6. Noah
CHAPTER SIX
NOAH
RECOMMENDED LISTENING ‘CHECK YES, JULIET’ BY WE THE KINGS
The same morning, 9 am
“You’re late,” Ares hisses as I squeeze in next to him on the stands of the Barrons Bay Football Stadium. Fox just looks me up and down and shakes his head.
I want to growl aloud. I thought I was spending the night with a funny, smart, hot and willing woman but instead she humiliated me and left me naked as she screeched away in her clunker, spraying me with sand.
“Why are you late?” Ares demands as I dump my kit bag. “You weren’t in bed when we staggered home this morning. Thanks to De Rossi here.”
I hang my head and take a deep, centering breath.
“You’re not my warden, Sandoval,” I say mildly. “Can you just—” I make a cutting motion with my hand.
“I am worried about my best friend who disappeared for the whole night. But you’re right, I’m not your warden, am I?” Ares asks icily.
I feel like a right bastard. He’s right. I can’t take my shitty mood out on my mate. It’s not fair.
“Ares, I’m sorry.” I grab his arm and squeeze it. Hard. “That was petty of me. I’m just…” Hungover and disappointed and reeling from the strangest and angriest brush off I have ever experienced in my life. Especially because the kiss before was fucking explosive and consensual.
Fox’s look is all concern; his De Rossi greys expressing all sorts of things I am in no mood to acknowledge.
I just can’t get over the image of her screaming at me. Screaming like she’s about to get murdered in a slasher movie. There was actual terror in her sleep hazy eyes. Like I was…God! I can’t even think the words.
And it freaked me out, so I wanted to scream too. And then she just bolted …even though I know nothing happened. If she’d just given me a quiet moment, I’d have told her that she’d gone swimming in the Atlantic and her clothes were a mess, so I made her wear just the tee shirt.
But you wanted something to happen right before she started screaming, mate. I look at my mouthy dick. Fuck you, we are mad at the woman who treated us so poorly, I think grimly.
“I…I had to jog back to town from the drive-in and then hitch a ride to the cottage,” I whisper-talk quickly. “I’d have been late, but Sandoval’s Harley handles the roads just fine and furious. Thanks, mate.” I give him a conciliatory smile.
He squeezes my arm, voicing his support.
Fox leans in. “You look like shit, Noah. Are you okay?”
I open my mouth to spill the whole sorry mess out when a sharp whistle sounds in the air. Followed by two short blasts.
As one, thirty-two heads turn to the entrance, where three men in Savile Row suits and aviators, each carrying a golden whistle and clipboards, stride onto the ground, followed by a team of people in shorts and jerseys that advertise Triskelion Cricket Training.
All the chatter goes quiet.
I’m in the presence of three of the greatest cricket players in the last fifty years. The first one is Padric Alastair, three-time World Cup winner and English bowler who captained his side to countless victories against the Aussies. The second is Rohit Devgan, Indian batting legend, whose nickname is The Rock because he defended the Indian batting order for close to twenty-three years. He also won Player of the Tournaments during his team’s three World Cup Victories. The last of them is Australian Aiden Gilcrest, a wicketkeeping-batting god who destroyed Padric’s team in return and holds the record for the best catch reflexes in the whole game. Ever.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Is everyone present?” Padric, six-one, grey-haired, English, begins politely. “Is everyone sober? That was a hell of a party last night.”
A nervous titter breaks through the ranks. But no one answers.
“Close enough.” Lean-hipped, iron-haired Rohit responds to the Englishman. “Everyone’s brought their kits, I hope. This is a working practice.”
“Yes, sir,” we chorus.
“Let’s go to the field, shall we?” Aiden suggests, waving us with his clipboard.
We file out in silence, looking at the three legends in awe. The only reason any of us are here is to learn from the best of the best – The Golden Trio.
The ground needs some work, with patches of grass shooting up to my ankles and tickling it. But the ground is good-sized; will make for a good outfield when we go out to bat. And the newly-erected roofs of the stands shine in their glass and chrome glory.
“Gentlemen.” Padric nods at us. “Before we kick things off today, I…”
Aiden nudges him. “We,” he says emphatically.
“ We ,” Padric continues wryly, “Would like to take a moment to introduce Triskelion Cricket Training. Talk about why you are here, and what you can hope to get out of Triskelion.”
One of the group shouts Long Live the Queen while shooting the Australians a pointed look.
I bristle at the Aussie clapback, but I also respect the fuck out of Padric. The man is a bowling genius.
Padric grins and tips his glasses down. Then he resumes his serious coach face. “I appreciate the compliment, Mr. Strong, but it’s entirely unnecessary. Because, at Triskelion Cricket Training, our aim is to teach you to beat any team, any batter, any bowler, any keeper and any fielder hollow. Regardless of how important the match is or who the opposing team is.”
His announcement is met with catcalls and applause.
Rohit holds his hand up and immediately the crowd quietens. “What my coaching partner is saying is we don’t appreciate trash-talking other teams during this camp. All teams are equal and so are all players, great or not.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Devgan sir.”
“Call me Coach Devgan. Coach Rohit Devgan.” Devgan pockets his glasses and looks at us with beetle-black eyes.
“Yes, sir. Coach Devgan, sir,” Ares calls out lazily. Arrogantly.
The last of the trio, Gilcrest, checks his clipboard. “Ares Sandoval.” He looks Ares up and down. “Under-16 Player of the Year for Australia. Scouted by the Melbourne Marvels T20 team next year as opening batter and played his T20 debut for them. Hit a six in the first ball of the innings, right?”
Ares is all assholery and smugness as he folds his arms. “Hell, yes, sir.”
“What happened next ball, Ares Sandoval?” Aiden asks innocently.
“I was bowled out by the pacer,” Ares admits quietly.
“That’s right. Let’s first learn to last through the opening over before thinking of beating Devsy’s or Paddy’s records, alright?”
“Sir, I—” Ares begins hotly.
“Will speak next when I am spoken to,” he says pleasantly. “Am I clear?”
No one cracks a wiseass comment or laughs. Ares vibrates against me but keeps his mouth shut.
“We are here to turn each and every one of you into masters of this game you all presume to play. And this?” Aiden taps his clipboard. Then he tosses it behind his back.
“This does not matter anymore. You know you are all the best. The very best of the best in the age group of nineteen-to-twenty-four. From South Africa, the Caribbean.” He nods at players from each country, who are standing clubbed together. “India, Australia, New Zealand, England, and Sri Lanka.”
Coach Devgan waves the thick invitation envelope I received on the first of April. “Each of you have received an invitation to participate in the first-ever Triskelion Cricket Training program. And the requirement to entry was simple. Excellence,” he says brutally. “If you’re excellent consistently, since you wore your first jersey, you made the cut. If you’re not, you don’t know this place exists. That we exist.”
This was true. I’d tried to get online and find details about Triskelion Cricket Training when I first got the invite. There wasn’t even a website to check out.
“It’s also the main reason why Triskelion is conducting this camp away from the prying eyes of cricket-obsessed media here at Barrons Bay,” Devgan continues. “We have connections with the town’s Chamber of Commerce and …no one gives a shit about cricket here.”
Fox cracks a smile at the backhanded joke.
There’s one person who gives a shit, I think to myself. Then I immediately block all thoughts of her. I’m mad at her; she is a screaming virago. I will not think about her.
“All that matters here is how well we do the job.” Padric points at the coaches. “And our job is to make sure you do your job.” He points at us. “That you produce the best possible results in every format – be it T20, fifty-overs or a five-day test match. That you produce it under stressful and difficult conditions.”
Padric smiles pleasantly. “You’re here to work as a team. To win as a team,” he emphasizes. “With your instincts, gamesmanship, and natural talent. To win with people you don’t know…maybe you don’t like. For this reason, you’ll all train, run drills, get in net time, ground time, the works for the first month in the teams we put you in. Later on, we will reveal details about the Triskelion Cup.”
“Your job,” Aiden barks. “Is to be the best possible batter, bowler, fielder, or keeper for your team. Some of you have specialties, strengths. We will help you hone those strengths to a razor sharpness, until they become your armor. And your weaknesses?” Aiden’s smiles is sharp, cutting. “They will become your best friends.”
“Since you are also guests of this beautiful town you will be on your best behavior off the field too,” Padric adds. “So, last night was the last party you indulged in, gentlemen.”
“That goes double for any kind of shenanigans.” Devgan starts counting with his fingers. “No drinking and driving, hooliganism, roughhousing, or destroying local property, hooking up casually and causing trouble for the locals,” he continues coldly. “If you behave contrary to these instructions, your spot in the camp will be immediately revoked. Forever. This is a first-strike offence.”
“Are you saying we can’t socialize with the locals, Coach Devgan?” A South African player raises his hand.
“Of course, you can socialize with the locals. Make friends. Make connections. Meaningful ones ,” Aiden emphasizes. “But that is all. ”
“ Are we clear? ” Devgan barks.
“Yes, sir,” we chorus as a group.
“You see,” Aiden smiles at Devgan and Paddy and continues, “There is a prize to be awarded at the end of the Triskelion Cup, gentlemen.”
“A phone call,” Padric says before we can ask what the prize is. “We make a phone call to the national selection board of your home country and bring the officials down here to watch one of you play the finals of the Triskelion Cup. One of you.” He points his clipboard at us. “Will leave this camp with an offer of playing for your home country. Wearing its colors and picking up the bat or ball for the national cricket team.”
My heart thumps wildly in my chest with each word Paddy says.
“One of you,” Aiden continues grimly. “Will get a jumpstart on your dream. The one dream you all have which hasn’t come true for you yet.”
This is my dream. The only dream I’ve ever had. To play for Australia. To lead Australia.
“If you’re beyond excellent. If you’re worthy. If they find you worthy on the day’s play. If…” Devgan puts his glasses back on. “You can impress Paddy, Gilly, and me. And believe me when I say this, I have seen tapes of all of you and, so far? Consider me unimpressed.”
I fist my hands at my sides. Devgan might not be impressed by me yet and I might not be hot shit like the Sri Lankan batting prodigy or the English under-19 pacer, but he is going to make that call for me and me alone.
“Practice begins in earnest tomorrow,” Paddy announces. “Today, you’ll change into your kits and run laps and drills. Get to know the field, break it in. Some of you will be in charge of putting the pitch together. Others will be taken to the field in Pennington, a sister training ground, and discharge pitch duties there.”
“But sir, it’s the groundsmen’s jobs to prepare the pitch, isn’t it?”
Aiden laughs. Devgan pinches his nose, and Padric smiles pleasantly at the young Caribbean player who made the comment.
I don’t know what freaks me out more. All three are equally terrifying.
“Son, do you see a groundsman here?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Exactly.” Paddy nods. “Learn to study the pitch by prepping it. Put your hands in the grass, the soil, touch it, feel it…use it,” he barks. “This is not some fancy camp for the best players in the world, gentlemen. With fancy vitamin drink vending machines and two-hour saunas. This is Thunderdome,” he says bluntly. “You either cut it or you don’t. The choice is yours.”
The Caribbean player hangs his head.
“Any other questions, gentlemen?”
The air stirs in our silence.
“Excellent. You have fifteen minutes to get changed and assemble back here. Understood?” Aiden asks.
No one says a word.
“He asked a question, boys,” Devgan calls out.
“Understood!” We yell at the top of our voices.