Soldier's Daughters by Fiona Field

three of you will have to sit things out for the time being, but I’ll sub you in when we change ends. I couldn’t get hold of any bibs so to differentiate the two teams we’re going to have shirts versus skins.’ The lads all looked at Sam and someone wolf-whistled. ‘And let me say that we’re not drawing lots to see which team is which. Ma’am’s team will be shirts, always.’
    A rumble of laughter echoed through the cavernous gym, although Blake didn’t join in. Instead, he stared at her, his face expressionless. Self-consciously she tugged her shirt down.
    Armstrong sorted out the two teams and then one half of the lads stripped off their tops. Most of the opposing team were either stark white or had farmers’ tans. But Blake… Blake, Sam noticed, looked like a poster boy for Ambre Solaire. Armstrong blew a whistle to get the game under way. It was fast and furious and Sam soon found that being an officer and a woman made no difference to the way the lads treated her. She got tackled as hard and as ruthlessly as any of the players on the court, but she’d been a star shooter in her school’s netball team and managed to score a couple of goals, which she knew gave her a tiny bit of kudos with the men. And then she was lunging to intercept a pass between two opposing team members when she was barged. She crashed to the ground, banging her head hard on the floor. Pain exploded and then momentary darkness.
    ‘You all right, ma’am?’ The voice sounded distant and tinny.
    What the hell had happened? she wondered vaguely. Groping through the woolliness in her mind, she thought she must have blacked out for a second or two.
    ‘Ma’am?’ The voice was clearer now.
    Sam forced her eyes open. Above her were several worried faces, peering down at her.
    ‘You all right, ma’am?’
    Sam swivelled her gaze to the speaker, Sergeant Armstrong.
    She tried to rally. ‘What happened?’ she mumbled.
    ‘You hit the deck,’ said another voice. She moved her eyes to see who else was speaking. Blake. Even in her woozy state she heard him add, ‘Told you a woman shouldn’t have played. She was bound to get injured.’
    Sam lay still, trying to work out how bad she felt. She certainly had a belter of a headache. Even lying flat on the floor, her head was spinning. But it wouldn’t do to make a meal of it in front of the troops – confirm to the likes of Blake that she was weak and feeble.
    ‘Help me up,’ she said. She propped herself up onto an elbow and regretted it. She shut her eyes again as the entire handball court seemed to lurch like a raft on the sea.
    ‘She ought to go to the med centre,’ she heard Blake say. ‘You heard the crack when her head hit the floor. She’s probably got concussion.’
    ‘You’d better take her, then,’ said Armstrong. ‘Stay with her till you know she’s all right.’
    Sam managed to open her eyes again.
    ‘Ma’am,’ said Armstrong. ‘We think you ought to go to the medical centre. Blake’ll go with you and look after you. We think you ought to get checked over.’
    Part of Sam wanted to insist she was fine, that if she sat out for a few minutes she’d recover, but another bit of her knew Armstrong was right. And that knowledge was compounded by the fact she felt most odd. Maybe going to the medical centre was the best course of action.
    ‘I’ll carry you,’ said Blake.
    ‘No! No, I’ll be fine. I can walk.’ She hoped she could.
    ‘OK, then.’
    With Armstrong’s help she managed to stagger to her knees and then she leaned on Blake as he helped cart her towards the door of the gym. For a second or two her slight feeling of queasiness and a banging headache made her regret turning down Blake’s offer.
    ‘Put your shirt on before we go outside,’ she muttered. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
    ‘Don’t worry about me, ma’am.’
    It wasn’t him she was worrying about. ‘Do as you’re told,’ she snapped.
    Blake stopped dead. Swiftly and with barely