Page 5 of Linebacker
On game day, I find myself in the passenger seat of Windy’s Ford Fiesta, on our way to the JC stadium dressed in the staff uniform and clutching a very convincing counterfeit workers’ access pass.
“So, exactly how did you get this?” I ask Windy, as I pull at the white polo shirt with the JC embroidered logo on the left breast pocket. The sweatpants are the real deal too, which makes me think that both items of clothing are a little on the hot side. “Did you nick them?”
“Damn girl,” she barks, side-eyes me before she flicks her gaze back to the road ahead. “My friend’s daughter, Lacy Wood, had a summer job there last year before she went off to university. She’s been meaning to hand it back for months but never got around to it. I just offered to drop it in for her and she took me up on it.”
“And what about the pass?” I ask, amused by Windy’s corrupt versatility.
“That was easy.” There’s an element of proudness in the smile that lights up her face. “I scanned the pass and with a little jiggery-pokery, I switched the picture for the one I took on my phone the other day, then changed the name. I have a laminator that I use in the shop, so hey presto, a pass.” Windy brings the car to a stop on one of the side streets a few hundred yards from the stadium. The surrounding streets are still quiet, but I’m sure they will fill up soon with parked cars and people making their way to the stadium entrance. But it’s still early and the teams haven’t even arrived yet. “The only thing I couldn’t get was a lanyard.”
I glance down at the pass and screw up my face at the name printed on it. “Stacy Woodcock.”
“It’s the best I could do, considering I had to work with the letters that were on there already.”
“But… Cock?” I grimace.
“Actually, I thought it was appropriate when you consider the reason why we’re doing this in the first place,” she reasons with wide eyes.
“Cock’s,” we both say at the same time and burst out laughing.
“The more confidence you give off, the less chance you’ll be challenged.”
“Okay.” I nod and shake out my shoulders to alleviate my simmering nervousness. “Are you still coming in to watch the game?”
“And pass up the chance of seeing Mars get his comeuppance?” She sniggers. “You bet your sweetness I am.” She lays her hand across the back of my shoulder and pulls me to her for a hug. “Woo-hoo,” she cheers, giving a little fist pump in the air. “Good luck. You can do this.”
With a deep breath, a decided nod of the head, two toilet rolls stuffed up my t-shirt and the roll-on deep heat, I open the car door and step out onto the pavement.
I get all the way to the hall where the changing rooms are without being noticed, until I move to the door with a decal for the Capa Cobras on it.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” the burly security guy stops me from pushing the door open. “The teams will be here any minute, so you can’t go in there.”
“I was told to bring extra loo paper,” I said, waving the two rolls up in front of me. “I’ll be straight in and out, promise.”
“You’re cutting it fine, lady,” he grunts. I give him my best ‘please sir or my boss is going to kick my arse,’ pleading expression. “Make it quick.”
“Thanks,” I sing out and push my way into the room, praying that he doesn’t follow me in.
You can tell that this is a big game for the Cobras, as all the uniforms are hanging up nice and neat above the benches that line two of the walls. Each named and numbered jersey is facing out, marking the players’ allocated changing spot. A helmet sits on a shelf above, each one gleaming like new. Immediately my eyes are drawn to No. 54 Marshall. Under the pads on the bench below where his shirt hangs are a pair of football trousers, jockstrap and box. Boots are tucked underneath. I move the heavy pads to the floor, grab the Deep Heat from my pocket, and get to work. I haven’t much time, so I quickly roll the ball on the leg of my pants until it’s coated with the substance, then roll it on the inside of the box and jockstrap. There’s a slight herbal odour from the balm, but I’m sure once the room is full of testosterone-filled arseholes, it won’t be detected.
I jump at the loud knock on the door.
“What’s taking you so long? The player-coaches have arrived, so they’ll be here any minute.”
“Coming,” I shout back at security, and quickly put everything back as it was. Before I open the door to leave, I drop the two toilet rolls into the huge recycle bin in the corner. No doubt it’s there for all the empty plastic bottles of Gatorade that coach insists the team rehydrate on.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping back into the hallway. “Someone left a floater in one of the cubicles. It needed a couple of flushes to get rid of it.”
“What? Oh, okay.” He doesn’t question it any further but looks a smidgen guilty and confused, which makes me wonder if he had been caught short and had to pay a visit and was now questioning himself if he had been the one to have left something behind.
“Better get going,” I say, walking backward. “I have to help cover the drinks kiosk.” I spin around and dash down the corridor before I risk coming face to face with anyone that might recognise me.
* * *
“I don’t understand,” I groan out, now back in the car and making our way home. I swing my hands up in the air in frustration before letting them drop back into my lap.
“Girl, I’m just as confused as you,” Windy sighed out. “Are you sure you got that stuff right into the box?”
“I put it everywhere, believe me.”
