Sidelines, page 10
A Bears player lines up for the corner kick and everyone begins to hustle in front of the goal, Viktor and Braedon shouldering into each other, ramming so hard they bump other players.
The ball arcs into the air. As it descends, players fling themselves high and bodies clash. Carmen hears Katerina shriek. Somehow Viktor gets his head to the ball and bounces it away.
Everyone springs after it, except for Katerina, who’s red-faced and screaming at Braedon. ‘Fuck off! Get your hands off me, you dick!’
The ref pulls her up her for swearing, but she stabs a finger at Braedon and shouts, ‘He’s the one who should be in trouble, not me.’
Braedon closes in on her, and there’s a scuffle as she reaches to slap him, but he blocks her strike, grabs her wrist and twists. She screams. Carmen yells. So does Ilya.
The ref shrills his whistle and Katerina shouts, ‘He groped my boob!’
Ilya charges onto the field, but he’s barely gone three strides when the ref draws out his yellow card and holds it up to Braedon. ‘About time,’ Ilya yells, stepping back behind the line.
Braedon detonates, firing off every swear word in the dictionary. At the ref. At Ilya. At his own coach.
The ref holds up his yellow card again, then pulls out the red, which means Braedon is off.
He shouts, ‘Fuck off!’ at the ref, then flounces off the field and grabs his bag.
‘Don’t you touch my daughter ever again!’ Carmen hisses at him as he lurches past.
He blows her a kiss, and the insolent look in his eye makes her skin crawl. Ilya sees that look too and is ready to go after him. She grasps his arm to hold him back. He’s wired tight, neck muscles bulging; she can feel rage exploding inside him.
‘Let me go,’ he growls. ‘He touched our daughter and insulted you. I could kill him.’
Carmen clings tight to his arm. ‘We’ll put in a report and so will Dominik.’
Ilya stares at her with intensity. ‘Yes,’ he says, full of venom. ‘That little skata can’t get away with it. We’ll make sure he’s suspended.’
As she watches Braedon saunter off, Carmen realises what it is about him that has bothered her so much. His leering face. The look in his eyes. The aggression with Katerina. It opens up her memory vault. The thing that happened to her when she was seventeen.
She’s tried so hard to forget; but the past won’t go away.
OFFSIDE
To be out of position in relation to the defenders and your team when the ball is released in an attacking run.
AUDREY
Back at home after the game, Audrey showers then plonks on her bed and leans against the pile of fluffy cushions with Honey stretched out beside her. Usually she sits with her legs folded beneath her, but today it hurts to bend her knees because of the grazes on them, so she straightens her legs out long and wriggles her bum to get comfortable.
She likes her room at this time of day. The late afternoon light falls through the window and turns everything golden. Last year, she got rid of her old stuff and made everything new. She kept the shelf for her football trophies, but changed the rest—out with the unicorn posters, rainbow curtains and pink rocking horse, and in with a rack of indoor plants, a string of lights above new curtains, a white sheepskin rug on the floor, dusty-pink doona and cushions, pale grey throw rugs. There’s also a signed poster of Sam Kerr. And Mum agreed to a new queen-sized bed so there was room for Honey. Alex got a big bed too because he’d grown so much his feet were hanging over the edge.
She snuggles among the cushions and opens her diary—a lovely notebook that she got from her nanna last Christmas. Nanna always gives beautiful presents. Not like Dad’s mum, Granny, who recycles things that other people have given her—old-people stuff, like rose-perfumed hand cream and little cloth-covered boxes that Audrey might have liked when she was five. Granny would never think to give Audrey a beautiful notebook. But this one from Nanna is special. It has a Monet water lily painting on the cover, and thick pages with gilt edges, and no dates in it, so Audrey can write as much as she likes. She writes in it every night and keeps it hidden under her mattress so her mother won’t read it.
She opens it now to write about today’s game. It feels good to get it all out—the way Braedon kept touching her and how uncomfortable it made her feel. She’d never been so happy to see someone get a red card. If she was sent off like that, she’d be devastated, so embarrassed she might die. But Braedon deserved it. And you could tell from his grin that he wasn’t bothered at all. It’s not over with him, though. It never will be. He’s the kind of guy who’ll find a way to get back at you, like get on Snapchat and talk shit about people. He always does mean stuff then acts like it’s a joke, smiling in a nice way that fools adults—that’s why he gets away with it. Right from the very first trial, she had to cop shit from him. Digs in the ribs. Accidental collisions. Nasty comments only she could hear. She’s glad the ref sent him home today. It should have happened weeks ago. She’s tired of having to put up with him. She’s glad they beat his team. And her cousin Tommy.
Next, she has to fill out her online soccer log. Her dad says it’s good to do it straight after a game, while everything is fresh in your mind. Dominik is strict about it. After every session, you have to enter three things that went well and three things to work on. She often has trouble coming up with three good things, but she always thinks of tons of stuff she needs to improve—the same things her dad is always reminding her about. Like how she has to keep working on her first touch and ball control, and how she needs better vision so she can make better passes. And how she has to try to keep her body behind the ball when it comes to her, because that helps with everything.
There are different categories you have to write under. Name of activity; session focus; personal goals; reflection. She’s part way through when her father calls her to the dining room. Dinner’s not for ages, but when Dad calls, you have to jump. That’s how it is around here.
She finishes her sentence, closes her computer, and goes to see what he wants.
He’s at the head of the jarrah dining table with an official look on his face. He waves her in. ‘Come and sit. I want to have a chat with you.’
She slides onto her chair and straight away the little voices start in her head. You didn’t play very well, you’re never going to make it, you still haven’t been chosen for the team, the others are way better than you, why did you think you could do this …?
In front of her father, there’s a piece of paper on the table, which he shifts back and forth with his fingertips. Her mouth goes dry. Is it a list of all the things she did wrong today? ‘Am I in trouble?’ she asks, unable to bear waiting.
His eyebrows shoot up. ‘Of course not! What makes you think that?’
She dodges his eyes. ‘I don’t know. I tried my best, but maybe I could’ve done better.’
‘I thought you did well, given how out of control Braedon was.’
‘You did?’ She finds the courage to look at him. Under the table Honey weaves around her legs and sits on her feet.
‘Yes, he’s intimidating. He wouldn’t leave you and Katerina alone. He seemed to have it in for you girls. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Katerina’s parents are putting in a report and I’d like to send something too. I’ve written a letter, but I wanted to hear from you first. What happened out there?’
She swallows, remembering the grimy feeling of Braedon’s hot breath on her cheek. His fingers grabbing her bum. How hard it was to get away from him. She peers at the cornice in the corner of the room, the small spider crouching up there. ‘He touched my bum … and he said stuff too. Called me the c-word and bitch and slut.’
‘Little bastard!’ her father mutters. ‘How dare he! When in the first half did that happen?’
‘Just after Tommy scored a goal.’
‘Where on the field were you?’
‘I don’t know, near the centre.’
‘How many times did it happen?’
‘Two or three times. He’s really good at hiding it. He pretends he’s walking past and then his hands are everywhere.’
Her father picks up his pen and scribbles on his piece of paper then calls her mother and Alex in, questions them about what they saw.
‘I saw what he was doing,’ Alex says. ‘And I wanted to stop him but I didn’t want to get into trouble with the ref, so I left it to Viktor. He’s already got this vendetta thing with Braedon about who’s the best player. It was pretty bad, Dad. He was teasing Audrey and getting inside her space and pulling her ponytail.’
‘What an arsehole. I’d better add that in too.’ Her father writes on his sheet of paper again.
Audrey is surprised by Alex’s support. When they were little, he used to pinch her toys and hide them from her, pull her hair, steal her Easter eggs and eat them. There was also the time he pushed her off the couch and she knocked her head on the coffee table. Blood everywhere. She still has a scar.
‘I think it’s Cody’s fault,’ her mother says. ‘He never stops Braedon from doing the wrong thing. Parents need to supervise kids, especially a troublemaker like Braedon. But Cody wasn’t even there today.’
‘He ought to have been. I’ll put that in my letter too. I want to make sure we nail this kid. I’m demanding a suspension, and I also want to request some sort of framework around letting him come back after that—including proper supervision.’ He scrawls more words on the paper, then looks up. ‘Can I read it to you?’
‘Sure,’ Mum says.
Dad clears his throat and reads. When he finishes, he scrutinises them over his glasses. ‘Is an eight-week suspension enough, or should I ask for more?’
‘They probably won’t give him more than that because he’s so young, and it’s Audrey’s word against his. Can I have a look?’ Mum reaches for the letter and scans through it. ‘This should scare them,’ she says. ‘Braedon was reprehensible and it’ll keep on happening if he’s not punished. I’m glad you’ve written this. It will force the football federation and the clubs to do something about it, given it’s come from a lawyer.’
She passes the letter to Audrey. It has her father’s name printed at the top: Benjamin Woodford, KC: LLB (Hons), LLM (Hons), and the address of his chambers. She reads carefully. Her father uses lots of big words and she’s proud of him. Hopefully one day she’ll be proud of herself too, like when she plays for the Matildas. ‘It’s good, Dad. It sounds really professional. I wish I could write a letter like this. Maybe I could be a lawyer like you.’
‘Why not?’
She basks in the warmth of his smile.
‘I’m a lawyer too,’ her mother says, standing up. ‘It runs in the family. I’m just as clever as your father, it’s just that I don’t get to do it anymore.’ She walks out.
‘Can I go too?’ asks Alex. ‘I’ve got lots of homework.’ He fakes an earnest expression, but Audrey knows he really wants to get back to gaming.
‘Sure, Alex. Go. That’s fine.’
She hands the letter back to her father, who picks up his fountain pen and signs it with a flourish.
Halfway through dinner her father’s phone buzzes and he picks it up even though phones are banned at mealtimes. ‘I have to take this,’ he says, jumping up from the table. ‘It’s Dominik.’
Honey follows him as he strides from the room with the phone pressed to his ear. Audrey stops eating to listen. What if Dominik is calling to drop her?
Alex keeps eating because he knows he’s in the team, whereas she’s been waiting for weeks to find out. She’s always trying to impress the coaches, hoping they’ll see that she’s good enough. Some days her feet are so heavy she can’t run or do clever things with the ball because everyone is always watching to see if she makes a mistake—not only the coaches, but the other players too. She can feel their eyes drilling into her. Feel them judging her. Even when she plays well, they look down on her. They think she’s less than them—which isn’t true—but sometimes it gets to her. She pokes at her steak with the tip of her knife and blood seeps out and stains her mashed potato. She was hungry before. Not anymore.
Her father returns with a lilt in his stride, Honey trotting beside him with her tail up. ‘Great news,’ he says, eyes fastening on her. ‘You’re in.’
‘How wonderful!’ Her mother reaches to pat her leg. ‘You must be so happy, darling.’
She is happy. Her smile stretches so wide her face aches. Except, isn’t it kind of second-rate to only get in because Braedon defected? She glances at her dad. He grins and winks at her, so it must be okay.
‘Good work,’ he says. ‘I knew you could do it.’
She relaxes a little. Feels even better when Alex gives her a nod.
‘Come on, then,’ her dad says. ‘Eat up.’
She digs into her steak with renewed enthusiasm. She needs protein to build muscles for running and endurance—that’s what her mother always tells her. And when it comes to stuff like that, her mother is nearly always right.
Audrey hunts for her friends among the flock of uniformed girls bustling along the paved walkways between the red-brick buildings. The smell of stale lockers and old lunches taints the air.
She likes school. The orderliness of the classroom. The tidiness of maths with its logical solutions. The satisfaction of discovering what the teachers want in humanities. The symmetry of conjugating French verbs. She likes art too—the way she gets so absorbed in drawing that time disappears. The learning and doing and testing at school are easy. But making friends and keeping them is much harder.
She spots Darcie, Pip and Georgia chatting and laughing in a tight circle outside the Year 8 lockers. Georgia leans in close and whispers something to the other girls and they all laugh even harder. Audrey’s palms go damp. Has she missed out on something? She hates being last to arrive.
She crams her bag in her locker, sidles up to her friends and pastes on a smile.
‘There you are!’ Darcie squeals, hurling her arms around Audrey. Darcie is the nicest of the three—the one Audrey’s closest to. Before Audrey became serious about football, Darcie often used to stay over at her house on Friday or Saturday night. But now Audrey’s weekends are full, so Darcie does sleepovers at Pip’s place instead.
‘Let me finish my story,’ Georgia grumbles. ‘I was telling you what happened with Max.’
Apparently, Georgia met a boy on the weekend at her drama class and he kissed her behind the curtains on the stage. Darcie and Pip hang on every word. Audrey hates it when they provide an audience for Georgia like this. Georgia already thinks she’s extra important, and this only encourages her.
‘What was it like?’ Pip asks, eyes large and round as if watching a David Attenborough documentary.
Georgia smiles, coy, then her lips draw back slightly. ‘A bit wet, actually.’
‘You tongue-kissed?’ Pip asks, aghast, twirling one of her plaits around her finger. Her mother does her hair every day. The only time Audrey asks for help is when she wants braids.
Georgia gives a superior smile. ‘Of course.’
‘Ewww!’ Darcie shudders. ‘You let him stick his tongue in your mouth?’
‘It’s not proper kissing if you don’t,’ Georgia huffs. ‘I won’t tell you any more if you’re going to make fun of me.’
‘Sorry,’ Pip says quickly. ‘I want to hear everything.’
‘Yeah, sorry,’ Darcie agrees.
Georgia turns to Audrey. ‘What about you?’
Audrey stares at her. Why should she apologise when she didn’t even say anything? She taps each of her fingers to the flat of her thumb, one after the other, then does it again, feeling prickly and wrong.
‘You have to say sorry, Audrey, or she won’t tell us the rest,’ Pip insists.
Georgia’s lips twist, and Audrey hesitates, trying to find the right words. ‘Please just tell us, Georgia,’ she says, which covers the bases, but isn’t the same as saying sorry, is it?
Georgia flicks her auburn ponytail over her shoulder. ‘You girls know nothing about boys.’
‘That’s because we don’t know any,’ Pip sighs. ‘I hate being at a girls’ school.’
‘I know lots of boys,’ Audrey says. ‘But I wouldn’t want to kiss any of them.’
‘No wonder, if they’re from your soccer team.’ Georgia’s lips curl. ‘Soccer boys are ugly.’
‘Not all of them,’ Audrey says, feeling the need to squash Georgia somehow.
‘Did you meet someone too?’ Darcie asks, gripping her arm and goggling at her.
‘Probably one of her brother’s friends,’ Georgia says, dismissive.
‘At least she has a brother with friends,’ Pip grumbles. ‘I only have sisters.’
‘Do you want to hear about Max or not?’ Georgia pouts.
‘Yes, please,’ Pip says.
Georgia stalks off, and Pip and Darcie follow, clamouring for information.
Audrey tags along too. She’s not interested in Georgia’s sloppy first kiss, but what else is there to do?
Lunchtime, in the dappled shade of the fig tree in the courtyard, Audrey sits with the girls and nibbles on her avocado and feta cheese sandwich.
‘Why are you wearing stockings, Audrey?’ Georgia asks, arranging her school dress around her knees like Cinderella in a ball gown.
‘Bruises,’ Audrey says, looking away.
‘Again?’ Georgia leans on the word. ‘I don’t know why you even play soccer. Bruises are disgusting. I haven’t had any since primary school.’
‘They disappear pretty quickly,’ Audrey points out, surreptitiously digging a fingernail into one of the bruises and registering a satisfying painful tingle.
‘Not quick enough for me,’ Georgia says. ‘That’s why I do drama. No bruises. And you can get a boyfriend, if you’re lucky.’
‘I wish I could do drama,’ Pip sighs. ‘But I already have too many activities. And I probably wouldn’t be good enough anyway.’
