There was more running around on the field, more flinging of sticks, more careening and collapsing. Martia was beyond caring. Scores happened, the lead changed hands several times. After some time, the referee whistled again. Play stopped and the teams ran off the field.
“Is it over?” Martia asked Addington.
“Halftime,” the commissioner said.
Martia jumped up from her seat, bolted to the private VIP bathroom, and locked herself in an empty stall. She sat there, eyes closed, until she heard the PA announcing the start of the second half.
Maybe I can stay here till it’s all over and no one’ll notice, she thought. Then she shook her head. Lydia Chastaine’s heroines were never that cowardly. Helen Hamelin, for example, charged into a group of thugs armed with nothing more than a wooden rul
