Rooster: A Secret Baby Sports Romance by Abbey Foxx

ensure we win.
    I’m glad I’m not epileptic because trapped inside this cage the lights and noises around the ground are even more amplified than they are on the other side. I thought hurling audiences were bad too, these lot look like the prison set I left behind in Ireland. I’m glad we’ve got this fence up because some of the crowd look even uglier than the players we’ve got to face.
    I’m told this is a grudge match. It’s not a city derby but it’s almost as important. The Bruins, by all accounts, are a Boston side made up of ex-cons and wife beaters, who will try to win the game as dishonestly as possible. I can’t see how that’s any different to our team, but there we go.
    I haven’t been here long enough to find out the history of every single one of our players, but I do know that more emphasis has been put on bringing down the opposition as often as possible, rather than learning the rules. A win is a win after all, no matter what you have to do to get there.
    The crowd whoop and cheer and it gets my blood going. Before every hurling match I felt like I was going into battle, and even though I’m covered in enough protection to fill a queen sized mattress, the cage around me, the lights, and the passion of the fans is beginning to make me feel the same.
    Hurling was what I was born to do, but if that’s no longer an option this feels more and more like a viable second choice. I might have to make some adjustments on the equipment for the coming games, but right now I definitely feel excited. I have no idea what the fuck is going on, but that doesn’t matter to me.
    I’m going to do my job to the best of my ability, and Francis has been very clear about what that job is. Chase them down and fuck them up. I can do that in hurling, I can do it here and I’d be able to do it if the sport was rugby, football or judo.
    Just before we line up to begin, Kowalski skates over to me. He’s the captain of our team and an even bigger cunt than the rest of them.
    “Don’t fuck this up, Irish”, he politely informs me, his stick pressed hard into my chest.
    He’s about a foot shorter than me but as wide as a fucking door, which makes him look like a bowling ball. He’s had his nose broken so many times it looks like it’s on upside down and his eyebrows meet in the middle. He can play but he’s as ugly as fuck.
    I swipe the stick away, and then grab it and pull it quickly towards me so Kowalski gets jerked along with it. He’s up against my chest, chin up and neck tilted back before he can do anything about it.
    “When I’m done with everyone else, I’m going to come for you, in the night if I have to, when you’re sleeping. I don’t mess around, Kowalski, and I don’t like being threatened. You do your job and I’ll do mine”, I say.
    Finally, he manages to pull himself away from me. “Fucking asshole”, he says and skates into position.
    I get looks of disbelief from all of the players, ours and theirs, in turn, aggressive chants from the crowd and head shakes from the official. Francis has his hands up against the cage, an insane smile plastered across his face, other members of the management and training team sat down behind him wondering what the fuck he’s done bringing me here.
    No one thinks I can do this. The teams, the papers, the public, the word on the street is one game and I’ll be so embarrassed I’ll leave myself. One minute and I’ll be on my ass, my nose broken and my teeth spinning on the ice like marbles.
    We’ll see.
    I love being put to the test and I thrive in pressure situations. If there is one person who can make this world their own, it’s me. I know how to win and I know how to get what I want.
    This is it. Sticks down, eyes up, game on.
    The puck drops, the audience explode in a wave of noise and everything around me melts into a blur.
     
    Izzy
    It feels weird to be back here, even weirder that one of the players is the father of my child and doesn’t even