The Life and Times of Gracie Faltrain by Cath Crowley Read Free Book Online Page B

before I hear anything else but I can’t move.
    â€˜There are plenty of other guys we could get before the Championships but we need to do it now,’ Flemming says.
    I wait for Martin to speak. For him to say they need me again. For somebody to say something. Their boots scrape on the floor. Their answer is as loud as if they’ve said it.
    I unlock my bike and leave.
    Â 
MARTIN
    I came out of the change rooms and saw her riding away. Something about the way she was pedalling told me she’d heard every word. That and the fact that she didn’t have her bag. She swung around the corner and she didn’t look back.
    Maybe it’ll do her some good. She’s her own worst enemy. I watch her out there every match, running to the side after kick-off. I know she’s not looking to see where anyone else is. She’s searching for the ball – and when she gets it she’s off.
    Faltrain’s good. The guys know it. The problem is she knows it too. It’s like she’s out there trying to prove something to the world. You don’t need to, Faltrain. You’ve got it. No one doubts that.
    I remember the look on her face at the first match she ever played with us. It was pure fear. I watched her drowning in defenders, lost between bodies. Stop fighting it Faltrain, I thought; just relax. Play like you did in practice. You’ll float. She did. The wind changed direction all of a sudden and started blowing her forward towards goals.
    We lost that first match and it had a lot to do with her but none of the guys really cared. She was out there playing soccer. That was all that mattered.

13
    accident noun : any unfortunate event,
especially one involving injury
GRACIE
    It’s almost 7 o’clock. Nick’s picking me up in five minutes and I feel like I want to vomit. I can’t stop thinking about the guys on the team, the sound of Corelli’s spit on the ground, their feet, shifting and scraping.
    I tried to distract myself when I got home from the game and I made the fatal mistake of getting ready too early for my date. It’s a fine line. Get ready too early and you leave too much time to play with your hair and that’s deadly.
    By 6.15 I’d fluffed it up so much I looked like I’d stuck my finger in a power point. I kept putting in more gel in the hope it would calm it down, but it kept getting stickier. By 6.30 I had hair the consistency of fairy floss. ‘Faltrain,’ I could hear Jane’s voice in my head, ‘just dunk the whole lot and start again.’
    At 6.59 Mum isn’t looking at her daughter but a life-size stick of fairy floss, dripping water all over the floor. ‘Gracie, what on earth did you do?’
    â€˜Mum, listen carefully. This is important,’ I say, wiping the gel that’s dripping down my forehead with the back of my hand. I’m on the verge of hair-product-induced hysteria. ‘When Nick rings the bell, DO NOT ANSWER THE DOOR.’
    â€˜Gracie, you can’t leave him on the porch.’
    â€˜Are you listening to me?’ I say, fear driving a wedge between each word, ‘DO – NOT – ANSWER – THE – DOOR. MY – SOCIAL – LIFE – DEPENDS – ON – IT.’
    And with the kind of punctuality that only ever happens when you don’t want someone to arrive on time, the bell rings. Mum and I look at each other for just a second, like animals before they pounce. I know her. She won’t leave him standing at the door. She swerves past me and runs down the corridor. I chase her, calling out in desperation, ‘Stop!’
    We both arrive at the door at the same time. I don’t think she means to open it until I’m in the bedroom. It’s just one of those accidents. Mum’s hand opens the door – and we seem to shout, ‘Nooo’ in slow motion as the wood swings back to reveal me, standing in the doorway, hair dripping in some strange