American Blue by Penny Birch

people standing at either end of the room. The centre was our court, with the nets on tall poles and a system of lines marked out on the floor, lines that meant nothing to me whatsoever.
    I went to sit by Hudson on the bench, extremely glad I wouldn’t be playing, while the other girls ran out on to the court, Tiffany and Jessica bouncing balls, all of them cheering and clapping to egg on the crowd. Morris was there, in the front row, with Mel’s sister Harmony and Annabelle to either side, but they were the only people I recognised. The rest were a mixed crew, and a pretty sleazy one, maybe eighty per cent male, with everything from smartly dressed city types through utter nondescripts to a surprising number who might very well have been pimps from some US cop series on TV.
    The referee wasn’t much better, an enormously tall man who Hudson had told me was an ex-pro of some standing, but he obviously considered the whole thing a joke, running out on to the court as if he himself was the star attraction and immediately twitching up Felicita’s skirt to show off her bare bottom. He had a cordless microphone, and introduced himself to wild cheering from the crowd, who obviously knew who he was.
    Most of the crowd seemed to share his attitude, catcalling and making rude suggestions to the girls of both teams indiscriminately. That was more or less what I’d expected, and I contented myself with a resigned sigh and moving a little closer to Hudson so that I wasn’t so obvious in my absurd bunny costume. He was yelling to the girls and giving Tiffany instructions, which she ignored as she stepped into the centre circle to face Shana.
    The referee blew his whistle and threw the ball high. I immediately felt a sharp increase in tension and, to my surprise, I found myself clenching my fists and biting my lip. It wasn’t as uneven as I’d imagined it would be either, with Tiffany jumping so high she managed to pull the ball back to Jessica before Shana could get to it. Jessica immediately passed it to Roberta, who managed to put it through the net from more than halfway across the court. The scoreboard buzzed and a three replaced the zero which I’d been confidently expecting to remain beneath the Tribeca Tails’ name for the entire match.
    I didn’t know enough to understand half of what was going on, but I could see well enough, and was soon hoping we might actually win. When the buzzer went to end the first quarter we were fifteen to eleven ahead. Jemima had scored a superb goal from almost the full length of the court. Not that the crowd seemed to care very much who was winning, as they were far more concerned to watch bouncing breasts and the way the Bitches’ skirts lifted as they played. I could see their point, though. While not many seemed to be dedicated fans of either team, we had provided a bum and tit show straight out of some dirty old man’s most fevered fantasy.
    We scored first in the second quarter, just as we had in the first, this time with Tiffany bouncing the ball to within feet of the Bitches’ line before passing to Becky, who popped it into the net with what seemed casual ease. She tried to do the same again a few moments later, only for Melody to crash into her at full speed. Becky went down, hit her head on the pole supporting the net and stayed where she was.
    It was a blatant foul, and I found myself on my feet, yelling at the referee, along with Hudson and the rest of the girls. He just shook his head, made some remark about taking the knocks and raised his hand for a pause while poor Becky was helped up and the Princess ran out to replace her. My stomach went tight at the realisation that I was now first substitute. Becky had been led off by what passed for a physio and it didn’t look as if she was coming back.
    The game began again, but the Bitches hadn’t done themselves any favours. Roberta was furious, playing like a whirlwind, and she’d scored another two goals within less than a