The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3122 by Angharad Copyright© 2017 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.

We were led down to the player’s area and the young woman who took us knocked on the door and it was eventually opened by a middle aged man I half recognised. He certainly recognised Henry and they smiled at each other before nodding, “Can I show the Cameron family in?” he called back to someone in the room beyond the door a male voice shouted something and he pulled back the door and waved us through.

Seeing as we were in an area the public only see via the TV or on guided tours, I should have felt more honoured, instead I felt impatient to see and hold my daughter who as far as I knew was still shocked or concussed. The foul was blatant and unnecessary and I hoped the player concerned gets hanged, drawn and quartered—if they like I’ll do it for them, I have a penknife and bit of string.

“Where’s my daughter?” I asked several times before someone went through another door and brought her through to us. She had a massive bruise on the side of her face and her eye was closing.

She almost ran to me and I hugged her tightly. “I hope that woman gets the full punishment, what she did was just cynical if not downright evil on a fourteen year old,” I said angrily.

“Don’t worry, Lady Cameron, we’ll see that UEFA put the boot in so to speak. But I agree, it was a blatant bit of cynicism and has no place in football, especially at this level.”

“I reckon it saved ’em at least one if not two more goals, the way Danielle was playing, she’d opened ’em twice and they were starting to look frayed round the edges,” offered Henry.

“I agree entirely, this young lady is probably one of the most gifted youngsters I’ve seen for a long while and I think once the film of this match goes out tonight on Sky sports, the bigger teams are going to be knocking on your door,” forecast the man from the FA.

“I take it you mean, ladies teams?” I said to clarify things as Danni could never survive against men players.

“Yes, the Manchester teams or London ones, possibly even Reading.”

“What, Chelsea?” piped a voice from inside my hug.

“Very possibly, you’re going to need an agent, girl and I have just the person for the job.”

“Who’s that?” asked Henry, “I only want the best for my granddaughter?”

“Stan Pickersgill—d’you know him?”

“He wasn’t that pervy bloke I saw when I was on the board at Arsenal?”

“Nah, that was his elder brother, Ted. Stan is okay and he’ll get the best deal for the kid.”

“She already has a contract with Portsmouth,” I said unaware of whether that could be a problem, though the thought of her travelling to Manchester was horrifying simply in terms of the distance from home, even Reading would be a pain unless she was a bit older and studying at the university.

“If one of the big clubs was interested, they buy the remainder no problem. Women’s soccer is going places, especially with talent like young Danielle’s.”

I immediately thought of the publicity when the tabloids found out she was transgendered. “I hope, given her history, that isn’t going to be a problem.”

“Lady Cameron, we are aware of Danielle’s medical history and we are committed to demonstrating we are a full equal opportunities organisation. Danielle meets the criteria set down by the governing body of sport, not just football and we are proud to have her represent us both on and off the pitch.”

I blushed but knew she was a really nice kid with just the right mixture of guts, determination and charm. That she was quite a pretty girl also helped having transitioned before puberty visited, thanks to Pia and her surgical skills—not.

I could feel the energy working on Danni’s face and I hoped anywhere else she’d taken injury. “Can we take her home with us?” I asked as innocently as I could.

“We usually have a debriefing post game, but she knows what she’s doing and she did get a bit of a clatter, yes, she can go home with you.” The girls approved and danced about and I felt Danni squeeze me tightly showing her approval too.

So instead of the train, Henry’s limo took us all home except Simon and Henry, they took a cab back to Canary Wharf and a late evening meeting.

“You was fab, Daniewwe,” offered Meems and the others offered their own congratulations in their own way, even Trish admitted she would have struggled with the bicycle kick. I tried not to snort too loudly, she has neither the skill nor the coordination to pull off something like that, nor I suspect, the inclination. It’s also very dangerous as the person performing the kick is very vulnerable up in the air to being kicked or landing badly. Plus of course, only really skilled and extrovert players even think of it, it is very much the show off’s manoeuvre. When I had a chance I’d speak with Danielle about it and what the options might have been, but for now, she was enjoying the buzz the match had given her and the regard her sisters held her in—for tonight anyway—tomorrow was another day.

By the time we reached home, the bruising on her face had faded quite a lot and by tomorrow, she’d be back to her pretty self again. I invited the chauffer in for a cuppa, which he accepted and as he had to go back to collect Henry from the meeting, it was a short pit stop for him.

Tom, Stella and the girls, including the little ones, were encouraged to watch the highlights on the telly. I sat in my study with a cup of tea and pile of emails to answer, I couldn’t bear to watch her being bashed and bumped by the Russian giants, especially that last brutal foul which had her taken off. I hope I never meet that bitch anywhere or I might just forget I’m a lady and knock her block off.

At bedtime, Tom read to the girls and Danni came in to see me, “Thanks for coming to watch, Ma.”

“Ma—I’ll give you, Ma, young lady.” She smirked and I smiled. “I won’t say it was my pleasure because I felt every tackle you took and that foul at the end, that was so disgraceful.”

“We had them worried, Mummy, they’re supposed to be one of the best women’s teams in the world and we had them under the cosh. Gramps was right, if they hadn’t taken me out, I reckon I’d have had two more goals and it would have turned into a rout.”

“It was hardly in the spirit of the game though, was it? Play up, play up and play the game,” I said wondering if she knew what I meant.

“Oh God, not Newbolt, ‘There’s a restless hush,’” she quoted. “We did it in poetry last term, didn’t go down too well in the First World War, did it?”

“It’s bit old fashioned and jingoistic, but the premise of playing fair isn’t, leastways, not to me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, then hugged me and pecked me on the cheek, “Night, Mummy and thanks for being you,” with that she was gone.

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