Marked (Playing Games Book 1)

by Rebecca Barber

  Falling in step, I walked along listening to everyone around me. Taking it in. Rumours were circulating about a mysterious illness that had swept through the team as debate raged over if they’d even have enough players to take the field. I couldn’t help but worry that Logan may be out. Of course, I was just worried that if he didn’t play then my article would be stuffed. After all, Gerard and seventy percent of the comments on my blog post demanded I mention the million-dollar man. I needed him to play. For my career, obviously.

  Except I was completely full of shit. Sure, I needed Logan to play, but it was more than that. I needed him to be okay. Because I cared. And I hated that I did, but there was no denying it.

  Pulling my phone out, I did something I promised myself I wouldn’t. I text Logan.

  Tash: Hope you’re feeling okay and playing this afternoon

  It was a shitty message. It barely said anything, and it most certainly didn’t say anything I wanted to say but it was all I could do.

  After scanning my ticket at the gate, I climbed the stairs, pausing at the snack bar to stock up on supplies; besides, how could you watch a football game without the requisite meat pie and hot chips?

  Finally making it to my seat, I was impressed with the view. Getting a ticket last-minute usually meant you were stuck with whatever view they had left, but today’s wasn’t so bad. Watching the teams jog out for warm up, I found myself scouring the field for one player in particular.

  When I didn’t see him, my heart sank.

  “Giselle help!” I whisper-screamed down the line as soon as she answered.

  “Hello to you too, Tasha. What’s wrong?”

  “I like him.”

  “Like who?”

  “Logan.”

  “Ah. Finally.”

  “Finally, what?” I was on the verge of a complete panic attack surrounded by forty thousand strangers, fifteen hundred kilometres from home.

  Standing up, I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to focus on something. Anything to calm the raging torrent building inside me.

  “You’re finally admitting insane.”

  “Admitting what?” I needed a new friend. Giselle was leading me around in circles and it was driving me crazy.

  “That you like him. I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever figure it out.”

  “You’re not helping Giselle.”

  “Sorry. Wanna tell me what happened?”

  “He’s not on the field.” As soon as I said it, I realised how completely ridiculous I sounded. I was panicking for nothing.

  “There could be a million reasons he’s not out there yet.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you called him? Texted? Checked in?”

  “I sent him a text earlier. He hasn’t replied,” I said sadly.

  “Then you wait. Go buy yourself a hotdog, watch the game. Write your article and blog posts like you’ve committed to and wait for Logan to get in touch.”

  “What if he doesn’t?” And there it was. My greatest fear. I’d ghosted on him, deliberately ignoring his messages and dodging his calls and now here I was, holding my breath waiting for a reply. I didn’t deserve a response.

  “He will. He’s as tangled up in you as you are in him.” Giselle seemed so sure of herself.

  “I am not! Tangled up in him I mean.”

  “And you’re not a very good liar either. Listen, go watch the game. If you haven’t heard from him by the time you get back to Melbourne, then we will go bash down his door.”

  “Promise?”

  “Absolutely. And I’ll go you one better. If I don’t like his answer when you tell him you love him, I promise to junk-punch him for you.”

  “I don’t love him,” I denied.

  “We’ll deal with that when we get back.”

  The siren sounded and we ended our conversation. I was more confused than ever. I wasn’t sure why Giselle thought I was in love with Logan. I wasn’t. I mean, yeah, I liked him but in love? No way. I barely knew the guy.

  “Let’s go!” The guy behind me boomed as the players filed off the field and the officials started setting up. After the national anthem and the players had run through the banner – something I’d always thought was a waste of awesome effort by the banner makers – the ball was bounced.

  When a boo echoed around the stadium, I squinted my eyes trying to see who’d marked the ball. At the opposite end of the field, the players were barely a speck. And from this angle all I could see was his arse in the air as he bent over and tied his shoe. Or pretended to. I couldn’t believe that nineteen seconds into the game and his shoelaces had come undone.

  He straightened to his full height and my breath hitched. I knew that guy. Logan was out there. More heavily strapped than I’d ever seen him, but it was undoubtedly him. Watching him line up and take his shot, I held my breath. From my seat in the stands I was surrounded by opposition supporters, so I tried to tamper down my excitement. When the umpire waved his flags indicating a goal, I could barely stay in my seat. This was exactly what I needed. I needed to watch Logan do what he was best at, and less than a minute into the game, for some reason I just felt like today was his day.

  Half time arrived and I wasn’t wrong. Logan was on fire. It was like he was trying to carry the team on his shoulders. He’d already kicked four goals, split his head open and was now wrapped up like a mummy. It hadn’t slowed him, though. He was a man on a mission. He was making it incredibly hard to fault him.

  Behind me sat a group of guys who were as entertaining as hell. Their commentary, while it may not have been politically correct and was unashamedly biased, was hilarious and completely inappropriate. They were giving me enough fodder to fill a month’s worth of columns. Grabbing my phone, I made some quick notes not wanting to forget any of their witty one-liners.

  The whistle went and the players took their spot as the second half got underway. It was a pretty well-balanced game considering one team was missing eight of their top twenty-two players. They were behind on the score board but only by fourteen, not an unsurmountable feat. The ball was handballed to Logan and as he took it, he was squished between two guys as they rammed him, headfirst into the ground. I was on my feet before I knew what I was doing.

  “Get up! Get up! Get up!” I chanted under my breath.

  When the players climbed off him, I waited for him to stand. He didn’t move. I held my breath as the medical team raced onto the field and surrounded him. It took forever before they helped him to his feet; at least it felt like it did. Saluting the crowd, he shook it off and headed back to the goal square, rubbing his shoulder.

  I didn’t care. He was up and moving and I couldn’t deny it a second longer. I liked Logan Oliver. Like, I really liked him. “Shit!”

  When a hand dropped down and landed on my shoulder, I jumped.

  “Shit, lady. Breathe. He’s fine.”

  “I-I know,” I stuttered, my eyes continuing to track his every move.

  “Geez, lady! Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” I sucked in deep breaths. I was so not fine.

  “Please sit down. You look like you’re going to faint.”

  The truth was, he wasn’t far off. My head was spinning, and I felt like I was going to either pass out or throw up. Possibly both. Slumping into my chair, I grabbed my drink and chugged the rest of the bottle.

  Behind me, I caught the tail end of someone’s comment. “Anyone would think she was his girlfriend.”

  “She sure is acting like it. I mean, who faints over a player taking a hit.”

  I hated that they were talking about me, but what made it worse was they were right. It sucked. But there was no point saying anything or making a big deal out of it. Then I’d just be confirming what they were saying and that was absolutely the last thing I needed; rumours about me and Logan circulating.

  Silently, I watched the game and Logan closely. They were trying. When the third quarter ended, Logan seemed to be back to his usual hard-
arse self. He was throwing himself recklessly into contests, chasing like someone had set his butt on fire and tackling like his life depended on it. What’s more, for every heroic action he did, his teammates followed him. He was inspiring them. Hell, he was inspiring me.

  They were still down, but only by five points, as the final period started. As the minutes ticked down, the ball ricocheted end to end. Behind me, the sarcasm stalled and there were periods of silence when no one could figure out who was going to win. It was going right down to the wire.

  The last minute arrived before I was ready, and the ball was kicked in Logan’s direction. With determination etched on his face, he ran towards the ball and launched himself, taking a mark over the top of his opponent’s head. The whole crowd erupted in applause. Acts like that deserved to be celebrated regardless of which team you played for.

  Going back to take the shot, the whole stadium held their breath. If he made the shot, they won. If he missed, they lost. If he made the shot and they won, then they were in the top eight with a chance of playing finals. If he missed and they lost, then they’d drop to middle of the pack and be right in the middle of the fight to make the finals. There was a lot riding on one kick.

  Logan adjusted his socks and took his time. When he started his run up, the boos started right along with him. His foot connected with the ball and sent it soaring through the air. Holding my breath, I watched the ball sail through the air, hanging on the breeze. When it hit the post and bounced back into the field of play, I groaned loudly, dropping my head in my hands. It was all over. And they’d lost.

  More importantly though, with that last kick, the one that would’ve made Logan the hero or the villain, he’d just handed me my column.

  If only I could write it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  LOGAN

  I was stuffed. Everything hurt and I had a headache from hell. Then to make matters worse, we’d lost. Everything we’d done, everything I put myself through had been for nothing. I was fucking miserable.

  Slumped against the wall in the locker room, I started unwinding the tape that was holding me together. My ankle, wrist and shoulder had all been strapped before I’d even run on the field, then thanks to a cheap shot, there was a bloody bandage wrapped around my head too.

  “Good game, Oliver,” Coach said as he stomped by, clipboard in hand.

  “Good game? We lost,” I reminded him. How could he have forgotten already.

  “Considering what we were up against, I’m impressed we did so well.”

  “Suppose.” I pouted as I ripped the last piece of tape off my ankle, trying not to cry as it waxed the hairs from my leg. “Ouch!” My eyes watered and I bit my lip trying not to let everyone see.

  After a shower and changing back into my sweats, I stepped out of the locker room only to be met with a hall full of awaiting media. Since we’d been down so many players, I was captain today. Something I should’ve been proud of, and truthfully, I was a little bit, but since it was only because everyone else was out, it didn’t feel like a great achievement. It wasn’t something I was going to be shouting from the rafters any time soon.

  “Logan! Logan! Logan!” My name was called from every direction.

  Adjusting my bag on my shoulder, I turned and addressed the masses. Ten minutes, more than a dozen clichés later and I was shouldering my way through the crush and jumping into the waiting Uber, keen to get back to the hotel, take a few pain killers and get some sleep. This headache was quickly developing into a migraine, and I didn’t have the energy to deal with it.

  In attempts to soothe my aching muscles, I took another shower, standing there until the water ran cool before climbing out. Running a towel over my head, I tossed it on the floor, swallowed a couple of aspirin, closed the blinds and climbed into bed. A nap was going to help. At least I hoped it would. I doubted it could make it worse.

  Closing my eyes, I waited until the room stopped spinning before I cracked them open again. Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I was surprised to see all the missed messages lighting it up. Thank god for silent mode. Not in the mood to deal with any of it, I set it back down, rolled over and let sleep drag me under.

  Waking up, I was shocked to find I felt even worse than before my nap. My head was pounding, and I had the worst case of cotton mouth I’d ever experienced. Climbing out of bed, I tugged on a pair of boxers and headed straight for the mini bar, snagging a couple of bottles of water. After draining the first in one long gulp, I tossed the other on the bed before shuffling into the bathroom. After a quick piss, I washed my hands and splashed cold water on my face hoping it would work some kind of secret magic.

  Making my way back across the room, I cracked open the blinds as I rubbed at my temples. Outside, night was descending. Checking the clock, I was shocked to see it was almost eight. I’d slept for a good couple of hours. When my stomach growled loudly, I grabbed the phone and dialled room service. Damn I was looking forward to getting home and being able to eat proper food. Or at least order food from my favourite takeout menus.

  While I waited for my food, I sat on the bed and folded my legs, ignoring the twinges of pain that radiated through my body with every movement. Damn I’d taken a beating today. Opening the water, I took some small sips as I grabbed my phone.

  “Holy shit!”

  There were thirty-two messages on my phone. I never got that many. Even when I’d woken up in the hospital after being knocked out last year, I didn’t get that many messages.

  Opening the folder, I saw that most were from Jack, Nick and Bryce. Obviously, they’d been sitting at home watching the game and their commentary as it unfolded was documented on my phone.

  There was a message from Mum checking in to make sure I was okay. At least this one was normal. Putting her out of her misery, I replied honestly.

  Logan: A bit banged up and bruised but I’m fine

  Then there were a couple of messages I wasn’t expecting. Messages from a number I’d never been expecting to hear from again. Tash.

  Tash: Hope you’re feeling okay and playing this afternoon

  Tash: Are you okay? That looked brutal

  Tash: I know you’re probably ignoring me right now, but if you could just let me know that you’re okay, I’d appreciate it

  “Wow,” I exclaimed to the empty room as I dropped my phone onto the bed, unable to stop staring at it.

  I knew I should reply, it was the polite thing to do, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to. She’d ghosted on me all week. She had no rights. No entitlement to ask how I was. But even the idea she was worried had my chest puffing out a little further and my traitorous pulse racing. I didn’t know what to do. I might’ve played a game for a living, but I had no intentions of playing them in my personal life. Not even with Tasha. The moment I got back to Melbourne we were going to have a little chat and sort a few things out. She might not know it yet, but the girl had a choice to make. She was either in my life or she wasn’t.

  ***

  By the time I landed in Melbourne again, after the bullshit delays due first to engineering and then bad weather, weather that didn’t surprise me really; Melbourne’s weather was almost always shitty, the clutches I had on my patience had well and truly expired.

  Snatching my bag from the carousel, I was on a mission to get out the door. Shame I couldn’t be a complete arsehole. When I was stopped by a bunch of kids and asked for photos and autographs, I couldn’t really say no, no matter how much I wanted to. After smiling and signing, I raced out of the terminal and through the carpark. Ignoring the icy cold rain pelting my back, I dashed across the asphalt trying not to slip. That’s all I needed.

  In the car I pumped up the heat and joined the queue to escape the carpark. By the time I made it to the front, I was bouncing in my seat, doing everything I could not to pick up the phone and call first. But there was no way I was giving her warning. I had a plan and I didn’t care if I ended up with the world’s worst case of blue bal
ls, I was sticking to it.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me!” I swore as the bill popped up on the screen and my credit card groaned as I shoved it in. For the cost of parking, I could’ve driven to bloody Brisbane.

  Finally, on the road again, I was off. Dodging in and out of traffic, my pulse rose with every passing kilometre. By the time I reached Tasha’s apartment, I looked up searching for a light. The problem was I had no idea which apartment was hers from the outside. Twenty minutes later I pulled into a loading zone, not giving two shits if I got a fine or not. I wasn’t spending another second in this car driving in circles looking for a park.

  Jumping out, I raced across the street and took the stairs two at a time, not even bothering to wait for the elevator. Reaching her doorstep, I paused. For the first time since I’d decided to come, I was second-guessing myself. Maybe this was a bad idea. Shaking the water from my wet hair, I looked down at my shirt. I was completely drenched.

  “Just do it, you pussy!” I reprimanded myself as I untied the tie from around my neck, stuffing it in my pocket. I undid the buttons at my cuffs and rolled the sleeves up my forearms.

  Lifting my hand, I knocked on the door and hoped for the best. I had absolutely no fucking idea what was about to happen, but either way I wasn’t leaving without an answer.

  Behind the door I heard shuffling and swearing but the footsteps weren’t getting any closer. Patience wearing thin, I knocked again. This time more aggressively.

  “Keep your pants on! I’m coming!” She sounded exasperated. This was going to be interesting.

  Wiping the droplets of water from my forehead, I missed the door opening, but there was no missing the stunned look on her face. It probably matched the equally-as-shocked look on mine.