Chapter Twenty Five
“Okay, I’m caving.” I lean against the lockers and sigh into my phone.
“I don’t really know what to say. I don’t know what I can say that will take back everything I said the other night.
I was drunk, and stupid, and wrong. I didn’t mean any of it.
I just…I miss you, Thi. I miss having you on my side.
Everything is going to shit over here, but that’s not why I’m calling.
I know I’ve fucked it all up between us.
I know I’ve hurt you, and I need you to know that you’re a good guy.
You’re better than good. You’re compassionate, smart, far too hot for a nerd. I was lucky to have known you.”
The beep cuts my voicemail short and a lump forms in my throat.
I’ve been thinking of what to say to Thiago all day, should he answer my call.
I knew he wouldn’t. I wouldn’t have picked up either.
Pacing the narrow strip of tile, I slip my phone into my locker and take a moment to sink onto the wooden bench in the center of the room.
It’s been a whirlwind of emotion since leaving the art room.
Liz offered me acceptance and patience, two things that have been sorely lacking amongst everyone else I’ve encountered between the cafeteria and the stadium.
Even without the scorns, the guilt bubbles up in random intervals, my mind constantly wondering if Laura is suffering.
I’ve toyed with retreating to my room many times, but what good would that do?
It’s not like everyone on this campus didn’t carry on with their lives when I went missing.
Alas, there’s only so long I can stall by staring at my cleats, so I dig up my resolve, push upright and stride out onto the field, braced for impact.
Although, instead of whispers and side glances, I’m met with the team already jogging laps, sticks in hand.
I stand and watch, shocked that the women are mixed amongst the men, a light sense of camaraderie filtering between them.
Upon spotting me, the group slows to a stop, seeming to be watching for my instruction. That’s when I notice what’s missing.
“Where’s Everest?”
“He has a family commitment,” Claire pipes up from further back. I probably shouldn’t be petty, but when Samson speaks, I direct my attention to him instead. I’ll take blockhead jock over backstabbing ex-friend any day.
“We’re under strict instruction to behave.
So, what should we do first, Captain?” He steps forward and hands me Everest’s whistle.
For a moment, I just stand there, the whistle hanging uselessly between my fingers, staring at the twenty-odd faces waiting for my command.
Is this a test? A figure shifts in my peripheral vision, Coach Collingwood hovering in the stands and watching on. Yes, this is definitely a test.
I’d prepared myself to argue with him today, to snarl through drills and pretend we weren’t both stubborn enough to burn the whole team down just to win a disagreement.
Instead, there’s only open turf and expectation stretching out in front of me.
The wind lifts the loose strands of my ponytail, carrying the faint smell of cut grass, and I realize they’re all still waiting.
“Warm-ups are done?” I ask, mostly to buy myself another second to gather my thoughts. A few nods ripple through the group, sticks tapping idly against thighs. They’re behaving alright, but they’re quickly growing bored. Okay, let’s see how this goes.
“Start with some offensive transition drills. Two lines on the fifty, clean passes between rotations. I’m going to be looking at your skillsets to start picking out positions, starting with the midfielders.
” Lifting the whistle to my lips, its shrill sound pierces the air and the team breaks apart instantly, falling into formation with a speed that surprises me.
There’s no argument, no sarcastic commentary about my authority. They simply move.
For the first few runs, I hang back near the sideline, watching the pace unfold.
Sticks flash in the afternoon light as the ball zips between players, arcs of white tape and muscle colliding in quick bursts of movement.
I’ll give them a B+ for effort, but they still aren’t working as a team.
They’re going head to head as individuals, each pass a little too fast and far too aggressive.
We’re not going to make it to our first match without half the team sitting out due to broken bones at this rate.
Whistling again, I bark orders, my voice carrying across the pitch.
“Mitchell! You’re not headlining a one-man show!
Use your damn teammates!” Mitchell gives me a side glance and rubs the back of his neck instead of flipping me off like I know he wants to.
Resetting the lines, they start again. The same pattern emerges within minutes.
Samson dodges the ball when a pass would be smarter.
Danny lunges for a dramatic interception instead of holding his formation.
Even the women, who I know are perfectly capable of working as a unit, fall into the trap of trying to outshine everyone around them.
It’s like watching twenty individual storms colliding instead of one coordinated front.
When Mitchell gets the ball again, he charges downfield like a raging bull, ignoring the open pass to Claire in favor of attempting a flashy solo shot that clangs off the goalpost.
I shake my head, pacing along the sidelines to where Coach Collingwood is lingering in the stands.
He’s a middle aged man, balding and not as athletic as he used to be, but we get along well.
Since I brought home the Bob Scott Award in my first year, his job has been considerably easier.
We have a check in once in a while, mostly to run through risk assessments and the plans for upcoming competitions, but he’s become rather comfortable staying behind his desk whilst I rule the roost out here.
The past year with me absent must have been hellish for him, actually earning his paycheck and all that.
“So, are you here to watch over them, or watch over me?” I ask, dropping all pretenses. If I know anything about Everest, I know he’ll expect a full report back.
“He doesn’t like not having full control,” Coach replies.
I huff a small laugh. Leaning against the railing, I place the whistle between my lips, waiting for the next foul.
My breath causes the small ball inside to rattle, my eyes tracking the heavy fall of cleats, but it occurs to me that my mind is otherwise empty.
The headache still pulses faintly behind my eyes, and my body still feels like it’s been wrung out and left to dry after the weekend from hell, but the field gives me something to focus on..
Laura’s face stops flickering at the edge of my thoughts.
Thiago’s silence dulls to a manageable ache.
Even Harrison’s shadow fades to a muted outline.
Each command I bark, each correction I make, pushes the chaos in my head a little further away.
Out here, the rules are simple. You run.
You pass. You trust the person beside you not to let the ball drop.
Unfortunately, this team hasn’t learned that last part yet.
As Samson barrels down the field for the third time without passing, I pinch the bridge of my nose and push an exhale through the whistle.
“Alright. New drill, because clearly none of you trust one another to have your backs.” I shout, my voice carrying across the turf.
A few confused glances ripple through the group as they slow to a stop.
I point toward the equipment crate by the sideline.
“Dump the sticks and pair up. Preferably with someone you don’t know or like.
One of you is going to close your eyes, the other is responsible for getting them to dribble the ball across the field without them breaking an ankle.
No talking, no cheating, just contact and instinct. ”
The hesitation lasts about two seconds before the first few players shrug and toss their gear aside, the rest following with varying degrees of skepticism.
Slowly, pairs are formed, mostly men who place their hands on the woman’s hips and start to guide them forward.
It’s going to be hilarious when I announce they have to switch positions to make their way back again.
Beside me, Coach snickers under his breath.
“This is going to be interesting.”
“More like a fucking shitshow, but I need the laugh.” I smile openly.
Ironically, if I hadn’t been on the precipice of a mental breakdown, this would have been a pretty perfect day.
The best I could’ve had, if Thiago would just speak to me.
If he’d let me apologize whilst knowing he’s on the other end listening.
Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Coach nudges my shoulder.
“This is why Everest needs you,” he jerks his head towards the field.
“He doesn’t tend to think outside of the box.
” I snort but don’t respond. Everest doesn’t need me.
He needs to step down and let me do my thing, but even I can agree that I’m not in the mental state to carry this team alone.
I’ll be the brains, he can be the brawn. For now.
By the time I call the end of practice, at least a few of the pairs have loosened enough to not be holding themselves stiff. Most haven’t, but they’d better get used to running trust exercises. This is just the start.