Unperfect
: Chapter 21

Mia

“What am I doing?” I muttered under my breath as I approached the beach. My steps slowed to a crawl when I saw the large group of mostly men running at each other and chucking a rugby ball between them. Yaz was the first to notice I’d stalled. She spun on her flip flop (it was the first time the flip flops had made sense to me) and grabbed my hand.

“You look like we’re dragging you off to be a human sacrifice,” she said, giving my hand a firm tug and pulling me forward in her wake. “It’s just rugby!”

“Rugby is one of the most dangerous sports you can play,” I told her, coming to a halt again. “I googled it. You guys are mad.”

Yaz rolled her eyes as she jogged back to me, her mass of curls pinned on top of her head and a rugby top falling off one shoulder. She was wearing the same orange and red top as the men had on, apart from, whilst theirs were skin-tight and reached their waists, hers was baggy and fell halfway down her thighs. The wide neck and the sleeveless element meant that most of her sports bra was showing.

I’d chosen the most conservative active wear outfit I could replace from the extensive selection Yaz had given me – but even that seemed to be showing an uncomfortable amount of cleavage and there were panels cut out of the leggings with black see-through material instead of opaque lycra. I hadn’t felt so exposed in months.

“It’s touch rugby, you muppet,” she said as she drew up next to me and took my hand to pull me along.

“Where is the girls’ pitch?” I asked, looking up and down the beach.

Yaz bit her lip. “Okay, don’t kill me.”

“Yaz.” I drew out her name and stopped in my tracks.

“You wouldn’t have come if I said it was all blokes. Come on, Mia. Just try it. For me?” I sighed and allowed her to tug me forward.

“I thought you said it was non contact,” I muttered as two of the men slammed into each other and went down together onto the sand.

“Oh that’s just them mucking about like toddlers,” Yaz told me dismissively. “They’re just warming up.”

They did not look even remotely like toddlers to me – they looked huge and intimidating with their tight sleeveless tops stretched over broad chests and showing off a fair amount of arm muscle porn. I was about to melt into a puddle of pure lust or pure fear into the sand. What I was not about to do was get out there amongst them.

I was making progress, but this still might be a step too far. After my scene in the hairdressers Yaz and Verity both talked to me about counselling. Verity even offered for the company to pay for it privately. But I remembered the number the refuge had given me and decided to try there first.

I nearly didn’t go into the first session, as I just did not think anybody was going to be able to help me, let alone a man. But Ismal was kind and patient. He practised something called eye movement desensitisation reprocessing therapy, which, he explained, used the technique of directing a person’s eye movement while encouraging them to relieve past events. He said it was often used to treat trauma and would help me to talk about what had happened to me. Gradually he eased me into it. Last week I was able to tell him about one of Nate’s attacks. During my recount of it, he encouraged me to focus on my fear and my powerlessness, whilst at the same time watching his hand moving side to side in front of me. Somehow, after doing that, the incident just seemed to lose power. The fear lessened. He also taught me a technique called ‘tapping’, which helps to ground someone during a flashback or with intrusive, negative thoughts. Just as when I watched Ismal’s finger, the physical stimulation of tapping one finger on the top of my other hand took me out of the terror – focused me on the present.

Since that first session I went to see Ismal every week. As well as the tapping and desensitisation therapy, he helped me practise rationalising negative thoughts, and stopping myself from going down the black hole into anxiety.

It had given me hope. Nate hadn’t broken me. Not yet. And with hope came courage. But did I have the courage for this? I doubted it.

“Yo! Willy wavers!” Yaz shouted as she jogged onto the beach and punched the nearest man on his impressive bicep with her tiny fist.

“My God, she’s totally nuts,” I whispered, staying firmly where I was.

“Listen up, Y chromosomes!” Yaz shouted again. “We’ve got a newbie, so can you try to behave less like frustrated gay men trying to cop a feel of each other, and more like actual sportsmen.”

“What about the actual gay sportsmen?” one of the guys piped up.

“Tim, as an actual gay man whose husband is watching, you especially might wanna tone down the man cuddles.”

“S’okay,” an attractive man in a checked shirt called from his position sitting on a wall next to the beach. “Tim can touch other boys. I’m good with it.” And he did look very good with it. His smile was huge. I noticed there were a fair few other people standing and sitting with him, mostly women and some kids. They all looked very ok with the on-pitch action. I was guessing I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the arm porn and tight outfits.

“Hey, Mia.” A large red and orange chest filled my field of vision. I looked up to see Heath’s open, smiling face. “Max mentioned you were going to join the madness.”

I gave a nervous laugh and started to inch backwards. “This may have been mis-sold. I’m actually a netball player, so maybe I’ll just …”

“Bollocks, mate,” Yaz said, giving me a small shove forward. “Same skills just different shaped ball.”

“Er … I don’t know whether-”

“Number Five!” Max greeted me as he jogged up to us, a huge smile on his face. “I’ll sit this one out with you and explain it all.”

Before I could tell him that I’d decided to make my way home and that rugby did not look like my kind of thing, he’d enclosed my hand in his big, warm one and was pulling me along to where the others were standing at the side. He introduced me to a few of the women and to Tim, the gay partner, who had an adorable small baby strapped to his chest. They all sent our still-joined hands curious looks. Most were friendly, but a couple of the women shot me some fairly strong side-eye when they thought I wasn’t looking. Being as watchful as I was had its advantages, but knowing when people were talking about me behind my back wasn’t one of them.

We stayed on the sidelines for two games. Max explained the rules whilst intermittently cheering for Teddy who was on the pitch. Teddy was as tall as the others, but he hadn’t quite developed as much bulk. Luckily this didn’t seem to matter for touch rugby. What mattered was speed. That was where Teddy had the advantage. He could outrun most of the other men and didn’t even seem out of breath – the joys of being a teenager. Yaz also had speed on her side, and her small size seemed to work to her advantage – she slipped past and jinxed around the larger men, even at one stage going through a set of legs to score a try.

“Come on, Number Five,” Max said after a half hour of watching. “Give it a chance.”

“I don’t think so,” I said, refusing to move as he attempted to tug me forward. “I’ll just stay over here. You go back and–”

“Ah, I see,” Max said, dropping my hand and nodding to himself. “It is a lot more complicated and fast paced than netball. I can understand how you might replace it intimidating.” He grinned at me. I knew what he was doing. I knew he was trying to goad me into playing. It didn’t stop the reflex flash of anger go through me at his words. Netball was all about speed and agility. At my peak I could run rings around these guys whatever the shape of the ball.

“Fine,” I grumped, jogging past him onto the sand. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You and your misogyny can kiss my arse.”

“That’s the way, sister!” shouted Yaz, high fiving me as I ran past her. “You stick it to the patriarchy!”

I gave her a weak smile as I took up a position on the field. Max was still grinning as he moved to the opposing side. I rolled my eyes at him but focused on the ball. As I realised just how big the men surrounding me were I felt a low flutter of fear in my chest. Before I had time to launch into a full-blown panic attack the whistle went and the ball was flying my way. Despite being distracted I somehow caught it, but it took a minute to remember that, unlike netball, you could actually run with this ball.

Over the next hour I started to get a feel for the game. I kept forgetting you couldn’t pass forwards, stopping with the ball, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, but I was slowly getting it – I was holding my own. But then I realised that was an illusion. Of course I was holding my own because they were letting me – not tagging me as much, not seeing me as a threat.

Making me a charity case.

Again.

I’d had enough of being a charity case. So, during the last game, as soon as I got hold of the ball I swallowed down my fear and ran straight for the two men directly in front of me. They were both smiling at me like I was a dog learning to walk on its hind legs rather than a fellow sportsman. Somewhere, deep down inside, my competitive spirit, which had been squashed for so long, began to unfurl. When I was feet away from the guys I feinted to the left but at the last minute jinxed right to skim around them just out of arm’s reach. I looked back, saw Heath was ready, and passed to him. Once he had the ball he made a run for the line. I knew he wasn’t going to make it. I screamed his name as he was tagged, keeping my position on the far side of the pitch. The ball sailed over the other players towards me. I thought it would be impossible to reach but I jumped into the air, extending my left hand to just manage to tag it with my fingertips and bring it back to the safety of my right. As soon as I had possession I made a run for it and scored a try just before Max tagged me.

“Brilliant!” Yaz shouted as she pulled me up out of the sand and into a hug. “Bloody brilliant!” She swung me side to side then pulled away to shout at the rest of the field. “Take that sausage smugglers!” She turned back to me and smiled big. “Finally, a girl that can play.”

“Lucky fluke, Number Five,” Max’s deep voice sounded from my other side and I disengaged from Yaz to scowl at him.

“Whatever you reckon, rugby boy,” I said, picking up the ball and spinning in on one hand – a trick I’d perfected with a netball, but one that I could still pull off with an oval ball. There were some whoops from the people on the pitch around us on the pitch and even from the sidelines.

“You just got burned, Max,” a smiling Teddy said, slapping Max on the back. Max reached up and rubbed Teddy hair before pushing the side of his head.

“Okay people, let’s get ready to rumble!” shouted Yaz, jumping on the spot with her high ponytail flopping from side to side on the top of her head.

“Jesus, Midge,” Heath complained. “You’ve blown my eardrum. Only bats can hear you now you realise.” He grabbed her and put her in a headlock. She laughed when he let her up, but it didn’t escape my notice that her face was bright red and her eyes were a little too bright.

Heath looked at me. “Great play, Mia,” he said.

“Uh, thanks.”

Heath had let Yaz up now and was staring at my right shoulder. I realised that I had been rolling it and rubbing it to try and ease the ache that had started up during the game. This wasn’t the first time I’d noticed Heath watching me either, often with a frown on his face which didn’t seem to be typical for him.

“You coming for a drink?” Yaz asked as we walked away from the pitch. My smile fell a little. I still wasn’t completely comfortable in busy bars and restaurants. They sparked my claustrophobia and flashbacks. I associated them with all the enforced socialising I had done with Nate. I still couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped in the endless small talk hell that was my social life with him – of standing by his side whilst he banged to his posh friends, clients or other contacts as he called them. After a while it had felt like being social just wasn’t my forte. Like I was somehow dysfunctional and had imagined the carefree teen I had been before Nate came along.

“You’re man of the match – you’ve got to come.”

“I’m … not, er … I don’t think that–”

“Yaz, you’re so pushy,” one of the women from the sidelines said, approaching our group and sidling up to Max. “Let the poor girl go home.” She turned to Max and started swiping sand off his bicep. “Bloody hell, Maxie. You’re covered.” Max didn’t seem to mind a female human sand-removal technique that involved extensive muscular forearm strokeage, but for some deranged reason I did.

That’s why I was now standing in a pub nursing a pink gin and tonic, feeling awkward and no way sticking it to strokey arm woman.