almost violent wave of nausea accompanied a vicious stab of her thigh and she dry-retched as her head spun, the faces on the crowd shifting alarmingly.
‘Whoa!’ The medic on her left lay her back down. ‘We’ll need the stretcher.’ And he signalled for it to be brought out.
Everything passed in a blur then. A blur of pain and tears, sobbing quietly as she was stretchered off the field, the blue sky watery, the faces above her fuzzy and indistinct. Then there were doctors and more poking and prodding as she lay on one of the massage tables in the locker room. Someone handed her a cold Gatorade to drink so she could rehydrate and there was ice for her thigh and elevation, until finally the diagnosis she knew in her bones.
A corked thigh.
The team doctor, a woman called Judith, took her time assessing it. Darcy wasn’t able to fully bend or straighten her knee and there was already some swelling, although it wasn’t too marked. And then there was the rather significant pain. Judith declared it a probable grade two.
‘How long?’ Darcy demanded.
Nobody had to ask her to clarify what she meant. ‘Two weeks if you’re very lucky. I’d say more like four to six. Everyone recovers differently, at their own pace... it’s hard to put an absolute on it.’
‘Six weeks.’ Darcy shut her eyes. That would be almost the entire season. Her heart sank like a stone, right to the pit of her stomach. This could not be happening. Her season over before it had even begun.
‘It could be a lot less.’ Judith was usually fairly matter-of-fact about sport injuries. She’d been in the game a long time. But Darcy could hear the empathy in her voice.
Unfortunately, she didn’t feel assured. The way her luck had been running, she wasn’t banking on it. Maybe it was just her destiny to never quite reach the heights. Maybe she was just always going to be that chick who tried her hardest but never actually got there?
Shit. Shit. Shit.
‘In the meantime, rest, ice and elevation. Ice it for twenty minutes every two to four hours, keep it up as much as possible. Here—’ Judith handed her two tablets. ‘Painkillers. No medals for bravery around here. Depending how it is after forty-eight hours, see the team physio and you can probably start doing some gentle exercise but you won’t want to if it’s still hurting like a bitch.’
Darcy swallowed the pills down with her Gatorade. Maybe Judith was used to dealing with guys who preferred to tough it out without pharmacological help. But Darcy had no such compunction. She wanted to get back on that field ASAP and besides, the pain, although it had lessened considerably, still made her feel faint and slightly nauseous.
The game had been over for about thirty minutes before the team, including Tony, trooped in. Darcy knew they’d be doing all kinds of media and frankly had been glad of the respite to get herself together considering she’d been a bawling, screaming mess on the field.
By the time they’d all clattered in, Tony included, the painkillers had started to take effect and she was feeling more emotionally stable. They gathered around her, all their faces scrunched in concern, their gazes weighing heavy on the icepack strapped to Darcy’s thigh. ‘How you doin’?’ Wendy asked, followed swiftly by Shayla’s, ‘What’s the damage?’
Darcy shook her head dismissively—her corked thigh could wait. She didn’t want to talk about that now. She had a feeling she’d be talking about her bloody corked thigh a lot over the coming weeks. It almost killed her to be upbeat but she plastered a smile on her face and looked from one to the other expectantly. ‘Well? We did kick arse, right?’
She’d been so overwhelmed by the injury she hadn’t even asked any of the team attending to her this last half hour the score. Wendy grinned. ‘Fifty-two to thirty-nine.’
&
nbsp; And she high-fived Darcy.
Darcy’s smile turned genuine, she didn’t have to fake the rush of joy and excitement. But, still, a rush of bitter disappointment followed hot on its heels. To cover for it she held out her arm, fist tight and facing down. ‘Banshees,’ she said.
Hands piled on top of hands until everyone was in and they chanted, ‘Banshees,’ as one, before pulling their hands out and throwing them in the air.
It made Darcy want to cry again. So much for emotionally stable. The camaraderie and team spirit they’d all built together over the months was like nothing she’d ever felt—nothing like the bitchy, back-stabbing world of ballet—and she’d let them down.
But she didn’t cry. She blinked the tears back. Darcy was done with crying. She had work to do and tears wouldn’t help.
‘We couldn’t have done it without you, Dancer.’ Genevieve clapped her on the shoulder. ‘You know that, right?’
Darcy did know that. Which was what made this all so much harder to take. She’d kicked arse today. The Banshees winning was an amazing fairytale outcome for their debut match, but it felt like such a hollow victory now and she hated that most of all.
But... enough of this injury-downer bullshit. They’d won. And they deserved to celebrate.
‘Well? Isn’t there some champagne or something around here that we celebrate with.’ In fact, Darcy knew there was. It had been chilling in ice buckets since before they’d run onto the field.
‘Oh.’ A rather alarmed looking Judith popped her head into the circle. ‘I wouldn’t recommend any alcohol with those meds.’
Darcy almost laughed. No kidding. The very last thing she felt like, with the nausea still lurking, was booze. But everyone else deserved champagne and she wasn’t going to ruin their celebrations.
‘But they could still fizz it up and spray it all over me, right?’
Judith laughed. ‘They could bathe you in it if they wanted.’
The team didn’t need any more encouragement and in seconds, champagne froth was flying at her from all directions, soaking her to the skin. Darcy just laughed, her team’s excitement contagious as they stood around her, chanting the club song over and over, intermittently swigging straight from the bottles before spraying some more at her, as well as each other.