I step into the middle of the circle so that I can see all the girls’ faces, because what I have to say isn’t just for Leanne; it’s for all of them.
‘You guys gave me a chance when I’d given up on myself. You welcomed me and played with me and invited me into your precious inner circle. You’ve taught me so, so much. Believe me, after a lifetime of teachers and lecturers, I thought I was done being taught, but you taught me how to speak out and how to stand tall and how important it is to stick by the things in your life that are most precious, because when life changes, as it inevitably will, it’s those precious things and people that get you through.’
Jess is the first to step out of the circle and put her arms around me, followed by Laura and Nikki and Shanice, and finally Leanne blows out her cheeks and says, ‘You are such a fuckwit.’
‘I know.’
She points to Izabel. ‘Give Poppy your bib, Izzy. We can call you up if we need a sub.’
Izzy salutes. ‘Whatever you say, boss.’
She throws me her bib. Leanne slaps me on the back.
‘Bonecrusher Bloom, glad you’re back. Now come on, people, it’s GAME TIME!’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I look up to the scoreboard. Team Oxbridge 0: Assassins 0.
We are billed as the underdogs, and we certainly qualify as such. Team Oxbridge have held this title for years. They are as close to a professional team as you will get at this level; their sponsorship secures them a coach and physio, their facilities are world-class, they can pick and choose the best and strongest young players in the country. Unlike us, who try to train between full-time jobs and family demands, out of a community gym and with just enough players to fill the court.
But actually, this doesn’t daunt me. It makes me proud. With our meagre resources, we’ve qualified. We are here because we deserve to be. We have nothing to be ashamed of. And even if we don’t win, we’ll still be the Assassins. We will still be a team.
‘Let’s give this everything we’ve got,’ urges Leanne before we break from our huddle and walk to our positions on the court. I take a deep breath and try to shut out the roaring crowds surrounding us in the arena and the clear, booming voice of the commentator echoing through the stadium.
‘Will the south London underdogs be able to turn the tide and seize a victory from the current titans of British netball?’
Well, Sandra Skinner, we’re certainly going to try …
I shake the voice out of my ears. I’ve got to focus. And breathe. I think of Leanne’s words: ‘Stay alert. Stay in tune with the rest of the girls.’
We’re sixty minutes away from the final whistle and knowing whose name will be etched on the Superleague trophy. I tense every muscle in my body; I’m ready to play as hard as I’ve ever played before.
The whistle blows and the ball is fired up into the air. Game on. Within seconds, our new star player, Emily Skinner, nails the first goal. She’s phenomenal. Long, lithe, powerful; if I wasn’t her teammate, I’d pay to watch her play. She’s surprised me. And I can tell she’s surprised Team Oxbridge as well. They dart startled looks at each other and raise their stern chins in our faces. It looks like their feathers are ruffled, and I get the impression they thought we were going to be easy to beat. I catch Nikki’s eye and she gives me a wink. She’s a police officer; she knows the body language of the nervy, the rumbled, the bloodthirsty.
But I think we might just be in with a chance.
The crowd clearly think so too. Every single attack or defensive manoeuvre – at both ends – is met with a wall of screams from the stands.
At quarter time, Team Oxbridge lead 16–7.
‘And that brings to a close a hectic opening quarter,’ announces Sandra Skinner, ‘which Team Oxbridge have bossed, to be honest. New player Emily Skinner is the Assassins’ only hope; her shooting has been impeccable. But she can’t do it on her own; the Assassins need to step up if they are going to be viable contenders. The dream is slipping further and further away from their grasp.’
Leanne gathers us all to the sidelines. She’s walking with a slight limp, her face stricken with pain.
‘Are you okay, Leanne? Are you hurt?’
She shakes her head at me and tries to smile. ‘No, I’m fine. Get into the huddle.’
We cluster together and pour water down our throats.
‘Right, we’re doing well, but not well enough. Too conservative, too afraid to make waves. When we get the ball, we know what to do with it, but really we need to wrestle that ball out of their hands.’ She raises her eyes to mine. ‘C’mon, Bonecrusher, I know what you can do. Time to take back control.’
It takes us about twenty seconds, but then boom! Goal! Goal! And then two more goals and the Assassins are riding a small wave of momentum. By halfway through the second quarter, though, Team Oxbridge are leading 23–13.
‘Well, after that initial wobble at the beginning of this quarter, Team Oxbridge have managed to settle and are back in their groove. However good Emily Skinner is looking for the Assassins, there’s still a ten-goal deficit. I don’t want to be a pessimist, but it is incredibly unlikely that the Assassins can make any dent in the game at this stage. It’s less a question of whether they’ll be beaten and more a question of how badly they’ll be beaten. Not looking good for the Assassins …’
When the half-time whistle sounds, we’re still looking at a ten-goal deficit. How can we ever recover from that? Even if we scored ten goals, we’d still only be level with them. And they’re hardly going to sit back and let that happen. ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ blasts out over the tannoy during the break in play – presumably at the request of Team Oxbridge supporters who believe that they are indeed ‘halfway there’.
Only thirty more minutes left. I run my fingers through my hair and try to catch Leanne’s eye, but she’s crouched over, holding ice against her left knee. If she keeps pounding down on that injury, she’ll only do more damage. I open my mouth to speak, but then think better of trying to tell Leanne what to do.
The team are playing our little hearts out. We know what we need to do and we want to do it, but is everything going be too little, too late at this stage?
Halfway through the third quarter, Team Oxbridge are leading 36–28.
‘The pressure is on the Assassins – they simply cannot afford to allow their level to drop, not one bit. If they do, then Team Oxbridge will be crowned Superleague champions.’
I survey the girls’ faces. Even Emily is visibly puffed and seems restless with our current losing status. Shanice is crouched on the ground, tying and retying her shoelaces, not making eye contact with anyone. We’re losing and don’t we know it. We need a boost. We need some energy. But what can we do? What can I do?
Team Oxbridge will be crowned Superleague champions.
I’m trying to shut out Sandra Skinner’s doom-laden commentary, but it’s nigh-on impossible. The stadium’s acoustics are simply overwhelming; you can hear the music reverberate under your feet. Ah. A-ha. I have an idea.
I rush over to the first row of seats, where I spot a little girl and her mother draped in Assassins colours. ‘Could you do me a favour?’ I ask breathlessly. And I send them to the media box with a song request, something that just may help us reach that fighting spirit we so need right now.
And the next time I feel the reverberations underfoot, I don’t try and block out anything as ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ blasts out.
Jess launches forward, eclipsing the opposition and catching the ball with both hands.
And that’s when we start to take charge.
Within two minutes we’ve pulled the deficit back to six, with Team Oxbridge leading 36–30.
‘WOW! Never say never. The Assassins may yet have the last laugh here. Do we have a grandstand finish on our hands?’
As the soaring voice of Freddie Mercury breathes life back into our team, we are lifted by at least five thousand voices singing along from the stands at the top of the
ir voices. I take it all in, breathe in the scent of perspiration mingled with floor wax, and I have no doubt in my mind that I made the right choice. This is exactly where I belong.
And I make a vow to myself that I will never let fear dictate my choices again. I am here, I feel electric, and I would have missed all this had I not followed my instincts, listened to my heart.
I look to the scoreboard. Three-quarter time: Team Oxbridge lead 41–39.
Every time Leanne goes near the ball, the crowd loses its collective mind. They might need a new roof on this stadium! The game is approaching squeaky-bum time, but Team Oxbridge have still got that two-goal cushion. And it won’t matter if we lose by a little or a lot. We did not come here for a loss. So we keep on fighting. And we do not let up. Not. One. Little. Bit.
With Team Oxbridge leading 48–46 in the fourth quarter, Sandra Skinner’s voice booms out around the court again.
‘Emily Skinner has been impressive for the Assassins today, but marking Jan Collins is no easy feat … And just as I say that, Collins steamrollers into Skinner! Skinner raises a hand and smashes it into Collins’ face! Oh goodness me, Collins is on the ground! She’s in a bad way, blood on the court. Paramedics rush on. The umpire takes Skinner aside but she’s not having it; she is showing the red card – Skinner is off! Ladies and gentlemen, what a turn of events. Skinner is walking away. She shrugs off her captain, who … Oh my goodness, Leanne Jones has crumpled to the ground. A sharp twist on her knee and she’s writhing in agony – this is not looking good for Jones; seems her left knee has given way altogether. The paramedics are now attending to her. Think a pause is in order while we try to figure out what the hell is going on down there. Leanne Jones is limping off court; I’ve got to say this is a first. She’s one tough player.’
I rush over to Leanne. ‘Are you okay?’ I ask, trying to keep the panic from my voice. She’s pale; a worrying shade of grey. Her eyes are clenched tight. I’ve never seen her look like this before.
‘You’re captain now,’ she gasps.
‘But I—’
‘Just do it, Poppy.’ She glares at me, sharp, urgent, and then lets out a belly roar and slaps away the hand of the physio prodding her swollen knee.
I don’t protest again. Leanne’s cheeks are flushed now, a savage look in her eyes. Her chest pumps up and down as she sucks in fast breaths. She’s like a wild animal; if I get in her way, she will lash out and claw me to pieces. She needs me to take over. It’s not the time for questions.
We have three minutes of injury time. The team huddle together, a cluster of distressed red faces, sopping-wet hair and blotchy, bruised arms and thighs. Leanne tries to stand but topples back on to the bench. I take her by the elbow, supporting her lightly as she launches herself up again. She throws two pills down her throat and washes them back with a big glug of water.
‘Izabel, you are on. Get your bib.’ She’s breathless, but it’s not stopping her. ‘Okay, we can do this. I mean it. It’s not over, but you have to do exactly as I say.’
We close in our circle, arms around each other’s shoulders.
‘We’ll have to mix it up now that we’re a player down. We’ve got to change our play, mess with their heads; they think they know our weaknesses, so we’ve got to confuse them, make it hard for them to work out what the hell is going on. Throw your bibs in. All of them. NOW.’
We nod, even though none of us has a clue what she’s on about. Mess with their heads? Throw our bibs in? I can feel that everyone else is as confused as me, but we do it anyway. In Leanne we trust. A heap of crumpled, dejected bibs lies at her feet.
‘Versatility. Whatever position, whatever role you get, you will play it. Forget what you were, forget about your preference or your strengths. This is our team now, not the team we were or the team we’d like to be. THIS IS US NOW. Play with what you get and play it to the best of your ability.’
We each grab a new bib at random and slip it on. Everyone stares at each other in stunned silence, position reassignment proving as big a shift as if we’d changed our first names. Shanice is wing attack, which is terrible as her job is usually blocking and disturbing play. Now she will have to swap brute force for calm focus. Never going to happen. Laura is centre. Tall, shy Laura, who’s best at protecting space, at keeping people out, will now have to charge around, involve herself with everyone, in every area, bringing the game to people. Whoa, Leanne, this is messing with my head, never mind the opposition’s. I look down at my own bib. Goal attack. But I’m really playing two positions as we are a player down so that makes me goal shooter still as well. I’m going have to make things happen for the missing player. Everything we thought we knew has been dissolved.
‘This is going to work,’ Leanne says with a firm smile while taking us all in. ‘If Team Oxbridge feel half as freaked out as you guys look, we’re in with a chance.’
‘Assassins are back,’ announces Sandra Skinner. ‘But back as what? They’re a player down, injured Leanne Jones is on the bench with her left knee heavily strapped up, and every single player has taken up a new position! I don’t quite know what’s going on with this team today. It certainly is different.’
Different? Or at this stage of the game, just totally bonkers? I’m wondering if Leanne banged her head out there.
Shanice shoots me a look. ‘This is never going to work.’
‘Just give it a try,’ I tell her. I rest my hand on her shoulder and try to meet her eyes. I know this feeling. I know it so well I could copyright it. I think of Tom and our passcode, and a smile rises to my lips. ‘It’s always worth a try. Just trust me.’
She searches my face, clearly wondering whether I’m confused or delirious. But then I see her expression relax. ‘Okay, I suppose it’s worth a try. Nothing left to lose, right?’ She shrugs, and in that second I almost believe that Leanne’s plan could work. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, our only chance is in giving it every ounce of faith.
I clap my hands together and shout out to the other team, ‘Buckle up, you are in for the roughest final minutes of a game you have ever seen.’
And with that, I see our girls bare their teeth.
‘GOAL! Can you believe this! With less than a minute to go, the Assassins have drawn level. The crowd are on their feet! It’s down to the wire; whoever scores next will be Superleague champions!’
One goal. If we score one goal, this game is ours.
Leanne screams at me from the sidelines. ‘Phoenix rising! Do what you should’ve done!’
I nod. I know what she’s telling me. After I broke Crystal’s fingers, I told Leanne that what I should’ve done was go low. I should’ve played round her legs, where she wasn’t expecting me to go.
I see the Team Oxbridge defence charging at me head on. I can do this myself; I know exactly what to do. I bounce-pass through Jan Collins’ legs and back to myself, then leap high for the net. Almost in slow motion, the ball swooshes through the basket and bounces back onto the wooden court. But this time, nobody rushes to pick it up.
We’re too busy rushing to pick each other up.
Because we are the Assassins. And we are unbeatable.
‘South London Assassins win the Superleague final here at the Olympic Stadium by one goal! Cue wild celebrations on the court, on the sidelines and in the stands! A brilliant performance by every player and a deserved victory. Simple as that. A thrilling final.’
We are left to lap up the adulation of the crowd. There are whoops, screams, tears, hugs, handshakes, high-fives and noise, lots of noise. A baby makes an appearance, pompoms and flags are waved in the stands. The commentator places the microphone to Leanne’s lips and asks for her thoughts.
Leanne rubs her hand down her face and pauses a moment. Her eyes well up and she grabs my hand. ‘This is more than a game and we are more than a team … So many bloody emotions. Bloody hell.’
Bloody hell is right. We shake the opposition’s hands before they slope off court, and try not to look rid
iculously satisfied with ourselves. We douse ourselves with water and rub the tears around our sweaty faces as we leave the court so it doesn’t look like we are crying.
But we are crying. Crying with relief, with love, with adrenalin, with victory.
Back in the dressing room, Leanne is howling in pain, pounding her fist on the bench as she reconciles herself to the fact that she’s played her last game; her knee is totally ballsed up now. Jess and Laura are slumped against the dressing room walls, tears rolling down their cheeks from sheer exhaustion. Shanice is locked in the toilet cubicle, singing joyously to herself, the swell of tears evident in her gargling throat. Nikki sits beside me, her face buried in a towel. I put my arm around Emily’s shoulders and we smile at each other. We look at our mottled hands and take long, deep breaths and allow ourselves the stillness, the silence, the sacred energy we share. We gave it everything we had out there. For a moment, there isn’t anything else to do.
Until Izabel bursts in through the dressing room door, lugging a huge cool box of booze. She drops it to the ground with a crash, startling everyone.
‘The game is over, girls. And WE ARE THE CHAM-PIONS!’
And at that, we all stand and raise our aching faces to the sky.
Chapter Thirty
Oh my head. I have to go to the toilet, but I honestly don’t think I can, my head hurts that badly. Every time I move, there is a scrapy, scratchy noise, like I’m wrapped up in a shell tracksuit. I realise that I am in fact in a tent. Why am I in a tent?
It’s hard to breathe in here. The air is heavy and close and stale, like I’m sucking in my own bad breath over and over again.
And it’s so bright.
And I feel so hot.
And my mouth is so dry.
And my tongue feels swollen and like it’s covered in pigeon poo.
I raise my hand to my forehead – my head really hurts, tight and pounding. I very carefully raise one eyelid but then shut it again fast. No. Can’t do it. Just … can’t.
Don't Stop Me Now: The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 23