Chapter 2
Landon
“Hydrate and rotate!”
Ainsley’s voice cuts through the air, and I scan the line of girls sprinting down the field as their cleats chew up grass that’s already worn thin. Between the uneven ground and soft spots, it’s a rolled ankle waiting to happen.
Meanwhile, the boys’ lacrosse team stretches out on the pristine turf across campus. I shake my head and push the frustration aside. No point in getting upset over something I can’t control. We’ll make do with what we have.
It must be eating at Ainsley though. She always called out the inequities between teams, and that was before they gave her a whistle and made her head coach. I can’t imagine she hasn’t raised hell about the grass out here.
She’s several yards away, yet I don’t have to look to know that she’s standing with her long brown hair pulled high into a tight ponytail; feet wide, arms crossed over her chest, chin tipped like she’s already decided who belongs here and who isn’t making the cut.
Though Aviators shield her eyes, I feel her gaze on me, the way the sun singes your already-burnt skin after you’ve been out in it for way too long.
My muscles tighten, and I clench and unclench my fists, acid eating a hole through my stomach.
I came into this situation prepared to be mature, ready to leave the past where it lies. It’s been over fifteen years since we played on the same team. We should be able to stand beside each other now as adults.
But two minutes in Danbury’s office proved that not a thing has changed about Ainsley Morgan in all these years.
And much to my dismay, not much has changed for me either.
Anxiety coils its fingers around my lungs, the way it always used to whenever I was at this place.
Suddenly, I’m sixteen again, pushing my body to run faster, play harder, as if I wasn’t already pushing my body past its breaking point.
My ribs ache, like a phantom pain from an old memory I thought I’d forgotten.
Ainsley’s face flashes in my mind, the hurt I last saw in her watery hazel eyes—the same hurt I saw moments ago, only seventeen years later.
This field is a damn time machine.
Maybe I shouldn’t have taken this position...
“What do you think, Coach?”
My shoulders jump as I’m brought back to the present by my assistant coach. “There’s a lot of potential here. Twenty-three is fast.”
Quinn nods. “She tried out last year and didn’t make it.”
My chin jerks back. “Why not?”
“Coach Ainsley didn’t think she had enough skill. Told her to practice and come back.”
“Well, she’s back. Let’s see what else she’s got.” Speed isn’t enough, but it’s a great start.
You learn a lot about kids during a tryout. After running laps and doing a series of lunges, high knees, and pushups, it’s clear who complains, who leads, and who has the potential to be better.
Ainsley’s whistle pierces through the air again. “Two lines. Grab a stick and pass to a partner.”
“You should be over there with her, you know,” Quinn says, her voice low.
I heave a frustrated sigh. “Yeah, I don’t think that’ll go over well.”
After the confrontation we shared in the hallway twenty minutes ago, the last thing we need is to be side-by-side.
“You guys have to talk about things. This is where we build our team.” When I’m quiet, she adds, “Don’t let her steamroll you. You deserve to be here just as much as she does.”
My lips twitch. “Sloane talked to you, huh?”
“Sorry.” She clears her throat. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
Sloane is the physical therapist I work with at the clinic, and Quinn is her older sister. Quinn was a sophomore when I was a senior in high school so we never ran in the same circles, but the whole school knew about the rivalry between me and Ainsley, regardless of their grade level.
“Don’t apologize, Quinn. You’re right.”
This is my tryout just as much as it is Ainsley’s. We should be able to work together. This isn’t about us. These girls worked hard to be here today, and we can’t let our hatred for each other get in the way of our responsibility.
My shoulders stretch and my spine straightens as my legs carry me over to Ainsley.
She shifts from one foot to the other, and I know she sees me coming. She can act as tough as she wants, but I know my presence gets under her skin. She thinks this is her field, her school. But I’m going to remind her that it’s mine too.
She hugs her clipboard to her chest, and her lips press into a firm line when I plant my feet beside her. She snaps her gum, same as she did in high school whenever she was irritated.
She chewed a lot of gum.
I purposely don’t say anything, letting her agitation build in the silence. I smirk as she tilts her body away from me whenever she writes something down so I can’t see her notes.
“Courtney, stop throwing at her feet,” Ainsley calls to one of the girls. “Catch first, then cradle, Salma. Move your hands, Shelby. You’re choking the stick.”
They scramble as she calls out commands. Ainsley has an advantage over me, knowing most of the girls here. I take the time to make sure my notes are extra detailed so I can remember each of them, knowing damn well she won’t be sharing any helpful information with me.
She blows the whistle again. “Stay in your lines. I’m rolling out ground balls. Each pair sprints for it on my whistle.”
Excitement bubbles under my skin. This is my favorite drill. It’ll allow me to see who attacks the ball, and who hesitates. Racing to a ground ball is the perfect way to evaluate who’ll have what it takes under pressure in a game.
I walk over to the pile of yellow balls on the ground, and don’t wait for Ainsley’s permission. I send it rolling across the field, and blow my whistle.
Her head whips around to me, missing the first pair of girls as they race for the ball. She catches herself in time to spot one of them snatch the ball away from the other.
My lips tug into a smirk as I scribble notes onto my clipboard.
“If you wait for the ball to stop rolling, your opponent makes the play.” Ainsley tosses the next ball and blows the whistle before I can, and the next pair takes off. “Butt down, stick down. Low player gets to the ball first.”
Always focusing on the wrong thing.
“Clean pickups are important though,” I shout before blowing the next whistle. “Form over aggression.”
“You don’t have time to slow down,” Ainsley counters. “You won’t get a perfect pickup on game day. Get to the ball first. Don’t hesitate.”
Her whistle.
I bite down hard, gnashing my teeth. “That’s how you cause a turnover. You need control and precision. Don’t just blindly swipe at it.”
My whistle.
“You’re swiping because you’re late.” Ainsley’s shrill whistle pierces my ear, seeming louder than before. “Beat the ball and nobody cares about your form.”
The next pair of girls at the line pause, glancing between the two of us with wide eyes.
Shit. I lean closer to Ainsley, lowering my voice. “You’re confusing them.”
“Me?” She coughs out a laugh. “That’s all you. Stop undermining me.”
Deja-vu slams into me. This was how it was between us. Skill versus speed. My careful accuracy versus her reckless plays.
Me versus her.
Neither of us seeing eye to eye on anything.
Ainsley pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head, keeping her hazel eyes lasered on mine as she speaks to the girls. “Tryouts are about finding out who has what it takes. You’ll have time to learn technique later. Right now, focus on getting to the ball. Overthink it, and the moment’s gone.”
That last line slices deep like a knife sharpened over the years, waiting for one specific person to deliver its wound to.
She tosses the ball and blows her whistle, but doesn’t watch the girls retrieve it.
I plant my hands on my hips, refusing to back down. “Tryouts are also about finding out who can take direction. We’re not looking for divas who think they can make up their own rules on the field.”
Her nostrils flare as she lifts her chin, stepping closer toward me. “Talent is part of the game. Some people have it and some people never will. That’s reality.”
I close the gap between us, toe-to-toe now as we face each other. “You can’t go big at the expense of the team. Hone your craft and communicate so you can win together.”
We’re hurling old insults at each other, forgetting where we are, until someone calls out to us from the bleachers.
“Let’s see you two go after a ball!”
We all turn around in the direction of the voice. A tall, dark-haired girl sports a letterman jacket. I recognize her from the research I did watching last year’s game tapes. Natalie Warner plays offense for varsity, and from what I’ve seen, she’s a fierce and explosive player.
And it’s obvious she has the respect of the current team as her friends around her chant, “Do it! Do it!” The ones trying out aren’t ballsy enough, yet, to join in, but laughter ripples throughout the field.
Ainsley rolls her eyes, not one to take an order unless it’s her own.
But it’s not a bad idea.
I bend down and pluck a ball off the grass. “They’ll learn if it’s modeled for them. Let’s show them what we want them to do, Coach.”
I offer that last word with a sarcastic bite.
Ainsley’s eyes narrow as she scowls at me.
But she can’t resist a challenge.
She lifts her hand and motions for her assistant coach, Raymond. “Roll one out for us, Ray.”
Quinn jogs over to me with a stick. “You sure about this?”
“Not one bit,” I say with absolute certainty.
“Fantastic.”
We take a few minutes to stretch our legs. We’re not as young as we used to be, and I don’t know about Ainsley, but I haven’t played the game in over ten years.
I take this opportunity—Ainsley’s big mouth is shut for one—to talk to the girls, whichever of them might be the girls I’m coaching this year.
“Speed is always important in this game; beating your opponent to the ball is great, but you also need to know what to do once you get there. That’s where control and precision come in. Timing.”
Ainsley snorts. “Just focus on getting to the ball. Your instinct will take over.”
I lower my voice, speaking only to her. “Not everyone has natural abilities. These girls need to learn the skills of the game.”
“Good. You teach JV all the skills you want, and I’ll be winning games with the powerhouses on varsity.”
My skin heats, and my fingers grip the stick tighter. “That thick head of yours is still as close-minded as ever.”
She arches a brow. “Stalling? Are you afraid you’ll lose to a girl again in front of all these kids?”
I roll my eyes at her tired, old insult. “That was always your problem, Morgan. Competing with your teammates instead of working with them.”
Raymond clears his throat. “You two ready?”
Ainsley crouches down low. “Ready.”
I squat beside her, and for a second, the air shifts around us.
We’re transported back in time. I anticipate the drop in her shoulders before she lowers them; the way her fingers tighten around the stick; the long stream of breath she pushes through her lips while she waits for the whistle.
My body reacts to hers, adjusting alongside her.
The whistle screeches, and we both take off toward the ball like we’re shot out of cannons. Ainsley reaches the ball a fraction of a second before I do, but overshoots it like I knew she would and skids in the grass.
Lack of control.
I reach out my stick and scoop the ball, cradling it as I run toward the goal. It’s not part of the drill, but I want to ram this victory down her throat.
She’s beside me in a flash, knocking my stick with hers. But I spin around and shoot the ball straight into the net.
The girls cheer, and I swear, Ainsley growls as she stomps past me.
A smug smile spreads across my face. “And that, ladies, is what I’m talking about. In the seconds she wasted backtracking for the ball, I slowed down and snatched it out from under her. Once you have possession, the play is yours. But it’s a lot harder to make the play without the ball.”
“Let’s go again.” Ainsley crouches on the line, chest heaving. “I’ve got another lesson for all of you.”
I lean in close as I take my spot beside her. “Can’t take the L like a big girl, huh?”
“Call it, Raymond,” she shouts, ignoring me like a brat.
Raymond blows the whistle, and again, Ainsley takes off with too much power. I scoop the ball easily, but as soon as I do, her stick cracks into mine and the ball flies out of my pocket. While it’s in the air, she swipes it away, and shoots it into the goal.
The girls cheer louder this time.
Ainsley holds out her arms wide on either side of her. “Lesson of the day: If you don’t have possession of the ball, take possession of the ball. You can make every play yours if you’re fast enough.”
I shake my head, but bite my tongue. Once I make my team, I can coach them on all of the important tactics. My way.
“All right, people.” Ainsley claps twice. “Let’s end the day with a scrimmage.”
“Remember,” I say. “Talent gets attention, but being a team player is what earns you a spot on the team.”
“Yeah, because you know so much about being a team player,” Ainsley mutters as she walks away.
It’s not loud enough for the kids to hear, but enough to get under my skin.
And I’m disappointed to learn after all these years, I still let her.