Page 5

Coach Hoffman claps her hands in a single sharp shock that echoes round the pitch.

‘Let’s get to business,’ she says. ‘I need to see how you’re all performing. I’m going to set you three simple drills – or at least, they should be simple, for players of your supposed calibre. Firstly, an exercise to test your most basic, necessary technique. Passing. Do we think we can do that?’

She sounds kinda… patronising? thinks Adriana. Certainly Milo seems to think so, because they currently look like a raging bull, nostrils flaring. Coach puts her hand down in a sweeping motion, splitting the squad into two groups.

‘Two lines facing each other,’ she barks.

‘On my whistle, first player in the first line passes the ball to the first player in the opposite line, who must then pass it back to the second player in the first line. After passing, the player will sprint to the back of the opposite line. The passes are to be fast, precise and with two touches maximum – one to control the ball, the next to pass. Keep that ball moving like a homing missile. On my whistle.’

Without any further delay, the coach blows her whistle, a short, sharp, shrill sound that immediately kicks in some innate instinct in Adriana.

All the partying and alcohol and nervous tension evaporates.

Now she is just raw adrenaline, running into her position in the second line.

She and Maeve end up opposite each other.

It often happens, without either of them particularly trying.

It’s like their friendship magnetically puts them together, but today, Adriana does it deliberately.

She wants to be able to support her nervous friend.

Seconds later, the whistle blows for the first pass, and Adriana watches her teammates kick across to each other, heart in her mouth.

Zuri kicks a perfect first touch, setting up Charlie for a neat pass across to Elisa.

With neat sprints, the two then run to their next positions, to Maeve and Adriana’s left.

The drill continues to Rebecca, to Milo to Nat to Liv.

Their passes are weighted like Goldilocks, neither too soft nor too hard, the perfect touch to find their target.

The whole thing works fluidly. As the ball gets closer and closer to Adriana, she feels mounting pressure, but also pride in her teammates.

Sure, the coach can intimidate them as much as she wants, but they’re all professionals.

They’re all brilliant. Of course they can do an exercise as basic as passing a ball to each other.

And then Rebecca passes to Adriana. Adriana effortlessly controls it with one touch and sends it towards Maeve.

She doesn’t have to think, it’s all muscle memory, in-built since she was barely five years old.

It’s a neat pass, no surprises, and Adriana almost doesn’t wait to see it meet its target with Maeve before running off to the other side of the line.

But out of the corner of her eye, Adriana sees the impossible: Maeve fumbles it.

The ball misses her waiting foot, and she has to reach out to make extra touches to control the ball.

The coach’s whistle, which had been a regular beat like a metronome, blows extra long and hard and angry.

Maeve’s foot quickly corrects it, but not fast enough.

In a match, that fumble could have lost them possession. And boy, won’t Maeve know that too.

They keep going for another two rounds, the pace increasing with the coach’s whistle, and then kicking in the reverse order up the line. Each time it reaches Adriana and Maeve’s pair, Adriana is scared Maeve might fluff it again – but thankfully she is now as pinpoint as a machine.

The coach blows her whistle twice to mark the end of the exercise, and they all gather to hear the next drill, panting lightly.

Adriana surreptitiously reaches across to squeeze Maeve’s arm.

Maeve tenses and shrugs her immediately off.

Adriana tries to swallow down her hurt. She understands Maeve doesn’t want to draw any more attention to herself in front of the new coach, but still, would it kill her to be a bit reassuring back to her sometimes?

The next drill provides an immediate distraction though.

‘Dribbling,’ calls Coach. ‘Again, one of the most basic techniques for any decent player. The five-year-olds in my daughter’s team can do this exercise. Let’s see if you’re up to scratch...’

While they were doing the passing drill, Kevin has set up an obstacle course over the other side of the pitch: zig-zagged cones, a slalom, and a series of gates made by two cones placed a couple of metres apart.

‘Simply make your way through the obstacle course as fast as you can while dribbling,’ Coach explains. ‘First time round you will use your dominant foot, second time your weak foot. At each of the pink cones, five burpees. You will go one at a time, while the others all watch.’

She holds up the sleek electronic timer around her neck.

‘Each time through the obstacles, you will be timed and I’ll make a note. At the end of the exercise, I will be calling out who were the two fastest in the team, and who were the two slowest.’

Adriana feels her teammates tense. Pappi never pitted the players against each other.

Their times were recorded, sure. Sometimes he even told them, pulled to the side, if they were performing faster or slower than their previous records.

But they were only pitted against their own personal record.

With Pappi, there was so much camaraderie, that even in supposedly ‘competitive’ matches in training, they all knew they were serving a higher purpose, the improvement of the team as a whole.

And sure, there’s a competitive streak in Adriana, of course there is, she is a footballer after all, but she likes to channel her competitiveness against opposing teams, not in-fighting.

Lining up to begin the dribbling obstacle course, Adriana tries to smile at everyone and lighten the mood.

‘I hope this obstacle course doesn’t bring up last night’s kebab,’ she whispers surreptitiously to Elisa and Charlie. But they do not laugh the way they normally do when Adriana plays the fool.

‘Slowest two players... I haven’t learnt your names yet, so I’m just going to point at you. The slowest two players in that exercise were you... and you.’

Everyone stares at her pointing finger like cats fixated by a laser pointer. Coach points first at a devastated Nat, and then at a furious Milo.

‘What are your names?’

‘Nat Basevi, Coach.’

‘Nat Basevi,’ she repeats, tapping it into her iPad. Nat looks crestfallen.

‘And you?’

‘Milo George, Coach. I’m only just recovering from an ankle injury.’

‘How long were you sidelined for?’

‘It was a grade two sprain,’ says Milo. ‘I took six weeks off and missed the end of last season. This is my first week back so I need to build back up in pre-season.’

But if Milo was expecting sympathy from Coach Hoffman because of her own publicised career-ending ankle injury, they have sorely misfired.

‘That should be perfectly sufficient for a grade two sprain,’ says the coach with no emotion whatsoever.

‘If you have an issue with the medical team’s assessment of your injury levels, I will expect to hear that reported through them.

If you’re here on the pitch, then I won’t accept any weak excuses.

You simply were the slowest in this exercise, Milo.

That is a fact. If you don’t like it, be faster next time. ’

Milo’s nostrils are flaring again with barely repressed fury.

Adriana wishes she could advise them to be a little more respectful to the new coach, but Milo’s frustration at themself always comes out as anger towards others.

It’s something that they can harness as a good striker at their best, but might be an issue with a strict coach like Coach Hoffman.

‘And now for the fastest two players,’ says the coach, in the same neutral voice, seemingly unfazed by the tension she’s sent skyrocketing among the team. ‘I will point again. The second fastest was... you. Name?’

‘Zuri Akinyi.’

‘Good work Zuri. Particularly impressive weak foot. Your burpees could do with some additional height though.’

Zuri is a winger so it’s no surprise this drill played to her strengths.

Zuri strokes her knotless braids, her grin proud as she nods.

Adriana feels a rare flame of jealousy, which she tries to tamp quickly down.

These are her friends. They should all be working together.

Still. She would be mad not to want that coach’s finger to rest on her as the fastest time.

‘And the fastest player for this exercise was...’

Coach Hoffman seems to savour the drama, drawing out the tension as her finger roams across each hopeful face in the team like she’s on a gameshow. Everyone is silent. Then Coach points to Adriana’s left.

‘Maeve Murphy.’

Maeve doesn’t smile, just swallows, like if anything, more of a burden has been put on her shoulders.

‘As we would expect,’ says the coach. Without lingering, she puts down her decisive arm again.

‘Right. Last exercise for now,’ she continues.

‘Two teams. You’ll be on this 20x20 yard grid.

The cones mark a 12 by 6 penalty box in front of each goal.

In pairs, we’ll have two strikers aiming to score, and two defenders aiming to prevent them from doing so.

Three minutes of play, then swap. I’ll assign you defenders and strikers – your position is irrelevant for this exercise.

We’ll do more focused training as per your positions in due course.

But I want players who are versatile and up for a challenge.

To beat the competition, you all need to be better at every position than every one of the opponents. ’

‘First up, the two losers from the past exercises are going to be pitted against the two winners.’