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“I would rather slit my throat.”

“Good talk.”

This time when he passes the ball to me, I tuck it under my arm, refusing to throw it back.

“Two-minute call,” Coach yells. “Focus your attention on their weak back line.” He points a finger at Coxey. “And the ref mightn’t have called you on that high tackle, but don’t think I didn’t notice. Try that again, and I’ll bench you until the next round robin.”

There are the usual good-natured groans, coming out a little sharper today because of the added pressure.

“Francesca still not there?” Jared asks, clocking my worried expression. “She can’t be far away.”

She shouldn’t be. But I still haven’t caught sight of her at all.

I mumble an excuse and rush into the changing rooms, grabbing my phone from the locker. When I sign into the tracking system shows her miles away. Not here. Not either of our homes. I enlarge the map and my heart sets like concrete.

She’s at the airport.

I dial and the phone rings, then goes to voicemail. “Please call me back when you get this,” I say, then send a text for good measure.

King

Where are you???

“Come on, come on, come on,” I mutter, the incantation proving useless.

I try another call and get the same response.

“Get onto the field, Tana,” Coach yells from the doorway. “Don’t test me. Not today.”

“Coming.”

Perhaps her mother came back to town. Maybe an old friend reconnected. My stomach sinks, dismissing the ideas as pure foolishness as I try her number again.

“Pick up the bloody phone, Francesca,” I yell into the device, squeezing it tightly enough to make the casing bend, scared if I don’t hold onto it as hard as I can, it’ll end up smashed to pieces on the floor.

I reset the tracking system, watching it connect again with agonising slowness.

“Tana! Get your arse out here!”

I ignore Coach, barely hearing him over the loud thump of my pulse in my eardrums. Finally, the tracker reconnects. It shows her in the same location, outside the domestic terminal.

She only went on her first flight on Sunday. Why would she be at the airport?

I’m out the door before I can draw another breath. Something’s wrong. Something has gone so very, very wrong.

“Finally,” Coach grumbles as I dart straight past him, stripping off my jersey and thrusting it at Jared.

“You’re the team captain for the second half.”

When I turn, he grabs my upper arm. “What do you mean? A new selector’s here. This is your opportunity as much as it is Ezra’s.”

“I need to go.”

“Coach!”

The man hurries over. “Come on, King. It’s just nerves. We all get them.” He tries to clap my shoulder, and I have to clench my hands not to slap him away.

Ignoring him, I speak hurriedly to Jared. “Tell Ezra to use the same opening as our match against Holderbrook last summer. The team won’t expect—”