Page 77 of Freckles

He spits out a wad of blood onto the dirt and grins, crimson flecks sticking to his teeth. “Right as rain.” He nods to where a medic sits in the visitor’s camp, a player on the ground. “I don’t think he’ll try the same again.”

The regular lineup of girls is on the sideline, but I glance above them, disappointed that Francesca is missing. She’d waved to me at the beginning of the game and must have snuck out to the bathroom or library during play.

Any disappointment eases when I glance along the sideline, and see Coach Jenkins deep in conversation with Harlow Grant, the sports agent. Another man stands close behind, potentially the club selector. Coach points to me and all three of them look my way.

Aidan and Ezra look crestfallen.

My chest swells with pride at being singled out, then Jared chokes on his water. “Jesus, King. You’re really bleeding.”

It’s the stab wound Francesca gave me. I aggravated it again during the weekend job, and over the past few days, it’s given me a few twinges.

Nothing notable, not enough to take a painkiller, but I’ve found myself favouring my left arm a few times. Today I landed hard on it during a tackle. The mud must have plugged it for a while, but now the blood is really flowing.

“Pass me the first-aid kit, would you? I’ll chuck a few plasters on to hold it.”

Jared looks uneasy, capping his bottle and stashing it in his bag. “That’s not gonna work, man. You want me to get the nurse?”

“It looks worse than it is,” I say, then Coach Jenkins arrives. One look at me and his face turns thunderous. When warning whistle blows, two minutes to play, he gestures for the other team members to get back onto the field.

“Stay right where you are, King.” I sink back onto the bench, already scowling at the thought of a few lost minutes. “What happened here? This needs stitches.”

“It’s fine. Just strap on a cotton pad to soak up the blood.”

He puts his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “That your professional medical opinion, is it?”

“No, but I have eyes. It’s barely more than a scratch.”

“That’s soaked through half your jersey.” He moves closer, asking for permission before prodding gently around the injury. I try, but there’s some heat building around the wound and I can’t hold back the wince when he presses it at the wrong angle. “Get that same opinion in writing from the nurse, come back, and I’ll let you on the field.”

My mouth sags in disbelief. “You’rebenchingme. Over a fucking scratch?”

“Watch your language.”

My teeth grind together. Coach is all, ‘forget I’m a teacher,’ until it suits. “But isn’t that man a selector? I deserve this shot.”

“And I thought if I shared that information with you, you’d turn up raring to go.” He nods at my bruised hands. “Not spend the week accumulating injuries.”

“It’s not like a concussion. There’s nothing life-threatening. It’s a flesh wound that could’ve busted open even if I did get stitches. And I get as many fucking bruises—”

“Language.”

My jaw bunches so hard, bolts of pain shoot down my neck. “I get more bruises from practice.”

“And if you received them during practice, I would’ve sorted a treatment plan before letting you on the pitch again. But you decided to keep these injuries to yourself until we’re in the middle of play.”

He stands over me, and I grimace, spitting to the side. Resentful at being scolded like a child.

“You’re the one who dictated the timing, so don’t complain that I dragged you off-field mid-game. That’s the consequences of your decisions. I’m just doing my job.”

“But I—”

“No.” Coach’s breath is heavy, cheeks stained with colour. “You engineered this yourself, King. If your ambition is to play professionally, you need to drop this casual attitude towards injury right now. Your body is aninvestmentto these universities or club teams. It’s not just benching you—half the contracts nowadays include clauses to recoup money if you don’t keep to their physical targets. Your body is their product.”

“Buck Shelford ripped open his scrotum, and just popped his fucking ball back in before rejoining mid-game, but you won’t let me on the pitch with a scratch?”

“He also lost teeth and got a concussion so bad he doesn’t remember the match. You really think any of that would fly these days with what we know about CTE?”

I stare at the ground, getting his point but not wanting to acknowledge it.

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