Attack of the Cupids by John Dickinson Page A

hockey, with Miss Tackle. And Viola and Cassie and Imogen. And their sticks. Hurriedly and angrily, Sally’s pen hit the page at last.
    There’s only one difference,
she wrote.
In tragedy, our strings get cut.

Tara looked into the dressing room. She tossed a green bib.
    â€˜Janey,’ she said. ‘You’re with us.’
    â€˜Am I?’ said Janey, catching it. ‘If you say so.’
    â€˜You too, Ameena.’
    â€˜Hey!’ said Billie. ‘That’s not fair!’
    Janey and Ameena were the top sporty girls in Year Nine. They were both about six foot tall and competed at county level in tennis. Ameena also did long jump. Janey did showjumping to a level that Lolo could only dream of. And between them they represented the school in just about every sport, including a few unofficial ones. The King’s Boys School still hadn’t recovered from the day Janey had met up with them for some all-in arm wrestling.
    â€˜You’ll have
six
team players on your side,’ said Holly. ‘And we haven’t any!’
    â€˜Tough,’ said Tara. She left. Janey followed her.
    â€˜Ameena – be a red. It’s not fair.’
    Ameena shrugged. She picked up the green bib.
    â€˜Ameena,’ said Sally. ‘We need a hand here.’
    Ameena hesitated. She liked being paired with Janey. The two of them could criss-cross a ball through a defence like it was a needle through cloth.
    But she was also the sort of person who would go out of her way for you, if you asked her right and didn’t ask too much. She would for Sally, anyway.
    â€˜OK,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind, I guess.’
    â€˜Right,’ said Billie. ‘Let’s do it.’ Her jaw jutted and she gripped her stick like a battle-axe. Whatever was coming, thought Sally, Billie was up for it. So was Holly. Tight-lipped, she strode out like a warrior. Ameena, head and shoulders above the rest of them, looked relaxed and confident. She wasn’t part of this whole thing, anyway. Eva was playing goalie and was pretty well smothered in gloves and helmet and pads. But the others . . .
    Sally touched Kaz on the arm. ‘We’re one too many now,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you be our linesman?’
    Kaz turned a pale face to her. ‘Don’t you want to be?’
    â€˜I managed to borrow some shin pads. But they’re yours, if you want to play.’
    â€˜Lucky you! Well – thanks, but I’ll go for the linesman option. Good luck!’
    Miss Tackle was waiting for them on the field.
    Miss Tackle!
    She wasn’t
really
wider than she was tall. She wasn’t built of rough-cut oak either. She just looked that way.
    Her hair was curly and cropped close. Her face was flat, her eyes were fierce. Out of doors she never spoke in anything less than a full bellow. She wore shorts in all weathers. She had probably never painted her fingernails in her entire life. She had, however, wrecked several rugby clubs.
    She had a doctorate in Politics, played chess at regional level and was a mainstay of the school choir (in which she sang tenor). She was the darling of the school quiz team because she knew all the answers to everything, especially History. But competitive games were her passion. Deep in her fiery heart there was one unshakeable conviction – that even the meekest, mostbespectacled and ill-coordinated student had a little Miss Tackle inside them somewhere, and the way to get it to come out was to chase them up and down the grass screaming and hitting everything you could. An hour on the pitch with Miss Tackle was an experience no one ever forgot. It was like meeting a mad-eyed, roaring tree stump that could move at astonishing speed.
    â€˜LINE UP, LADIES!’ said Miss Tackle. ‘LET’S GET STARTED!’
    They got into their positions. Sally ran her eye over the field and her heart sank. The red team had Ameena and, well, Holly. The