Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy

by Colleen Coleman

  ‘Absolutely, Jake, and as you well know, when it comes to netball, expect the unexpected. These women come here to play, and they play hard.’

  Leanne turns down the dial and raises her palms upwards like a bad-ass evangelical Barbie. ‘Okay, girls, you’ve heard it for yourselves: no prisoners today. It’s going to be tough and that’s no surprise. We’ve had a rocky season: injuries, absences and …’ she clenches her fist, ‘Tammy leaving us in such an abrupt manner certainly hasn’t helped us much.’

  The girls nod and snarl at each other. The curly-haired one opposite me smashes her fist into the headrest in front of her. Tammy’s name is spat around the minibus like a voodoo curse.

  Leanne clicks her fingers to regain order. ‘But that is all behind us now. What’s done is done and we got through it. And why did we get through it?’ She points to the blue-eyed blonde in high pigtails sitting on the seat beside me. ‘You tell us, Jess.’

  The little blonde pushes a stray tendril behind her ear and clears her throat. ‘Because we communicate, we understand each other and we listen to ourselves and our bodies.’ She has a gentle, almost musical Aussie twang that makes me picture her with beads and braids in her sun-bleached hair, playing a ukulele and shelling prawns somewhere off the Gold Coast.

  Leanne nods firmly. Someone whoops; I turn to see that it’s the dark-skinned girl with the amazing spiral curls. The headrest in front of her has made a full recovery.

  ‘Shanice, what else?’ Leanne calls out to her.

  ‘Discipline: we eat right, train right, sleep right and take no nonsense.’

  Leanne nods, the evangelical Barbie loosening to the tune of her revved-up congregation.

  More voices shout out. ‘We did it because we are unbeatable!’ Yeah! ‘Because we are powerful!’ Yeah! ‘Because we are the one and only South London Gymbox Assassins!’ Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!

  I find myself overrun in a huge clatter of high-fives. Shanice has put me into a headlock, which I think is the Assassins’ equivalent to a salutary peck on the cheek.

  ‘So what are we here to do?’ shouts Leanne.

  ‘To win! We are here to prove ourselves! We are here to take control!’ they holler back to her, to each other, to me.

  Maybe it’s the way Shanice’s arm is wrapped around my neck, or maybe it’s the youthful golden glow and sunshiney warmth of Jess’s smile, or maybe it’s the charged current of rousing energy that is coursing through our bodies collectively that makes me lose myself momentarily and I find myself joining in the raucous chorus.

  ‘And have some fun! We are here to have fun!’ I yell.

  Slam. Mood splats to the ground. Energy out.

  Shanice edges her arm away from my neck like I’m contaminated. Jess’s lovely smile melts down her little face like a rained-out street mime. I dart my eyes from girl to girl; all of them look confused or disgusted. Except Shanice, who is sucking her teeth and gripping the headrest with both hands.

  ‘What? What did I say?’ I look to Leanne, my palms open in earnest.

  Leanne leans towards me and clasps down on my shoulder. ‘Poppy, let’s get real here. Netball has never been and will never be about fun. Nothing worthwhile is ever about fun.’ She juts her chin towards the broad-shouldered girl with the skinhead.

  ‘Nikki, are you here to have fun?’

  Nikki gives a cynical smile, shaking her head slowly.

  ‘Tell Poppy why you are here then.’

  ‘I’m frontline murder squad. If I wanted to have fun, I’d drink a bottle of Bacardi for breakfast. I see bad things. I’m here for perspective. To remember that every person I meet isn’t an evil, raging, homicidal psychopathic bastard.’

  I nod stiffly. I think I’m starting to understand.

  ‘Laura, tell her, why are you here?’

  Laura is the tallest woman I’ve ever seen; despite crouching, her head is still brushing the top of the minibus.

  She shrugs. ‘I work from home, I live alone. You guys are the only people I ever see face to face. Or who know what I look like. If I die tomorrow, no one would know until I missed netball training. That’s the only way the world would know something had happened, because I would never, ever, ever miss netball training. That is why I am here.’ She swallows hard and looks down at her hands. This is heavy.

  ‘Jess. Tell us why you are here.’

  ‘I miss my family and friends back home in Oz. I live in a grotty house share with ten people who won’t look up from their phones to speak to me.’ She sighs. ‘Which is pretty bad, but mainly the reason I come to netball is because …’ Laura gives her an encouraging nod. Jess blinks back and puffs out her chest. ‘I need to come to netball because … I’m a primary school teacher. Five-year-olds, thirty of them, every single day. Thirty screaming voices calling your name … thirty dirty noses to wipe …’

  Nikki winces at the thought and squeezes Jess’s hand in support. ‘It’s all right, doll, we hear you. You’re here now.’

  ‘Shanice?’

  ‘I’ve got anger. If I don’t play, then I lose my shit.’

  Leanne points a finger at herself. ‘And why am I here? Because my husband lied about having a vasectomy … twice.’

  Prawn. I knew he was never good enough for her! Leanne was – is – WAY out of his league. How dare he lie to her? How dare he try to trick her! The mood in the minibus thickens. I can tell I’m not alone in my outrage and disgust.

  Nikki nods pensively. ‘You’d have grounds, Leanne. I mean, in court, if you did, like, ever consider homicide as an option. Deceit is a credible motive. We’ve seen it before.’

  ‘Thanks, Nikki, I’ll keep that in mind, but,’ she lifts a ball to her chest, ‘what’s done is done. So, girls, let’s be crystal clear here: we are not here for fun. We are here because it is hard and challenging and difficult and we need strength to survive; we need to get strong, be strong and stay strong, and we know …’ she takes a deep breath and slowly blinks her long eyelashes at the sky and then back to us, ‘we KNOW that we are stronger together than we are apart.’

  Nods, affirmations and wholehearted hugs are shared around like hushed amens at the end of Leanne’s sermon. A very young, pale girl, possibly still even in her teens, who has stayed tight by Leanne’s side this whole time finally breaks her silence.

  ‘Why are you here?’ she asks in a soft, delicate voice. Her eyes dip towards mine.

  Who, me? Why is she asking me? Why am I here?

  ‘Because Leanne kind of … made me,’ I tell her. Isn’t that obvious by the way you drove up to my house totally unexpected and uninvited?

  I survey the circle of faces staring at me, waiting intently for more.

  Why. Am. I. Here? It is a pretty profound question. What can I say?

  I’m here because I have nowhere else to be, no one else knocking my door down and telling me they need me desperately and won’t take no for an answer? I’m here because I haven’t really got my act together yet in terms of life, love, career, money or even generic housekeeping and personal hygiene standards?

  Why am I here? For someone who doesn’t say much, this pale teen has certainly floored me.

  ‘And maybe because I’m a decent goal shooter?’ I say, hunching my shoulders to help cram my head down into my neck socket and thus disappear from sight turtle-style.

  Leanne snorts, turns to the shy girl, hooks her arm and then points at me. ‘I can tell you exactly why Poppy is here, Teagan. Picture this: you are in a really small, claustrophobic changing room in a very posh, exclusive kind of shop. It’s hot, the room is airless and you feel clammy and sticky. Everything is too small or too tight and you get a dress stuck over your head, a very delicate, expensive dress that they’ve told you is your size, therefore it should fit, right? But you know it doesn’t. It feels wrong. You like it but you know you won’t be able to carry it off because it’s just not you. So you feel panicky because you can’t see or breathe and you can’t wriggle out and you’re afraid you’ll rip it o
r ruin it and everyone will know and they’ll all be hugely disappointed.’

  Holy shit, Leanne, I know EXACTLY how this feels. It’s not just Teagan nodding wide-eyed; we all are.

  ‘Now imagine all of that, except that the changing room walls are actually made of mirrors. Hundreds of tiny ones as well as huge close-up, distorted, playhouse-type mirrors.’

  A communal horrified gasp. Leanne continues.

  ‘And that’s not all: the floor and the ceiling are made of glass … like see-through windows onto the street, so everyone and anyone can look in and spy and comment and laugh and point and take your picture at any time.’

  Trembling fingers have drifted to our mouths; Nikki looks like she is going to burst into tears.

  Leanne lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Well, that’s what it’s like for Poppy living inside her own head ALL THE TIME.’

  I am suddenly swamped by a fleshy mob of armpit bristle, bingo-wing skin and boob sweat. Strong, supportive arms wrap around each other’s shoulders. We are a human tepee of strength and tears and hope and acknowledged failure. Well, okay, I can only claim the tears and the failure. And the majority of the boob sweat.

  ‘How do you know that?’ I ask her.

  ‘You told me a long time ago. At a swimming gala,’ she replies as she throws our purple bibs at us, kissing each one as it goes out.

  ‘Laura – goal keeper; Shanice – goal defence; Nikki – wing defence; me– centre; Jess – wing attack; Teagan – goal attack; Poppy – goal shooter.’

  The bus swerves into the car park. Leanne opens the window and catcalls a cluster of girls kitted out in black and green with a Gothic ‘V’ on their backs. ‘Hey, Vixens!’ She gives me a wink. ‘We’ve got Bonecrusher Bloom here to mess you up!’

  She holds up her open palm and all seven of us join in a huge clatter of high-fives. I have no idea what to expect, but I’m in, I’m part of this team, and there’s no turning back now.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We win. Just by one goal, which Leanne reckons is uncomfortably close, but it is still a win and it feels amazing. I was a bit rusty – hardly surprising considering I’ve not played properly in years – and the first quarter wasn’t my finest by any stretch, especially once I raised my arms to shoot the first goal only to realise that there was a small forest under my arms; I may have neglected to shave my pits for … oooh … maybe a few weeks?

  In my defence, it is cold outside. Most people don’t expose silky-sleek underarms in the middle of a British winter, do they? Also I was pounced on in my bedroom without any prior warning so hadn’t time to exactly prep myself to Superleague personal grooming standards before the game. So upon discovery of this little furry faux pas, I tried shooting with my arms tight against my sides, but I just couldn’t make that work. I know this because Leanne took me aside and gave me a fairly robust bollocking about getting over myself and putting the team first; about not waiting for others to provide me with chances or hoping that they would just come my way, but creating the opportunities I wanted and making them happen myself. And I listened and I nodded and I agreed and I promised I would do as she said and I did not argue with her or challenge her authority once. Probably because deep down, I knew she was right.

  It’s true that nobody cared about my hairy pits as much as they cared about seeing some great play, some sharp shooting and some tight teamwork. Leanne’s words clicked with me and I got back on court utterly determined to give it my all. Within seconds, I started to see chances and opportunities materialising everywhere, right before my eyes, glimmering, shimmering chances popping up like gold coins on Super Mario.

  And it was so fun, despite Leanne’s anti-fun warnings. I’m not going to tell her that, obviously – I love her, but she is scary. By the final whistle, I had scored eleven goals and set five more up for Teagan. We were a double act on fire. So so so fun.

  After the game, Shanice tells me that she thinks I’m brave and inspirational, which I am chuffed about until I find out it’s due to the armpit hair. She thinks it’s a powerful feminist statement and that we should all stop shaving as a team. ‘Let it grow and put it on show,’ she sings from her shower in the dressing room. She wants us to do this to send a message of solidarity to women everywhere. I tell her it’s a brilliant idea and I’m going to bury my Bics tonight, but Leanne forbids it point blank. So ‘let it grow and you are on the bench’ is the bottom line.

  But I wouldn’t have said that to Shanice a year ago or a month ago or possibly even yesterday. Today, though, I feel like anything is possible. I feel like I can make things happen. I might not have even spoken to someone like Shanice or Nikki or Jess before today. These are people I would have liked to study, to read about, to discuss during a tutorial or diagnose for a theory paper, but they wouldn’t have affected me beyond what I could take from them to use in my clinical research. I give Shanice a hug and thank her; she smiles back at me and I can tell that she doesn’t think I’m weird. Alleluia and amen.

  Leanne runs over to the media box to plug Gymbox for some free advertising and hand out some promotional goody bags and random purple paraphernalia: fridge magnets, car stickers, wristbands – she’s got a sackload. I nip to the loo to freshen up, and just as I’m about to dry my hands, I hear a sniffle from the end cubicle. I wait a moment, but then I hear it again, except this time it’s more than a sniffle; it sounds like someone is struggling to breathe.

  ‘Are you okay in there?’ I call out, my ear to the cubicle door.

  The person inside is taking big gulps of air, but somehow it’s not working; the gulps are desperate and fitful. I rap my knuckles against the cubicle door.

  ‘Can you open the door for me? I just want to check you’re okay.’

  ‘Can’t,’ gasps the tight voice on the other side.

  ‘I’m going to come and help you right this second. It’s going to be absolutely fine. I’ll be in there in no time at all, okay?’

  I hear a strained ‘yes’.

  I climb onto the toilet seat in the cubicle next door but I’m not tall enough to see over the partition. I look to the ground. The door is about a foot above the floor. I lie down on my back and slide myself under. Even before I look up, I can tell by the electric-purple trainers that it’s Teagan. She is leaning against the opposite wall, gripping it as if she is teetering on the ledge of a skyscraper.

  She is shivering violently. I place my hand lightly on her back to steady her.

  ‘Hey, lovely. You are going to be absolutely fine,’ I tell her in my best calm voice. ‘Breathe with me, okay, nice big deep breaths … that’s lovely. And again …’ Together we breathe deeply in and out, over and over.

  My hand drifts to her shoulder and I guide her away from the wall so that now she is standing right in front of me and I can make eye contact with her. Tear-stained tracks meander down her cheeks. Her sweet chocolate-brown eyes are red-rimmed and wide with fear.

  ‘You are doing so well, Teagan, just you stay with me.’

  She’s regaining control. With her breathing deeper and slower, I can see the tightness dissipating from her chest and shoulders.

  ‘Now I want you to tell me three things you can see, okay? Any three things you like. Big, small, doesn’t matter.’

  She nods, and I can see her big dark eyes wandering around our tiny cubicle.

  ‘Ceiling,’ she says in one breath. If she can focus on something else to distract her from whatever terror has seized her, there’s a good chance that her natural breathing pattern will kick in and her heart rate should return to normal. ‘Door,’ she says.

  I nod and smile. ‘Super, Teagan. Just one more for me now.’

  ‘You. I can see you, Poppy,’ she tells me, and there’s a little smile in her eyes and playing about her lips.

  ‘Great work. It’s all going to be absolutely fine. Now, let’s try two things you can touch.’

  Teagan’s hand drifts to my head and she starts to smooth down stray strands of my hair, patt
ing them gently back into place.

  ‘Hair; fantastic choice. One more thing you can touch for me.’

  Her hand drifts back to her own chest and she strokes down the silky Lycra of her vest top.

  ‘That is perfect, absolutely perfect. You keep stroking your vest for me, nice and slow, just like your breathing, okay?’

  Teagan nods and closes her eyes, and I take my chance to quietly slide the bolt back and unlock the cubicle. The door swings open; Teagan opens her eyes and takes my hand to step out into the wide-open space of the changing room.

  In a few moments she is at the sink, splashing water on her face and wiping under her eyes with toilet tissue.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Poppy, I don’t know what happened to me in there. You must think …’ Her breathing quickens again and I see the returning panic in her eyes.

  I place my hand on my own vest top and she takes her cue, mimicking me as I slowly stroke it, taking the time to feel the silky fabric brush our fingers, stroking it in time with our breathing.

  ‘You are absolutely fine, my gorgeous girl. How about we get us out of here and grab you a drink?’

  Once outside in the open air of the stadium and with a litre of water inside her, Teagan has snapped back to the striking, smiling teen I saw on the court. That’s the bizarre thing with anxiety attacks – they come on fast and strong and they often disappear in much the same manner.

  ‘Leanne’s over by the media box,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s head there to find the others and then we can go home. I’m starving.’

  Teagan stops in her tracks and takes me by the arm.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask. ‘Everything okay?’

  She dips her eyes. ‘It’s just the media box – my dad will be there. Would you mind if … what happened back there, would it be okay if we kept it between us? He gets so worried about me.’

  I hook her arm and pretend to seal my lips, lock them up and throw away the key.

  Leanne has the microphone in her hand and is in full flow with Sandra Skinner. ‘First quarter was tough – to be honest, I thought we were going to lose it based on our performance in that early part of the game,’ she says.