The rain was coming down in sheets. I could barely see the other side of the pitch. The pitch? That was a laugh; it was an incredibly muddy quagmire with next to no grass down the middle. I had played on better surfaces at the local park.The rain was coming down in sheets. I could barely see the other side of the pitch. The pitch? That was a laugh; it was an incredibly muddy quagmire with next to no grass down the middle. I had played on better surfaces at the local park...
 
 

Football Girl
Season 3 ~ Chapter 1
By Susan Brown

Copyright © 2021 Susan Brown

Previously...

The papers were full of the game the next morning. I had gone to bed in a knackerized state and I hadn’t bothered to watch the highlights of the match. Mummy always recorded my matches anyway and I thought that I might have a look later. Like all games, I had had a low feeling after the match. The huge adrenalin rush of the game always had a downside, especially if it was as exciting as that had been!

Andrea had gone back to school but promised to ring me later and regularly. I still felt it was a shame that she couldn’t be with me, attached to my hip all the time, but I recognised that her exams were important and she needed to concentrate.

Claire came into my bedroom just as I was getting out of my nightie.

‘Oooh, you could knock,’ I said.

‘What, yea, right. Look, see this.’

She had her iPad and as I slipped on my wrap, I went over to her and saw what she was talking about.

It was a YouTube clip of the game. Not about the game itself, but my antics where I was blowing kisses and doing little waves at the director’s box and then my courtesy to the crowd after the goal. Talk about embarrassing!

Then my parents came in, without knocking. I should just leave the door open, what was the point!

Daddy had some newspapers in his hand and pushed the top one in my face.

I groaned. I wasn’t back page news I was plastered all over the front!

‘Look at this.’

The curtsy picture was there in all its glory

The headline was:

Other papers had that picture and another one had me waving and blowing kisses and looking like a lovesick bunny. I just wished that the ground would open up and I could do an Alice dive down the hole.

Eventually, I was left alone to get dressed and as I slipped on a silky blouse, I smiled. Well it was a good game!

Next stop, the World Cup and I wondered what would happen. I hoped that it would be a great tournament and that I would do well. This year had had so many ups and downs and I was glad that it had finished on a high. I had my Andrea back and I had done well at the game that I loved.

Hiram was no more and Melchester had high hoped for the next season. I was still the media darling but I hoped sincerely that other girls would come forward and be picked to play for the top clubs. There were girls playing now who were the equal, in my opinion, to some of the men and I longed to play in a game which in all ways was equal and not mainly based on what you did or did not have between your legs.

Danni came in, without knocking. She was in her trackies.

She looked at me and tapped her watch.

‘What?’ I said.

‘You’ve forgotten.’

‘Forgotten what?’

‘The Rec.’

‘I’m not a wreck. I haven’t brushed my hair yet, but...’

‘Not wreck, stupid, The Recreation Ground. You promised to kick off the Under 12’s girls match at The Rec and they want you in your Melchester kit.’

I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand. I had forgotten the long-standing request.

‘Can’t I just wear this lovely blouse and my skirt?’ I whined.

‘No, they specifically requested that you wear your kit and you agreed.’

‘I did?’

‘You did.’

‘Blimey.’

And now finally, the story continues...

---

"Football is not just a matter of life and death: it's much more important than that"
Bill Shankly

---

The rain was coming down in sheets. I could barely see the other side of the pitch. The pitch? That was a laugh; it was an incredibly muddy quagmire with next to no grass down the middle. I had played on better surfaces at the local park.

It was so cold in my thin polyester kit and the wind seemed to go through me. I couldn’t feel the tips of my ears and my stiff nipples were poking out alarmingly into the fabric of my sports bra, (too much information!). I wondered if it was possible to have frostbite whilst playing football. I just wanted to cuddle up in bed with a hot water bottle or better still my girlfriend Andrea.

Why were we in this God-forsaken place? It was the FA Cup, and we were playing minnows Herington on their muddy pitch.

The stadium held three thousand people and it was full of locals who didn’t normally support the club. Herington’s normal crowds you could usually count in the hundreds rather than thousands. I didn’t begrudge them their moment of glory though. It wasn’t so long ago that I was playing in the local park fields with my mates and now here I was playing for the great Melchester and considered by many short-sighted people as a star.

I did say to the boss that I might break a leg or something playing on that pitch, but he didn’t care about me or my health.

‘Just get out there and play, yer Jessie. It’s what yer paid ridiculous amounts of money for. Half the crowd are women and they’ve come ter see yer.’

I still wondered what people saw in little me. all right, I was an OK player who had lots of luck and was in the right place at the right time when all that happened to me, erm happened.

So, what had happened to me?

Don’t believe everything that you have read about me, including that ridiculous biography by that supreme nutter Bob Ferris. How they allowed him to publish that drivel whilst still in prison, I would never know, but we are suing the pants off him for defamation and we have every chance of success.

For those who haven’t read about me, this is the potted version.

I am Susan Hurst, once known as Mark.

I was a weedy kid who loved to play football. I had an abusive stepdad and a mum who was under his thumb.

I was playing football with my mates and a scout from Melchester thought that I was something special. I had a trial with Melchester and somehow got signed up.

My stepdad found me in bed wearing a nightie. I had always thought that I was a girl and he thought that I was a fucking tranny, (sorry, his words).

He hit me and then threw me out. Mum was scared of him and wouldn’t leave him. Jeff, who owned the café near the football pitches and who I sometimes worked part-time, said I could live above the café until something could be sorted out for me.

I always consider that Jeff and Josie, his wife, are almost like second parents to me and I love their young twins, Daisy and Poppy and who I regularly babysat for.

Anyway, long story short, I went to Melchester for a trial and by a series of flukes managed to get myself signed up for the club, started earning mouth-watering amounts of money and I never looked back, as far as football was concerned.

My personal life wasn’t so lucky though. My mum was beaten badly by my stepdad and went to live with my Auntie Chris up in bonny Scotland.

Tragically, she was killed by my hated stepdad and he subsequently died himself. I didn’t go to his funeral.

Luckily for me, I was adopted by Jeff and Josie and I love them and the twins more than I can say.

I started to make a name for myself on the field, but I had medical problems which resulted in my landing up in hospital and after tests, I was found to be, in fact, a girl, not a boy.

Confusing isn’t it?

After that, several things happened personally and at the club and if you want to know more, you should read my autobiographies called, not very originally Football Girl 1 and 2, (at a bookshop near the Amazon).

Anyway, back to the game.

We were 1-0 down, due to a penalty that went against us. I had no idea what happened as I was busy picking myself up off the floor at the time. Anyway, they scored and as it was in the 85th minute, we were well and truly up against it.

We were onto a hiding to nothing. If we won, it was just as expected and if we lost, we would be the laughingstock of football. The other team were part-timers and had a doctor, a dentist, a painter and decorator and an undertaker amongst their players. We were the highly paid professionals who should have walked all over them, but didn’t.

I had had a bad game. Most of my football involved playing along the ground and jinking about, tying defences in knots. I couldn’t jink on that mess of a pitch and I slipped and slid about like Bambi on a frozen pond. Not very elegant and I was about as much use as a chocolate teapot.

The opposition was much more used to this type of pitch and made the most of it. Why they weren’t 10-0 up, I would never know. Only some nifty work by our keeper and backline kept the hoards at bay.

I kept looking over at the bench and saw that Sandy McPherson was not a happy bunny. Our esteemed manager was not used to being beaten like this and his comments from the side-line were far from complimentary. I learned a few new swear words that day, words that I would not repeat in pleasant company, but would make notes of for future reference.

We had had a few substitutions in the second half but, it made no difference, we were being outplayed and we knew it. Ogsood, our main striker had hit the post and the crossbar, but nothing would go in. I had had a few shots on goal, but they were easily saved by their keeper, who was the leering sort who didn’t think much of my efforts.

We were now in the 89th minute and it seemed all up for us. I was knackered- sorry rather worn out, and I had little left in my legs. The ball somehow slithered towards me when our keeper miss-hit the ball and luckily, by a quirk of fate, it came towards me. I decided that I might at least try to do something - anything.

The rest of the team were not anywhere near me and seemed to be camped out in our half waiting for the whistle to go, so that could have a cup of hot chocolate with optional marshmallows back in the dressing room.

The Herington team were all in front of me. I think that they were defensively trying to hang on to what they got and I didn’t blame them one bit.

So it was little me against them.

I couldn’t do much with the ball on the ground, so I punted it up in the air, over two Neanderthals who were more interested in doing me grievous bodily harm than anything to do with the ball.

I ran around them, nearly slipping over but miraculously staying on my feet. They collided with each other in a tangle of hairy legs and I just carried on. I was twenty yards from the goal when the whole Herington team seemed to try to get at me as the keeper came off his line with a look that would have curdled milk. If looks could kill, I would have been six feet under at that point.

I had no idea where my team were, probably cleaning the mud off their collective fingernails, and I was feeling a bit lonely and somewhat exposed.

Anyway, I could hear the thunder of hooves, sorry boots coming up from behind and the keeper rushed towards me.

I kicked the ball as hard as I could roughly towards the goal and promptly fell onto my backside. The ball looped over the keeper, hit the underneath of the crossbar, then on the mucky ground, it slowly spun over the line before the desperate defenders could get to it.

GOAL!

An hour and a half later, I was sitting in the coach on the way back to Melchester. A 1-1 draw and we were very lucky to get it. I could imagine the headlines the next day.
Plucky Herington cruelly denied a win by a fluke goal by Susan Hurst.

I think that the Herington board were quite pleased with that result as it meant that they would have a nice pay-out for the return leg at Melchester.

It had taken me ages to get the mud out of my various nooks and crannies. I was lucky to be able to change and get cleaned up in the groundsman’s house that adjoined the pitch. There was no way that I was going to use the communal showers that the boys used! The groundsman’s wife was lovely and we had a nice chat after my shower. She was a hairdresser in her day job and she helped me with my rather long hair. It’s a pig to dry at the best of times.

Luckily, I didn’t have to wear anything posh on the way home as we were all wearing our Melchester trackies. I did manage to slap on a bit of makeup though, as this girl has her standards and I always liked to look as pretty as I could despite my shortcomings.

Mummy always says that I have a low opinion of myself and I probably have. But I think that this was a result of my upbringing and detested stepdad who was always putting me down and making me feel that I was less than worthless.

As I sat in the coach and watched the miles go by, I thought a bit about the last year. A year that changed the world. Covid had killed and cruelly cut short many lives. Hospitals had been overwhelmed and the economy almost ruined by a tiny bug that you couldn’t see. I was saddened as I had lost my lovely Auntie Chris to that dreadful disease. She had been the final link that I had to my mum.

It all put my so-called successes into context. I would have been happier to save just one life than to be football player of the year and golden boot winner. The World Cup had been postponed and that would take place this summer, all being well. No one can make concrete plans though as there are still a few countries that stubbornly resisted entirely controlling that terrible disease.

The UK had been lucky, if that’s the word, to have been at the forefront in trying to control the virus and our lives were more or less back to normal with shops entertainment and leisure industries finally all up and running.

I sighed. I hated these gloomy thoughts. I was lucky to live in a happy home with loved ones around me. I didn’t have to worry about where the next meal was coming from and I had more than enough money already aged just 17 for me to not have to ever work again. So why did I feel guilty?

My shrink (yes I have one of those) says that it's survivors guilt. Many people felt that at the moment, and I she says that I should try to be a bit more positive and not blame myself for the world’s ills. Heavy stuff, but I am trying hard to be more positive and I do that by being the best person I can be, help others when I can, be the best footballer in the world (that’s a joke, by the way) and not so self-critical.

Eventually, I fell asleep and only woke up when we arrived at the training ground, just past midnight. Yawning hugely, I could see Daddy was waiting by his car. I wearily said my farewells to my teammates and tumbled into the car.

‘Good game?’

‘Crappy.’

‘I saw it on TV. It wasn’t your best, but at least you scored.’

‘I’m surprised you could see anything through that driving rain.’

‘Yes, I was glad I was in the nice and warm. I shivered just looking at it.’

‘Mmm.’

As per usual, I was in my post-game blues mode. It was always that way after a game, win lose or draw, the adrenaline that kept me sort of hyper came down with a bang after playing. It didn’t bother me or anyone who knew me. I would be back to my usual sunny self the next day unless it was that time of the month where I just want to throw things about. That joy of joys was still about two weeks away and I was thankful for that. Hay-ho, the joys of being a girl!

A girl, that was me, not a boy wanting to be a girl. It was still almost unbelievable that I was a girl after all. For years, I thought that I was a girl in my mind only and I so envied everyone lucky enough to be a physical girl. It took a smallish operation to reveal that I had been, in fact, intersexed but with a very strong leaning to female as my boy parts were next to non-functioning and my girly bits were pretty well in full working order. That meant that when I was ready, I could probably have children and that sort of blew my mind.

Somehow, I fell asleep and dreamt of Andrea, the love of my life who had once been Andrew, my best mate when we were both in boy mode.

I awoke smiling as we drove up to our home, the huge house that had been home since all this madness began.

It was nice to be home again, It was my refuge and safe place against the pressures that my life had propelled me into a few short years before.

Everyone else was in bed and after giving a good night kiss to Daddy, I sleepily went up to my room, got undressed, and after doing my usual; clean-up and teeth routine, I got into bed and I was back in the land of nod almost before my head hit the pillow.

I felt a gentle kiss on my lips.

Opening my eyes, I smiled. Next to me in bed was Andrea looking as lovely as usual.

‘Hi honey,’ I said.

‘Hi you too, sweetie-pie.’

I kissed her and she kissed me. We were both wearing thin satin nighties and I wanted to do something naughty with her so much I could almost taste it. I would have loved for things to go further, much further but we had agreed that we would leave that final act of love until we were married. Yes, at the ripe old age of 16 we had decided that we would be married, but agreed that we would wait until we were at least twenty-one.

I hate it when we went all sensible, but our parents agreed with it and that was that. I was reminded that my original mum and dad had married when they were teenagers and look what happened to them!

It didn’t mean that Andrea and I couldn’t get up close and personal on a regular basis and this wasn’t the first time that we had shared a bed together. I think our parents knew but seemed to look the other way or rather not look at all! They trusted us and no way would betray that trust. Anyway, there are some things you can do that almost and I say almost compensate for not having full-on sex and was just this side of legal (I think!) and we enjoyed ourselves as much as we could, whilst staying just about the right side of chaste!

As I say, I was pretty sure that our parents knew about what we got up to but trusted us not to go too far. Mind you, it was slightly hypocritical on their part as I happened to know that Mummy and Daddy had done the deed when they were younger than us.

Andrea still had the necessary equipment to erm, do the deed, but it was difficult, as she was now on blockers a little bit on the limp side (sorry, too much information!). She had some wriggly things stored away for a rainy day and I hoped that we might be able to make use of them when the time was right.

After a bit of tonsil gymnastics, we reluctantly got up. I was pleased that it was Sunday and wasn’t required to go to the training ground. I could lead a life of leisure, at least for one day, Although Mummy had other ideas. For some reason, she expected us to keep our rooms tidy. I did say that we could have a few people hired to do that, let’s face it, I could afford it, but she’s old fashioned in that way and so I had to do some menial work.

Sometimes life is just not fair.

Andrea shot off for a cold shower, leaving me to tidy my room and get ready for the day ahead. Once I prettied myself up, which took a while as I never knew what to wear, I went downstairs to our humongously large sitting room to find Daddy re-watching the game from yesterday. I hated seeing myself on the screen but was drawn to the antics. It was like a knockabout comedy where everyone was falling about in the mud. Even the ref went over on his bum and I smiled at that.

Looking at the goal I scored, I winced, knowing that YouTube would have a field day on that one. It looked particularly interesting in slow motion. All credit to Herington, they had pegged us back and taken advantage of the conditions better than we had.

Sky Sports interviewed Sandy and I could see him gritting his teeth whilst congratulating the opposition on their performance. He didn’t say anything much about how we played except that it had been difficult, and he would look forward to seeing Herington back at Melchester.

I wondered what he would say the next day at training. I wasn’t looking forward to it!

After the match finished, Daddy looked up at me.

‘Never mind love, you can’t win them all.’

I grimaced, not being a good loser.

Anyway, don’t forget this afternoon.’

‘What about this afternoon?’

‘Cover Girl Magazine is coming to do an interview. I did say.’

‘When, I don’t remember?’

‘About two weeks ago and I put it in your diary.’

‘Oh, I forgot. Can’t you say that I’m ill or something?’

I coughed delicately.

‘We’ve had this conversation before, you have media commitments and you have to honour them. You don’t want to be accused of being difficult, do you?’

‘Who me?’

‘Yes you.’

I sighed. I was doing a lot of that lately.

‘I suppose I have to glam up?’

‘You love dressing nicely.’

‘But this was supposed to be my day off.’ I whined.

‘Don’t whine.’

‘I do not whine, I’m just saying.’

‘Look, it’s not until 3 pm, you have plenty of time to do your own thing and then get ready.’

‘Men, you take five minutes to get ready for anything. Us girls need time, at least two hours for a something like this and I don’t have a anything to wear.’

He laughed.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘You have a walk-in wardrobe with more clothes than a high-end shop.’

‘You just don’t understand!’

‘Probably not. Now I have some work to do in the office. See you later.’

With that, he strolled out without a care in the world leaving me to fester about what I should be wearing.

Parents!

It’s hard being a girl sometimes.

~*~

With the help of Claire, Andrea’s sister, I managed to find something to wear that hadn’t been used before for interviews. It was an ivory Valentino, short, embroidered dress in stretch crepe couture. It was lovely and I felt wonderful wearing it. I think Andrea had her eyes on it and I could see that she was dying to try it on.

Well, she would have to wait her turn!

Cream coloured Kurt Geiger sandals completed the look and I liked the way my coral painted toesies looked and matched my fingernails and lip gloss. My hair shone and my makeup was impeccable. Not my doing, but the Cover Girl makeup lady had come forty-five minutes before the interview to make me look presentable. I wasn’t trusted to do it myself for some reason.

Looking at myself in the mirror once the makeup lady had finished, I almost didn’t recognise little me. Considering what I looked like after the game the day before, it was like chalk and cheese. There was a picture of me on the back page of one of the papers after the game and I was unrecognisable as a human being, let alone a girl.

As usual on these things, Sheila my media guru was there to lend a hand and make sure that the interviewer didn’t ask questions of a dubious nature.

Marcia Grundy was I suppose, about 30, tall, thin and impeccably dressed in a power suit. Her snap-happy photographer was somewhat overweight and more casually dressed in a tee-shirt and jeans. He smelled of cigarette smoke and that didn’t enamour him to me. I held my breath whenever he wafted in my direction.

I sat on the sofa trying to look all sophisticated and probably failing whilst Marcia sat upright on a high-backed chair looking rather prim and proper.

‘So, Sue…’

‘Susan please.’

I hate my name being abbreviated.

‘Sorry; Susan how are you finding things post-lockdown?’

‘Well Marcia, I am luckier than many people in that it hasn’t impacted on me as much as others, although I did lose my Aunt and I haven’t really gotten over that yet.’

I felt my eyes smart and I blinked back my tears. It was still all too raw for me to want to discuss it.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said with a sincerity that somehow didn’t reach her eyes, which seemed a bit cold and calculating.

‘What about the football side of things. When crowds weren’t let into games, did it affect you?’

‘Of course. I think most players react to the atmosphere that crowds generate and I’m pleased that we can now get back to normal.’

‘Are you happy with the way you are playing?’

‘Apart from the Herington game, yes, I suppose so.’

‘How does it feel to be the only girl playing in a man’s game?’

‘It isn’t only a man’s game and it hasn’t been for many years. In fact, well before the First World War, crowds were as high if not higher than the men’s game for a time.’

‘But you are the only girl playing in the men’s Premier league.’

‘I hope that I won’t be the last.’

She asked several other questions relating to how I managed to survive in a man’s game and it was all getting a bit repetitive and I was beginning to wish that she would just go away. Then she changed tack.

‘How has your personal life been affected by being one of the country’s most famous woman footballer?’

‘No personal questions,’ Interjected Sheila.

A look of annoyance flashed across Marcia’s face.

‘Our readers would like to know how Susan ticks.’

‘I’m sure they would, but Susan is still a minor and therefore vulnerable.’

‘Let me answer Sheila. Obviously, things are very different if I hadn’t been thrust into the limelight, but I have a loving family and loyal friends around me to help me and I am very grateful for that.’

‘Do you have any particular special friends?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Are you seeing anyone? Do you have a boy or girlfriend at the moment? I did hear that you are sweet on a girl called Andrea and that she is living with you…’

Sheila stood up.

‘The interview is over. Your editor promised no personal questions and latterly that is all you have been asking. Do not print any article that breaks that promise or there will be trouble.’

‘I hope that you aren’t threatening me. The public has a right to know…’

‘No, they do not. As I have already said, Susan is a minor and as such, has the protection of the law. We will sue if you publish or pass on any information to other news outlets that has not been expressly allowed. Please leave now.’

Marcia looked like she was not used to being spoken to like that, but she got up and with a nod to her photographer, walked out without another world.

I was a mere spectator in this and I wasn’t too upset except for her reference to my Andrea. I wanted that part of my life to remain strictly private. Many times, reporters had tried to find out things that I did not want them to know about and I knew that this was the price I had to pay for being in the limelight and supposedly famous. However, why should my friends and relatives be subjected to this sort of intrusion?

‘I’m sorry Susan, I should have seen that one coming. Her editor will be hearing from me. The magazine will be on the banned list for interviews from now on; their loss.’

We chatted about it for a few minutes and then I left them to it and went to find Andrea.

I found her in the cinema room with Claire. They were watching some rom-com, I didn’t know which one. I just sat next to Andrea, held her hand and watched along. I wanted to forget the interview and but I must admit, I didn’t take much of the film in, as my mind was running over what had just happened.

I had thought that I wasn’t too affected by the interview but I suppose that that was some sort of defence mechanism; you know, head in the sand sort of thing. I was just 16, what would it be like when I’m 26. I had heard stories about how some sportsmen couldn’t handle the fame and fortune and had turned to drink and drugs.

I remembered a time when I had, thankfully briefly, started to drink secretly. It was when things started to get on top of me, but I had been found out and put back on the straight and narrow. I had to remember how lucky I was and I also had to remember that, for better or worse, I was something of an influencer. Thousands of girls and not a few boys looked at what I did and how I behaved, I had well over 5 million YouTube followers now from around the world and goodness know how many on other platforms.

Everything I said or did, could affect others. It was a heavy responsibility and I wondered sometimes what would be like to just be an ordinary girl, maybe working in a clothes shop and doing what most girls find normal like being able to go shopping or go out for something to eat or to the cinema without being recognised.

I cuddled into Andrea and could smell her perfume. Sighing, I realised that if none of this had happened, I probably wouldn’t have her and I wouldn’t be sitting there in our lovely house surrounded by people who loved me as much as I loved them.

I should be thankful and I was.

The next few days were sort of back to normal. The team had recovered from the farcical match against Herington and we looked forward to thrashing them when they came to our ground.

That isn’t being big headed. I didn’t begrudge Herrington’s moment of glory, but we were full time professionals and should have done better, regardless of the state of the pitch.

As a commentator once said, ‘football is a funny old game.’

One cold morning, we were at the training complex. I was on lighter training than the others as I had slightly pulled a thigh muscle and was thankful for that, as the team was being put through its paces by Mike Thomas, who used to be the reserve team manager but was now number 2 to the boss. So, it was just stretching and gentle jogging for me and sadistic, full-on, gut-wrenching, lung-bursting drills for the others. Members of the reserve squad were normally there at the same time as us and we often had a training match between the squads which was very competitive, but they were on the way to a mid-week match against Stockton down in Devon, so there weren’t as many players around.

Sandy was prowling about, looking menacing and saying a few choice Scottish swear words. Well, I think they were swear words, as half of the things that our esteemed manager said needed to have sub-titles. He was almost as bad as the England manager, Olaf Johannsen.

Talking of Johannsen, we had a few friendly internationals coming up. The World Cup was on in the Summer after it had been postponed because of the pandemic and we needed to get up to speed. I say we, assuming that I would be picked, of course. In this game, you take nothing for granted.

Daddy was on the side-line, talking on his mobile; I rarely saw him without it. He was a partner of John Prentiss, my agent and they had a large, successful agency that covered most sports. He also did a few things for Melchester that were below the radar and wouldn’t speak about and was evidently on a retainer. I think that he spotted youth talent and pointed them in the direction of Melchester, but when pressed on the subject, he told me not to be nosy. Me, nosy? Never!

Dannie, one of the two members of my protection detail, was standing discretely over to the side looking a bit bored but ever watchful. I should be safe there, but you never know.

What a sad world it was that I had to have protection people.

As I jogged up and down trying to work the kinks out of my leg, I could hear a buzzing noise coming from above. I looked up; there was a drone about a hundred feet up above training ground, stationary and no doubt videoing us. This had happened a few times before, as the news media and we suspected other clubs, tried to get juicy and interesting videos of our training systems and us players getting all sweaty.

Suddenly, almost all at once, several mobile phones went off amongst the training staff. The guys on the pitch had been going hell for leather in the practice match but one or two players got distracted and looked over to see what was going on. As soon as Mike Thomas noticed the drone, he blew the whistle and called all the players off the pitch. I noticed that Sandy was on his phone, talking animatedly and he looked as worried Daddy.

What on Earth was going on?

Sandy ended his call and called us all over. He looked as sick as a parrot and his normally ruddy face looked deathly pale. I wondered if he was ill.

‘Bad news, the reserve team coach has been in a crash. They had a breakdown on the motorway an’ pulled over to the side. It’s a smart motorway an’ the lane should ha’ been shut. But before they could exit the coach, a bloody great lorry smashed inter the back o’ them an’ some reports say that some of our people have been hurt. I don’t have any other news. Trainin’ has finished for the day. Don’t speak to any reporters. I suggest that yer go home and await developments. We’ll let ye have any news when we have some.’

Please leave comments and kudo thingies...thanks! ~Sue

If you are enjoying this story, Season 1 and 2 are available here: https://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/book-page/61289/football-girl...
Also, the books are available on here for 1 month, so that you can catch up...Enjoy!