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“OK!” Maia shouts, clapping her hands to get the locker room’s attention. “Game time, ladies. Remember what we’ve worked on—keep that back line steady, and be wary of their long shots. They’ve got a new forward who’s really quick on the returns.”
“The coach didn’t have to look far for her, I heard,” Helen says, grinning as she pulls on her goalkeeper mitts.
“She’s Garroway’s own kid?” Izzy asks. “Wow, silver spoon girl.”
Most of the girls laugh, but Maia raises a warning eyebrow.
“I’ve seen her in the junior league,” she says. “Don’t make the mistake of underestimating the opposition, Izzy.” She grins. “Again. Camille Belcourt is a giant wimp, wasn’t it?”
“You said you’d stop rubbing that in my face!” Izzy exclaims, mock indignant. “Fine, fine, I’ll stick to Silver Spoon like a leech. Happy?”
“Delighted. OK, everyone, let’s go! Keep your cool and don’t let them rile you. And as always, first shot on goal means first shot for free in the bar.”
They’re ten minutes into the match, and Izzy’s already hot, her hair sticking to her face. She runs her gaze over the stands and sees Alec and Magnus cheering in the audience—Magnus even having bent his sartorial rules enough to put on a team scarf today. She gives them a quick grin.
On center field, Aline breaks an opposing player’s pass and then sends a long shot back towards Izzy. She’s just about to pass it back over the court when there’s a flash of red in her peripheral vision, and suddenly an opposing player is there—as though by teleportation; Izzy can’t believe how fast that was. She twists and dribbles the ball out of the girl’s reach, then manages a frantic pass over towards Helen, who boots it up the court towards Maia.
Izzy misses whatever happens next, since she very gracefully loses her balance and plants her face in the turf.
“You OK?”
Izzy rolls over onto her back. Above her, an absolute vision of beauty reaches down a hand towards her, her face framed by red hair and sun. Speechless, Izzy allows herself to be pulled to her feet.
“Great footwork,” the girl says, then grins. “Get you next time.”
She speeds off down the court, leaving Izzy to stare stupidly.
“Sorry, I should probably have warned you—that new forward is also really cute,” Helen calls to her, laughing, and Izzy shakes herself out of her reverie.
It’s game time, after all. She’s not one to be distracted by some pretty face in the middle of a match. She’s got her eye on the ball.
And if she needs to go into some very close quarter challenges for the ball with a certain player called (she squints at the retreating jersey) Frey—well, that’s all part of the game.