Marked (Playing Games Book 1)

by Rebecca Barber

  Then I got drafted and everything changed. People who’d teased and taunted me suddenly wanted to be my friend. They came out of the woodwork and tried to cash in. It did nothing to make me like them any more. In fact, if anything it just made me despise them and, in a way, feel a bit sorry for them. The lies they dreamt up were creative and made me seem a lot cooler than I had been, but the fact remained, they were nothing more than lies. Bullshit someone imagined selling to the highest bidder.

  But her. She hadn’t even asked my name. She hadn’t acted like a football groupie. She hadn’t asked about my car or house or bank balance, a sad reality in the world I lived in. She’d just wanted me for me. And fuck me, it’d felt good.

  Now my biggest regret was not getting her number. Well, not getting her number and her name. I wouldn’t mind running into her again. Preferably the sooner the better.

  Reaching down, I adjusted myself. Seemed to be a problem anytime I thought about her. A problem I had to get under control before I completely embarrassed myself. After another colder-than-normal shower I headed to bed. Flying to the other side of the country tomorrow for a Friday night game wasn’t on my top things to do, but a job was a job and that’s what mine entailed this week.

  ***

  It was half time and I was drenched. We were getting our arses handed to us. Coach was losing his shit and my fingers were so cold I could barely feel them. It was no surprise I’d dropped the ball more times than I’d caught it. It wasn’t just raining either. It was bucketing down in huge, fat icy drops and overhead the thunder rumbled, drowning out the umpire’s whistle. The stands were pretty much deserted, and I was wondering why we were even still bothering to play. I could only imagine what the commentators were saying from their nice warm, dry box high above the ground.

  “Oliver!” Coach’s angry voice boomed.

  Dropping the towel on the ground, I lifted my head and met his eyes. There was no point bothering to even try and hide. It only made it worse. At least if I was going to get my arse chewed out, I wasn’t the only one. Nick, Jack and even Bryce had already had their turn in front of the firing squad. I guess it was only fair that I manned up and took my turn.

  “Yes, Coach?”

  “What the fuck are you doing down there? Is there any chance of you, I don’t know, maybe kicking a goal or even laying a tackle? I’ll take either. Hell, right now I’d even take a mark or a behind.”

  “He’s all over me. And I keep slipping…” I started to defend myself, but he lifted his hand and cut me off.

  “Don’t even bother.”

  I didn’t protest. He wasn’t wrong. It was just so damn slippery out there. There was no such thing as a clean possession, let alone an easy one.

  Another ten minutes of lectures, drawings on the whiteboard and half a bottle of water later and we were running back out onto the field. The weather hadn’t gotten any better while we’d been warming up and drying out in the dressing rooms. If anything, it’d turned even more volatile. The wind had kicked up and lightning was lighting up the sky.

  I wasn’t keen on being out there and one look around at the guys standing beside me told me they were about as excited as I was.

  “This is bullshit,” Luke complained as he stepped up to my shoulder, giving it a nudge.

  “Nice night for it,” I replied with a chuckle. After all, what more could we do?

  The ball was bounced, thunder boomed, and we were off. With the weight of knowing how crap my last few games had been, I knew the fans and the media were starting to give up on me. Even though I didn’t play for them, having them on my side made it so much easier, so much more enjoyable. Waking up to criticism splashed across the papers and websites, it seemed like no matter which way I looked, someone was taking aim.

  Taking off at full speed, I felt the mud and grass flicking up, clinging to my bare legs but pushed through. Declan, one of my teammates who played on left wing, spotted me as I sprinted along the boundary, puffing hard. Launching the ball into the air, I made one final charge and leapt. When my fingers touched the leather, I knew I’d done it. It was mine. There was no way I was dropping this mark. Clamping my hands around the ball, I dragged it in. I was almost back to the ground when I felt the pain shoot through my thigh. Touching down on the ground, the ball was still tucked tightly against my chest, but it was the hundred kilos of some guy landing on my leg which had me swearing.

  The whistle sounded, and he climbed off me. But I couldn’t stand. Rolling over, I set the ball down and reached for my leg, rubbing the side.

  “Yo! Logan. You okay?” Levi asked as he lent over me, his hand outstretched.

  With a tug he pulled me to my feet and the pain shot through my leg. Not wanting to hold up the game any longer, I took my kick, a half-arsed fifteen-metre pass to Nick. The sooner I got the ball away from me, the sooner I could limp across to the bench and get some treatment. While I was in pain and pissed off, I knew it wasn’t anything serious. Just a corky. Sore as hell, but a massage and some quality time in the ice bath and I’d be as good as new.

  After hobbling over to the sideline, the physio was straight on me. It didn’t even take her a minute before she was shooing me down the race and into the change rooms. Climbing up on the table, I swore under my breath. Fuck me did it hurt. And that was before she touched it. The moment her fingers touched my thigh, I jumped.

  “You’re done, Logan,” she said emotionlessly.

  “What?”

  “You’re not going back out there tonight. Not on that.”

  “Seriously?” Even with the psychotic weather outside, I still wanted to be out there. I hadn’t even realised how badly until I was told I couldn’t. “It’s just a knock,” I tried to explain.

  “Logan. You have a corked thigh. It’s basically rock solid and as soon as I touched it you jumped three feet in the air. You’re not going back out there. We’re going to strap some ice to it, and you can watch from the bench.”

  “Or?”

  “There is no or here. I’m serious. You’re not going back out there.”

  “Where’s Doc?” I asked, scanning the room for the cranky old bastard who I trusted with my life. Didn’t mean I had to like the guy.

  “Right behind you telling you to get your scrawny arse in the shower, get dressed then come and see Tara so she can strap up and ice that thigh. Hopefully it’ll come good in the next day or two, but we’ll scan it when we get home,” he directed, leaving no room for argument as he dried his hands on the paper towels before lobbing it in the bin.

  Doc. Matthews was the same age as my father and sometimes it sounded like he was channelling him. He was gruff and bossy and didn’t take shit from anyone. I guess that’s what made him the perfect guy for the job. He could stand up to a testosterone-filled locker room and not even blink.

  “Fine,” I grumbled, sliding off the table and limping across the room towards the showers. I guess the upside of being injured was I had first dibs on the hot water.

  ***

  Jack stumbled into our room, his bag over his shoulder and a pizza in hand. Some days I was genuinely shocked that guy was able to run and catch at the same time. As he flopped onto his bed, his bag dropped to the ground and the pizza box toppled to the floor.

  “Dude! Watch the food!”

  “I don’t see you helping.”

  I’d been lying on my stomach, an ice pack taped to my leg, reading a book and stuffing about on my phone. I’d become addicted to one of those modified versions of Tetris and now I couldn’t stop. Flipping over, I wriggled to the end of the couch and grabbed the box, setting it the right way up before snagging a slice.

  “I’m on the injury list.”

  “Yeah, but is it your leg that’s hurting you or your wounded ego?”

  “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jack didn’t answer. Not in words anyway. Instead he tossed me his iPad and my jaw hit the floor.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  TASHA


  Silencing my phone, I flicked off the light and laid back on the pillow. From the moment my article appeared online, my phone had been going crazy. Some of them questioning my sanity, some telling me I’d gone too far, and others stunned by my words. As they flooded in, I read and reread my article over and over again, trying to pinpoint the exact trigger which had everyone in a flap. I was still clueless.

  For the next few hours, I tossed and turned trying to get comfortable and get some sleep. I had a busy Saturday planned before everything went to shit and now, I had no idea what I was in for. One thing I did know though, if I didn’t get at least a few hours of shut eye I was going to be a sleep-deprived bitch on top of everything else.

  “Wake up, bitch!” Someone nudged me, and I rolled over with a groan.

  Wiping my face, I felt the dried drool in the corner of my mouth as I pushed my hair out of my eyes. Cracking open my eyes, I came face to face with a way too excited Giselle. That girl hated mornings more than I did, so why she was here at the butt crack of dawn I had no idea.

  “Come on. Rise and shine, Princess.”

  “Ah, piss off,” I grumbled, tugging the blanket back over my head.

  Giselle didn’t let me get away with it, though. Instead she tugged it back off and bounced on my bed beside me. “Come on, sleepy head. I bought coffee.”

  “From the good place?”

  “Of course.”

  “Fine,” I grumbled, sitting up.

  “That’s my girl.” She smiled mischievously, handing me a large paper cup. “And just for that, here’s a croissant to go with it.”

  “You’re my favourite,” I confirmed around a mouthful of flaky pastry.

  Given Giselle’s extreme dislike of mornings, I knew this early breakfast delivery didn’t come without strings, but I was going to take my time and enjoy the food first. Adjusting the thin strap sliding down my shoulder, I finished my croissant and licked my fingers. Leaning over, I set my coffee on the bedside table and climbed out of bed, digging the wedgie out of my butt.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I’m going to pee if that’s okay with you,” I answered as I shuffled towards the bathroom.

  “Fine. But hurry up. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

  As I stepped into the bathroom, I rolled my eyes so hard I think I saw my brain. I knew I shouldn’t have given her my spare key. After taking care of business, I splashed some cold water on my face before finger combing my hair and tying it up in a low ponytail. In no hurry, I spread some moisturiser on my face and plucked a few stray hairs from my eyebrows.

  Giselle must’ve known what I was up to behind the closed door. “Alright, missy. Get your butt out here and start explaining.”

  I stepped back into the bedroom. “Explaining what?” I played dumb so well, I should’ve been getting a call from the Oscar’s committee any moment now.

  “Nice try. The article. What did Logan Oliver ever do to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Tash. Even you have to admit you were a bit hard on the guy.”

  Grabbing my coffee, I took another gulp, the hot liquid burning my tongue, but I was too stubborn to slow down. While I was drinking, I wasn’t talking. And talking led to questions. Questions deserved answers. And the absolute last thing I needed to be doing right now was trying to untangle answers. I wasn’t even admitting some things to myself, so saying them aloud was the last thing I wanted to be doing. My biggest issue right now was Giselle. If anyone had the ability to drag my secrets out of me, it was her.

  “Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” I defended, running through it again for the hundredth time.

  “Geez, Tash. You said the guy had a little dick.”

  “I did not!” I defended adamantly.

  “Fine, you didn’t use those words, but you definitely implied it.”

  “Hmph.” I flopped back down on my bed. It was one thing to have strangers sharing their opinions on your words, but to hear it coming from your best friend, even I had to admit it stung more than I was prepared for.

  Pulling the pillow over my face, I groaned. Maybe I had gone too far. Been too harsh. But it was his fault. Logan Oliver had me twisted in so many knots, even the mind-blowing orgasm he gave me couldn’t relieve the tension. What’s worse, he didn’t even realise it. He hadn’t asked for my name let alone my number, and I hadn’t offered it.

  “Do I need to take it down?” I conceded.

  I’d been writing for years and for the last two, I’d been getting a lot of traction and unexpected attention. What had started out as a hobby, providing my own one-sided commentary on the game I loved, had blossomed and grown, and now it was a part-time job which helped pay the bills while I finished my journalism degree. Not once in all that time had I even considered writing a retraction or even removing it from my blog. Today though, I was giving it serious consideration.

  “Honestly?”

  “Always.” Well, did I really want to hear it? Probably not, but I needed to.

  “I don’t know. It’s your call. I know you and I know you only ever write what you believe, but even I winced when I read this one.”

  “Oh.” My heart sank and my breakfast sat heavily in my stomach. “I’m just going to have a shower then…then I’ll deal with…well, I guess I’ll clean up the mess I made.”

  I felt like shit. I needed the hot water to wash away this icky feeling that was smothering me. Stepping under the water, I tugged the curtain closed, shut my eyes and tipped my head back. Outwardly, I might’ve appeared calm, but inside I was anything but. Inside I was freaking out. Trying to recount word for word, I rubbed shampoo through my hair. It was driving me crazy trying to figure out how I’d gotten it so wrong. What exactly was it that I’d done that crossed the line and caused this big of a shit storm?

  Grabbing my toothbrush, I squeezed out a minty stripe onto the bristles and stuffed it in my mouth. I was halfway through cleaning my teeth when the door was flung open and Giselle exploded in.

  “Tash! Tash! You need to take this call!” As I spat the toothpaste down the drain, Giselle puffed and panted.

  “What? Why? I’m in the shower.”

  “I know. But you need to take this. It’s the paper.”

  “What paper?”

  “Are you kidding me? What paper?” As she yanked back the shower curtain, I squealed and tried to cover myself. The last thing I wanted Giselle to see was everything I had going on. Hell, I didn’t even want to see it, so why should she have to be exposed to that sort of horror. “What paper? What paper? Let me ask you this, which paper is at the top of your dream list to work for?”

  “Melbourne Advocate,” I answered without hesitating.

  It’d always been the dream. The end game. My goal. There was no way they were calling me. I hadn’t even graduated yet; let alone the fact I didn’t have a resume. Sucking in a breath, I tried to steady my out-of-control heartbeat. I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. Get my hopes up. They were probably calling to kick my arse or threaten to sue me. I’d probably done something wrong or pissed someone off I shouldn’t have. Based on my morning so far, nothing would surprise me.

  Grabbing the towel from the rack on the wall, I wrapped it around me and took my phone from Giselle’s outstretched hand before shooing her out of the bathroom.

  “Hi, this is Tasha,” I said, trying to sound professional.

  “Good Morning, Tasha. This is Gerard from the Melbourne Advocate. Hope I’m not waking you.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Great. I read your post last night.”

  “Oh.” My heart sank. Knotting the towel between my boobs, I closed the lid on the toilet and sat down. I had a feeling I needed to be sitting down for this conversation.

  “You don’t seem to be too thrilled to hear from me.”

  “No. God no. I absolutely am. But honestly, I have no idea why you’re calling me on a Saturday morning.”

&nb
sp; “Well, why don’t I clear that up for you?”

  “I’d appreciate that,” I replied, trying to keep the façade firmly in place.

  “I saw your article that was posted last night. The one that’s blowing up the internet and causing four different people to call me about it and even more emailing me the link to your blog.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, I’ve spent the better part of my morning reading through your back catalogue of articles. They’re good. Very impressive.”

  “Th-thank you. I think.”

  “I was wondering if you’re free to meet with me this afternoon. I know it’s short notice but, in this industry, if you don’t move fast you miss out,” he continued.

  This couldn’t be happening. Not to me. Here I was, wearing my birthday suit, wrapped in a towel, conditioner still in my hair, being offered – actually I didn’t know what I was being offered.

  “What time were you thinking?” I asked nervously.

  “Can you be at the MCG at one thirty?”

  “Yeah, but isn’t there a game this afternoon?”

  I was one of those girls who knew the draw better than the men in my life. I knew who was playing who, when they were playing and where. It drove my friends crazy. I couldn’t contour my make up or straighten my wavy hair to save my life, but I could tell you every player’s name and jersey number.

  “Yes. I was hoping you’d be my guest in our box today so we can talk about possibilities for your future.”

  Gerard from the Melbourne Advocate. Gerard who wrote last Saturday’s back page. The same Gerard who had the front-page interview last year with the disgraced player who’d been caught betting on games, had just invited me to be his guest at today’s game. And even more unbelievable, it wasn’t in the nosebleed seats I usually had. No, he was talking a box. One that would have food, drinks and a view to die for. Even if this whole ‘future’ idea turned out to be a complete load of shit and I ended up humiliating myself in the worst way, it’d be worth it just to experience those seats.