Better Together: Win Win for the Win, #1

B E T T E R  T O G E T H E R

The first novel in the

Win-Win For The Win series

by

Geoff O’Brien

Copyright © 2019 by Geoff O’Brien.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, AI generation or model training, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher.  It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Geoff O’Brien asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

First edition.

Contents

1 – Potential Energy

Needles didn’t scare Frida Osthen. Nor did the drop of her own blood on her finger freak her out. She sighed as she set down her glucose meter. Her blood glucose level—sometimes called blood sugar level—was a bit high.

No. She didn’t like needles for a different reason: they were tedious.

She wiped the drop of blood from her finger and picked up a special pen, attaching the needle to the plastic bit at the end of the pen.

Insulin pumps were okay. Those were handheld devices that people could plug into themselves using a small rubber tube with a needle at the end. The device itself contained insulin to regularly dose its wearer. Wearing an insulin pump was better in some ways, but that routine also became tedious.

She had to wear an insulin pump or use needles every day. Every single day, for the rest of her life.

Last year, she’d been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. The doctor had told Frida her body could never again make its own insulin, the way everyone else’s body did. She had to inject insulin by using pens or wearing a pump. Without insulin, her body couldn’t use the energy, glucose, from food and drink. If her blood glucose became too high, or too low, she would suffer from symptoms like dizziness, becoming weak, fainting … or worse.

All that once frightened her. Now any scary thoughts about diabetes had been worn away by the daily drudgery of injections and checking her glucose. Now she did these things because they were routine. She did these things so she wouldn’t be hassled by a parent or a teacher.

Holding her pen ready, Frida double-checked her injection site using a nearby floor-to-ceiling mirror. Seeing herself was an unpleasant reminder of how small she was. She had recently turned twelve. Hopefully, she would start growing soon. Her eyes were a welcoming amber colour, at least. She wondered whether they offset her hair or skin, both being different hues of an earthy brown. A medical bracelet encircled one of her wrists.

Cold metal pricked Frida’s skin, making her twitch. She’d forgotten about holding the needle, now drooping in her slackening grip. She usually wore an insulin pump at all times, except during school holidays, like now, when she wanted a break from it. Whenever she did wear it, it would be covered by her shirt. The device would clip onto the waist of her pants. A small tube came out from the device. The tube had a needle attached to insert into her skin, usually at her side, near the hip. The pump automatically dosed her with a small amount of insulin every few hours. That was more convenient than having to stop whatever she was doing and inject herself throughout the day.

Wearing a pump all the time did become tedious in different ways though. She had to be careful not to dislodge it or knock it around. She had to take it off to do certain activities, like swimming. During holidays, ditching the pump liberated her from its constant presence for a few days. The discomfort and sting of injections were a small price to pay for that.

After Frida injected herself, she replaced the needle pen in its case. Her father’s flat was empty, and private. She stepped outside.

The sun was setting, almost touching the horizon. Trees and houses cast long shadows. As it was January, the mellow sunlight wouldn’t disappear entirely for another hour or so. The apartment building where Dad lived was empty. He and his friends were across the road, sitting around a local sports field. Children were yelling and running around on neat and tidy grass.

Close to the edge of the field, Dad and three of his neighbours were talking, sipping from bottles. Other small groups of people were placed around the field’s boundaries. Frida recognised some from around the neighbourhood. A haggard dog with patchy fur and floppy ears snoozed on the grass.

A chubby man in Dad’s group spoke, shaking his head. Mate of mine told me his boy will be playing in a mixed team this year.

Mixed? a thinner man asked. What does that mean?

Means girls can play too, said an elderly woman with bleached-white hair.

Bloody bizarre, the chubby man muttered. Girls aren’t meant to play rugby league.

The woman laughed. What are they meant to do, then?

You know what I mean.

"Do you?" she pressed.

Give the man a break, the thin man said. He’s been fixing up his car all day.

The woman shrugged away the reprimand. Just curious.

Hey, pint-size, Dad said to Frida. His skin was a bolder shade of hers. His body was big and strong, the same way he looked when he used to play rugby league. What’s happening?

When is Mum coming to pick me up?

She called back while you were inside. She’ll be here in a couple hours.

Okay. Trying not to show her relief, Frida added, Thanks. She loved him, but there wasn’t much to do at his place, or when she accompanied him to work.

Ayyy, the chubby man drawled. It’s little Frida! How are ya, girl?

Good thanks, Rob.

Play any sports, eh?

Rob! Dad protested.

Not really, Frida said.

Rob’s impressive belly wiggled as he turned to the others. There. See?

Twit, the elderly woman said casually. Don’t worry about it, Frida. Just a bunch of grumpy old men around here.

Okay, Vicky, Frida said to be polite.

And a grumpy old hag, Rob retorted with a chuckle.

Vicky shrugged. Can’t argue with that. Oh yes, she said, apparently remembering something. Frida, thanks for helping me out with Facebook earlier. Now my great-nephew has friend … ed …? She stumbled over the unfamiliar wording. You know what I mean.

Not a problem. It was easy.

Vicky scoffed. Sure, it is … if you’re young.

The thin man patted a chair beside him. Pull up a stump, Frida. Barely seen you all holidays. Once Frida sat beside him, he asked, How old are you now?

Twelve.

A few days ago, Dad added.

Everyone exclaimed she was growing up, asking her about how she was doing at school. Frida nodded and replied in all the right places. Listening to Dad and his friends talking wasn’t her favourite thing to do, but at least she wasn’t sitting around in Dad’s empty flat.

Wanna play? said a boy’s voice from close by.

Frida looked away to see a tall and thin indigenous boy waiting. Waiting for whom? Do you mean me? she asked.

No, the dog, the boy said sarcastically. One floppy ear raised up, then drooped back down to the grass.

Warra, Dad scolded. Apologise.

Sor-ry, the boy—Warra—said automatically. Well? You wanna play or what? My team is one short. There’s no one else. He elbowed the chubby man. Unless we put Big Rob at fullback and kick to him all the time. Make him run.

Everyone laughed, including Rob. Frida hardly noticed. She was small. Plus everyone knew she was a diabetic, didn’t they? No one ever picked her.

Go on, Frida, Dad encouraged. You’ll be fine.

If he said so …

2 – Nice Try

Frida started walking, taking short steps. Warra, seeing she was coming, turned around and jogged back towards the middle of the field, where the game had already resumed.

Frida heard Vicky’s voice behind her. What about that, then?

A loud raspberry. Then Rob said, That’s not real. They’re only mucking around. Not playing to win a premiership, are they?

On the field, a burly indigenous girl with short black curls was running with a football. A boy from the other team charged at her, dropping his head and shoulders at the last second to tackle her around her waist. Frida could hear the burly girl release an Oof; then she seemed to fold in half as the boy drove her backwards. She hit the ground with the flat of her back, with him on top.

Was that girl all right? Frida felt the impact through the ground. Alarmed, she increased her pace. The boy eased himself back, releasing the girl. He said something with a wry smile. The girl laughed and jumped up, either not hurt or not showing it. She gave him a friendly shove, then dropped the ball to the ground. Using her foot, she rolled it backwards for another boy standing behind her, who picked it up and passed it to one of their teammates.

Frida hesitated. They were playing rugby league, the same game Dad used to play until he got injured. Rugby league was tough. It was physical. Sometimes it was violent. Players might start a fight. Girls didn’t play rugby league, boys did.

On the field, the big girl was jogging forward with her teammates, shouting something to whoever was carrying the ball. That girl was playing. She seemed okay. She must be tough though, to be tackled like that and not get hurt. Frida wasn’t that tough. She was shorter than that girl, skinnier.

Closer to Frida, Warra was walking with a few boys, all of them keeping pace with the rest of the team, who were trailing behind whoever was running with the ball. Played much league? he asked.

Frida matched her pace to theirs. Not really.

That’s all right. If they pass the ball our way, one of us guys will hit it up. Whatever that meant.

Okay, Frida said, as if she understood.

For the next play, the ball was passed to someone closer to them. Then it was passed again. The boys beside Warra tensed, getting ready to act as the ball came ever closer. Stay beside me, Warra told her. The ball reached one of Warra’s friends, who sped up once he caught it. The others increased their pace, including Frida.

Warra, looking constantly between his teammates and the kids in front of him, pointed towards the sideline and ordered, Go out there. I’ll put you in the clear.

Frida wasn’t sure whether he meant her. She drifted towards the edge of the field anyway. The kids opposite them focused on Warra, ignoring her. When he received the ball, he exploded forward. Frida thought he meant to run straight through them, or over them. Instead, he passed the ball just before impact, not looking away from the defenders. The ball floated, spinning through the air, colliding with Frida. Bringing her arms into her body, she managed to secure the football against her chest.

Kick it! someone yelled, so she did, letting go of the football and trying to swing her leg at it. The ball didn’t fire away from her foot as she expected. Instead, it bounced awkwardly off her shin and dribbled along the ground towards the other team.

This brought a chorus of groans from everyone on her side of the field. Kids on the other team howled with delight.

Warra yelled, What did you do that for? He and someone else ran past to tackle a boy from the other team picking up the ball.

You guys told me to, Frida objected.

No, we didn’t, Warra said as he backed up to stand beside Frida. They did. To fool you into giving up the ball.

Oh. Her head dropped. She tried not to listen to the sarcastic comments from the kids on the other team, calling out their thanks. After they progressed through several tackles, they had to kick the ball back.

Now that her teammates had the ball again, they wouldn’t pass it to her. For a few sets of tackles, Frida didn’t touch the ball once. She felt invisible and exposed at the same time. Her teammates didn’t want to see her, but everyone else did. They were probably wondering why she was standing around out there, doing nothing amongst the chaos. Maybe she should quietly walk away, leave them to it. She doubted they would miss her.

Her team had possession of the ball again. They kept staying away from her side of the field. On the last play, Warra was dodging and weaving opposition players, forced to roam towards her side. Desperate to avoid being tackled, he passed the ball to a disbelieving Frida. With two of the other team’s players focused on tackling him, there was only one boy from their side moving towards her. His big, expressive eyes, black hair and bronze skin made him look Middle Eastern.

Kick it! someone yelled.

Frida held on to the ball. She wouldn’t be fooled this time.

Run! her teammates screamed.

Frida ran as though her life depended on it, determined to make up for her error. The Middle Eastern boy loomed in front of her. She stepped to one side. He tried to move in the same direction, too late, swinging out a desperate arm. His hand whacked her cheek, making it tingle. He didn’t stop her. Stumbling past him, she regained her balance. Two adults sitting close by cheered.

Where was out of bounds? Where the adults were, probably. Nobody else was in front of her. Frida’s legs pumped up and down. Where was the opposition? Two more kids from the other team were haring across the field. The thrill of the chase increased her speed.

They weren’t quick enough. Frida arrived at the other end of the field, where the goalposts stood. She trotted to a gasping halt past the crossbar, trying to catch her breath. Her pursuers were decelerating, giving up on the chase.

Put the ball down! Dad called.

Whoops, she’d forgotten about that. She flopped onto the ground with the football under her chest, the way she’d seen others do it. This produced another round of cheers. The adults ringing the field were clapping, shouting, laughing with their neighbours. Frida smiled around at them, stretching her stinging cheek. She barely felt it.

This was fun!

3 – Trains and Conductors

After the sun dropped below the horizon, everyone was standing or moving around tables loaded with barbequed meat patties, sausages and chopped salad. However, Frida was consid-ering the boxes of pizza. Should she have a slice? Presented with a pile of pizza, she felt like a browser at a jewellery shop. She wanted it all, yet she couldn’t have any.

She always had to keep careful track of what she ate. Pizza would raise a person’s blood glucose more than meats or vegetables would. This wasn’t too bad for Frida if she had an injection of insulin before or afterwards. If she didn’t have an injection, or she ate too much pizza anyway, bad things could happen.

Frida had first been diagnosed with type 1 diabetes a year ago. Dr Caden, a Certified Diabetes Educator, or CDE, had ex-plained it to her. Insulin is very important. Imagine a train with passengers. It arrives at the station, where people are waiting. What do you think would happen next?

The question seemed so simple that Frida wondered whether it was a trap. Uh, the doors open and people get on or off the train?

Good answer, the doctor replied. That’s what usually hap-pens. For fun, let’s imagine a particular scenario. Let’s imagine these people can’t move on and off the train, because the doors aren’t open. The doors aren’t open, because the conductors inside the train haven’t opened them yet.

Why not?

Maybe the conductors are lazy. Maybe they’re busy checking their phones. Soon enough, they realise the train has stopped, so they hit the button to open the doors. The people waiting out-side now come in. The doors close and the train leaves, taking the people where they need to go. Dr Caden raised a fore-finger to get Frida’s attention. "Now, let’s imagine a different scenario. Let’s say the conductors of the train decide to take the day off. They don’t report to work. An empty train, without its conductors, arrives at the station, where people are waiting. The doors remain closed. What happens