Defensive mindset, p.1
Defensive Mindset, page 1
Sign up for our newsletter to hear
about new and upcoming releases.
www.ylva-publishing.com
Acknowledgement
Firstly, I want to thank Astrid Ohletz, without her patience, encouragement and guidance, this novel would never have been published. I’d also like to thank my editors, Andrea Bramhall and Lee Winter, and all the people who work behind the scenes at Ylva Publishing.
I want to say a special thank you to Trish Whelan, who, for the past thirteen years, has offered encouragement in my writing. It’s been a long journey to get to this stage and she has taken every step with me.
To Mum, Annie, Tricia, Michael, my nieces and nephews—Jodi, Robyn, Connie, Jed, Evan, Olivia and Charlie—and also, Pete, Mike, and Bev, thanks for making the last seventeen years of my life a lot more joyful than I could have imagined. Your support has been incredible.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my dad, Pat. We miss you everyday.
Chapter 1
“Oof!” Jessie Grainger’s lungs screamed for air as she landed face down in the lush vegetation. Loose blades of grass invaded her mouth, making her cough and splutter. She got to her hands and knees, caught her breath, and turned her head as an extended hand came into her line of vision.
The curse she was about to emit died on her lips as she glanced up into a face devoid of expression. But the hand offered was a gesture in itself. She accepted the assistance and was swiftly pulled to her feet. Play continued with no foul awarded—the referee deemed it a fair, full-blooded challenge.
Usually a meaningless, end-of-season encounter was played out with a little less fervour. Obviously, this opponent had other ideas if that last tackle was anything to go by. A knee in the back, a stray elbow to the jaw—this was getting ridiculous. Jessie had never come across this player; she would have remembered. She’d be hard to forget given the way she was stamping her authority all over this match and quite literally leaving her mark. Jessie’s irritation began to simmer just below the surface. The best way to get back at an opponent, she reminded herself, was to win.
She received the ball on the halfway line in the middle of the first half and ran straight at the two central defenders, hoping to confuse them and leave them uncertain as to who should challenge her. It was on. A quick one-two with the right winger, and she’d be in on goal. She knocked the ball out wide but never collected the return pass. Instead, she ran into the human equivalent of a brick wall as her match-day nemesis stepped right into her path. The impact dumped her onto her backside. This defender was deceptively strong for someone so tall and slim.
Once again, Jessie found herself staring at the outstretched hand. Shaking her head, she accepted the offer and was pulled to her feet.
“No hard feelings?” The voice was surprisingly quiet.
“Sure,” Jessie said to the defender, then whispered “not” under her breath. The slight stiffening in her opponent’s shoulders told Jessie she’d heard her. Oops.
The referee took appropriate action to the deliberate obstruction—a yellow card to the opposition number four and a free kick in the centre of the park, twenty yards from the goal. Jessie grinned. Perfect.
The wall lined up ten yards away, but Jessie could go either side with this. She took a short run up and struck the ball. She curled it around the wall and into the top left-hand corner of the net. Pinpoint accurate and with pace. The keeper had no chance.
“Yes!” Jessie leapt into the air, pumped her fist, and accepted the congratulations of her teammates.
Lothian Thistle, Jessie’s team, won a corner with only three minutes left of the first half. Everyone bunched together in the box, jostling for position. The number four had her hands firmly on Jessie’s waist. She struggled, feinted movement one way, then the other, but the woman’s hands were firmly fixed. She couldn’t get away from her, and the ball sailed harmlessly over their heads and out for a goal kick. All Jessie could do was glare fruitlessly at the back of the woman’s head while she refused to make eye contact. She was the most infuriating player Jessie had ever come up against. The whistle blew for half-time, and both teams made their way to their respective dressing rooms.
“Nice goal, Jessie,” Tom Matthews—the manager of Lothian Thistle—said. “We’re doing well out there, ladies. Keep passing the ball, and try to avoid injuries or bookings. Nothing reckless or rash.”
“Tell that to the opposition,” Jessie griped.
“I noticed you’re having a tough time with their number four.”
“Yeah.” Jessie waved her hand in frustration. “Who the hell is she anyway?”
“Fran Docherty, according to the team sheet. I’ve never heard of her before.” He looked around. “Anyone?” A few shrugs and shakes of the head along with a couple of “nos” was the collective response. “Maybe come up from down south,” Tom suggested as he scanned the dressing room, more laid-back than usual and a little subdued.
It had been a long, hard season for Thistle, and once again they’d come up agonisingly short of the league title. It was difficult to maintain any intensity with nothing left to play for. Jessie couldn’t blame her teammates. Most of them wanted to get this game over with and enjoy the off season. Personally, she wanted to increase her individual goal tally and finish the season as the league’s top goal scorer.
Tom’s team talk continued with less fire than usual. Clearly, he needed the break as much as the rest of them. Jessie knew he’d put his heart and soul into managing them this season. He’d taken Thistle from mid-table last season to league runners-up. But nine points between them and the league champions was a big gap. They still had plenty of room for improvement.
Jessie stretched her legs out in front of her, sipped from a water bottle, and mentally prepared for the final forty-five minutes of the season.
“Okay, go out there and enjoy the rest of the game, ladies,” Tom said. “Pass the ball around and keep possession. Don’t lose concentration and another goal or two would be great. All right, let’s go. One last effort!”
The second half began as the first had ended, until the Ayr Hawks team was awarded a corner. Fran Docherty came up from the back to add her considerable height to the penalty box. As the ball swung in from the left, Jessie knew they were in trouble. In the ensuing melee, Jessie was blocked, allowing Docherty to rise unchallenged and head the ball past the stranded keeper. The distinctive swish of the ball hitting the net was both familiar and unwelcome in its finality.
Docherty’s celebration was low key; her teammates patted her on the back as she jogged back into her defensive position with a nod. Jessie watched her adjust her socks, apparently more interested in her attire than the adulation of the small home crowd, enthusiastically clapping and chanting her name. She was tall, maybe six foot three, and skinny, with long black hair scraped back into a ponytail. Jessie thought she’d do better with a bit more muscle on her, but Docherty could play.
The game continued at half pace, both sides content to play the ball around without being overly zealous in challenges. Tackles were at a minimum, removing any real competitive edge from the encounter.
With twenty minutes left on the clock, the atmosphere of the game changed in a flash. A shot from Lothian’s captain, Andrea Miller, was deflected for a corner. Jessie again found herself being marked by the number four. Arms around her body kept her from breaking free and running into space. She attempted to shake off her marker, but those hands moulded to her breasts. Frustrated and embarrassed, Jessie swung around, and her palm connected with her opponents face in a flash.
The slap was so hard it echoed in the late spring air. Jessie’s palm stung, and a shrill blast on the whistle brought everyone to a standstill. There was none of the usual pushing or shoving that accompanied violent conduct. Fran Docherty stood rubbing her rapidly reddening cheek, while Jessie stared wide-eyed, shocked by the incident.
“Damn, you pack a wallop,” Docherty muttered. The handprint now showing on her face.
“Right, number nine, that’s enough from you.” The referee produced a red card and pointed to the changing rooms.
Jessie blinked once, staring at the red card, not quite believing it. She’d never been sent off before.
“Go on, you’re off.”
The referee’s words rang in her ears as Jessie made her way to the sideline and the home crowd erupted into a chant of “Cheerio, cheerio, cheerio.” Tom stared straight ahead, not returning her glance. Jessie dropped her gaze and walked to the changing room to wallow in her shame, self-pity, and anger.
She sat down on the wooden bench and removed her sweaty shirt, then pulled at the orange lace of her Nike boot. She held the boot in her hand for a moment before she launched it across the empty changing room. It smacked the wall with a satisfying thunk, spun across the tiled floor, and settled a few feet away from her.
Why had she let this opponent get the better of her? She’d been accidentally groped many times before in the heat of a match. It had been different this time. It had been overt and deliberate. The anger bubbled up within Jessie again. That woman had violated her on purpose and she’d instinctively lashed out.
Docherty had been trying to get under her skin throughout the game. To throw her off balance. To get her out of the game one way or another. She doubted that Docherty had expected to get her off the pitch, but she had certainly done everything in her p
Jessie was dressed and waiting when her teammates trudged into the dressing room. She plucked up the courage to ask. “What was the final score, guys?”
“We lost, 2-1,” Andrea Miller informed her, the tone of her voice carrying a hint of chastisement.
Jessie groaned. “I’m sorry I lost it out there.”
There were a few replies of “don’t worry about it” and “these things happen”, but not from the manager.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I let everyone down.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” he said, turning to address the room. “Good effort, girls. Third in the league isn’t too bad, we’ll do better next season. Now, get showered and dressed, and I’ll see you all in the clubhouse before we head back home.”
Today’s result had cost them second place as the team behind them had won their match and leapfrogged Thistle to the runner-up spot.
Jessie didn’t think she could possibly feel any worse as she sat among her teammates. Her melancholy stopped her enjoying the end-of-season high jinks, so she wandered outside to get some of the late spring air.
She made her way along the corridor to the entrance, where she saw a lone figure dressed in faded black jeans with a worn black leather jacket. Everything was black actually, including the scuffed boots and the wet hair.
Fran Docherty. Leaning casually on the side of the building, smoking.
The player who had groped, mauled, elbowed, pushed, and pulled her all over the football park. Jessie wanted to confront her, but she knew it was a bad idea. Having been sent off, she hadn’t had the chance to go through the custom of thanking and congratulating the opposition at the end of the game. She pushed her anger aside and went up to the tall woman. “I’m sorry I slapped you.”
Docherty stared at her as she took a long draw from her cigarette. Inhaling deeply, her gaze never left Jessie as she exhaled. “Don’t worry about it.” With those words she turned from Jessie and continued to stare out over the park, casually flicking ash from her cigarette tip.
Clearly, the conversation was over. While her apology had been acknowledged, Jessie wished she had never bothered. The woman infuriated her, on and off the pitch, and the sooner she got home and ended this day, the better.
Chapter 2
Parking in an empty spot, Jessie removed the keys from the ignition of her Volvo and gazed out over the open playing fields bathed in sunshine. Hope rose within her. A new season, a new start and, right now, anything was possible. A shiver of anticipation ran down her spine.
She loved pre-season training, especially the first day. Seeing her teammates again, meeting new ones, catching up on the off-season news, and falling back into the familiar camaraderie. But also, the hard work started today. The team would begin laying the foundation for the season ahead, the season in which Thistle would win the league—she could feel it. She knew Tom had it in him to push this team all the way to the top. It was one of the reasons she’d had no problems turning down offers from other clubs. Arsenal and Liverpool, the top two clubs in English women’s football, and Lyon, champions of Europe and probably the best football club in the world right now, had all asked to speak to her in regards to a move. But her life was here. Her business, her family, and her team. This was where she felt most at home. This was where she belonged.
She slid off her sunglasses and stowed them in the glove compartment before climbing out of the car and walking towards the clubhouse. A casual ease descended upon her as she entered the building to greet the many familiar faces she had missed over the past eight weeks.
“Hello, Mrs Jackson.” Jessie’s smile was wide. Ruth Jackson had that effect on everyone around her.
“Jessie!” The diminutive woman wiped her hands on a dishtowel and made her way around the counter to greet her visitor. Grabbing Jessie around the waist, she delivered a swift kiss to her cheek and squeezed tightly. “Stand back; let me get a good look at you.”
Jessie laughed. “It’s only been eight weeks, Ruth.”
“I know, but I need to be sure you’ve been taking care of yourself. Eating properly, not working too hard, and all that malarkey.” Ruth cast a judicious eye over Jessie, nodding her approval as she let go of her hands. “Not as tanned as I would’ve expected, but you’ll do.”
“Busy with the new office we opened, so no summer holiday for me this year.” Jessie picked an apple from the large bowl of fruit on the counter.
“How’s work? The newspapers keep saying that house sales are down. Are you and your dad doing all right? Do you want breakfast?” Ruth asked as she made her way back behind the serving counter. “I have scrambled eggs, wholemeal toast, some of those vegetarian sausages.”
“Thanks, Ruth, but I had a good breakfast before leaving.” Jessie bit into the juicy red apple. “And business is good. House sales are down, but the rental market is booming. People always need somewhere to live.”
“Truer words, Jessie. I’m glad it’s going well for you.” Ruth leant forward. “And I’m so glad you’re back. I thought we might be losing you to bigger and better things this time.” Ruth busied herself in the kitchen. She was like a mother to all the players, making sure there was always plenty of food to eat, and washing and ironing all the kit they used.
“I’m not going anywhere, Ruth. I’ve got all I need right here.” She took another bite of her apple. “Did you and George get away?”
“Lanzarote.” Ruth removed a tray from the oven, bringing it over to the hot plates. “It’s lovely. We have found a new favourite destination. The Spanish mainland was becoming too busy and noisy for us. We needed a change of pace. Now that the kids are grown up, we can relax and not worry about keeping anyone else entertained. We met some lovely couples too, more our age you know, early thirties.” She winked.
Jessie laughed. “You don’t look a day over twenty-five, Ruth.” Ruth was in her early fifties, but had a lovely complexion. That soft, almost wrinkle-free skin some women were lucky to have would always make her look younger than her years.
Exuberant voices from the hallway alerted them to new arrivals. “Here we go, Ruth, the new season is about to kick off.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Jessie! Ruthie!” A dark-skinned woman came running towards them.
“Hey, Soph, how you doing?”
Sophie Laing was a muscular, fit, central midfielder, with a broad Scottish accent honed on a Lanarkshire council estate. The engine room of the team, dependable and measured in her approach, she rarely made mistakes on the ball. She was a gym junkie, with a love for fast food and cakes.
“I’m good. Full English please, Ruthie.”
“Are you growing your hair?” Jessie rubbed the tight black curls in question.
“Kind of. I thought I might go for a bit of a ’fro.”
“I like it.” Jessie eyes moved to the counter as a large plate of food was deposited there. Sausage, beans, egg, bacon, tomatoes, and mushrooms.
“Any toast with that, Sophie?” Ruth asked.
“Just the two slices of white, with a large glass of fresh orange, please.”
Ruth beamed her endorsement “Coming right up.”
“Cheers, Ruth, I’ve really missed your cooking.” Sophie winked and grabbed her plate from the counter.
Jessie followed, glancing around the room as they went. It appeared that most, if not all, of her teammates were now in attendance, scattered around various tables chatting and finishing breakfast. One table in particular was extremely boisterous. “What’s going on over there?”
Sophie grinned. “Morven asked her girlfriend to marry her while they were in Barbados.”
Jessie’s eyes widened. The policewoman was forever stating she would never get hitched, that she was not the settling-down type. “How romantic.”
Sophie laughed. “She’s being teased rotten about it.”
