Page 6

Coach Cockamamie

Colt

M anmayi Corina Velasco.

Her eyes drilled holes into my forehead when she turned to look at me. I forgot just how much anger May always had tucked into her small frame – anger that would come out on the field. An endless stream of yellow cards peppered with the very occasional red when we were younger, the product of numerous stick checks and smack talk that toned down as we entered high school. Even in her most recent televised matches with the Riders, I watched as she jogged over to the bench during a time-out, stick and voice both raised when she rounded up her team.

But much more than the anger, I remember the softer side of May, fleeting moments where I got to see rare parts of her that she hid behind lacrosse, a few minutes here and there where that angry furrow in her brow disappeared, and she let herself relax. Though yesterday, when she drilled those holes into my forehead, any trace of her softer side was nowhere to be seen.

And yeah, there are definitely more than a couple reasons she’s totally entitled to that reaction. But maybe, just maybe, I’d been holding out for a slice of happiness. A little ‘welcome back’. The smallest of smiles.

Today, I toss the Riders lanyard and whistle around my neck. ‘I don’t think your captain is gonna react too well to this one,’ I remark.

Coach Bianca Dillon lets out a sarcastic laugh that echoes off the walls of the storage shed. ‘Oh, you’re spot on – but you’ll be good for her. What you’re consistent with, is what this team struggles with. It’ll be humbling. Bi-weekly shot-on-goal clinics will have them well-rounded by that first game.’

Shots on goal. Trick shots, specialty goals – the stuff I used to be really good at, unusual for a midfielder, but that was my thing, nonetheless. At least up until last October happened.

‘They set a date for that game yet?’

‘Something towards the end of the month, maybe the beginning of the next. It’s coming up soon.’ Coach Dillon passes me a bag of lacrosse balls. ‘Hold onto these for a moment.’

I oblige, and I can’t help but notice the state of the equipment. This isn’t anything like what I remember playing at Boston, and it’s a sinking, acute realization that fills my stomach with guilt. This stuff’s definitely been around longer than my college equipment had. These girls are playing with balls that probably witnessed the creation of Facebook. I’m not sure if it’s an Oklahoma thing, or a women’s sports thing, but it gets under my skin.

‘How’s the funding for the programme nowadays?’ I try to be as casual as possible when I pose my question.

Coach Dillon looks at me with humoured yet tired eyes. ‘Don’t talk to me about funding, City Boy. This is a girls’ team in the South. Not to mention, we’re in a tough situation as it is. Velasco struggled last season. Wasn’t a good look.’

‘A good look? Her freshman and sophomore seasons were flawless. That game at Mayfair was a masterclass. And everyone’s allowed an off-year, right?’

The coach raises an eyebrow at my defence of the captain. ‘Didn’t realize you were so partial to her.’

I clear my throat awkwardly and shift my bag of balls from hand to hand. ‘We knew each other back in high school.’

‘Well.’ She nods, lips pursed. ‘This may come as a shock to you, CJ, but Velasco’s one of two women of colour on that team. She may be a star, but the programme’s made up of a board of wealthy white men. Her performance this season’s got to be beyond flawless if she wants to stay on through senior season long enough to get into the MLL. If she doesn’t keep up, it could even spell trouble for the pretty scholarship they have her on.’

‘What …’ I try to digest the words, the likes of which I’ve never heard in my years playing lacrosse. ‘You mean they could tear away financial aid and boot a player from the team, just like that? You wouldn’t have a say?’

‘Nope.’ Coach Dillon shakes her head, and the tiredness in her eyes appears more resigned than anything else. This is what it’s going to be. We have to deal with it. ‘Best I can do with what I have is get her firing on all cylinders that first game. From there, she’s a contender for a contract, for sure. Then it’s a publicity game. Bring the MLL’s eyes over here, all that. Men’s team does a good job of drawing us second-hand attention, at least. You know how Okie loves its Riders.’

That I can agree on. Growing up here, football was big, and the university team was well-loved. But for whatever reason, this tiny college town just outside of Oklahoma City decided that it was going to worship its men’s lacrosse team. The Riders, division champs for the last five years straight, brought in crowds from across the state. When you give people who are used to a whole lot of nothing a little bit of something, they latch onto it.

‘Do your thing,’ the coach continues, with an expectant look my way as we exit the shed, and the relentless Oklahoma sunlight beats directly down on us. ‘We can’t take chances this season. These girls have to play every minute like it’s the last game they’ll ever see.’

Stepping back onto the grass from the back entrance, I’m optimistic that the energy will be different between May and me, that yesterday’s interaction was just a fluke. The team jogs onto the field to do their laps, Coach Dillon calling out instructions. I must have been lying to myself, though, because – as May runs past me – her eyes gloss over me with that same anger, plus a hint of surprise. I don’t think she’s going to enjoy what comes after warm-up.

The coach rounds the team up after exercises, in a huddle that she ushers me into. I feel like an outsider looking in on a ritual I’m not supposed to be watching when she makes room for me.

‘Lady Riders, we’re going to be joined by a guest this semester,’ she announces. ‘Taking a break from playing, we have CJ Bradley from Prosperity itself hosting our team’s shot clinics. He’ll be helping us out with some of those tricky goals we struggled with last year, sanding some of our rougher edges, so to speak.’

‘Call me Colt,’ I offer. I sweep my line of sight around the entire team, but my gaze lands on May. Her slack jaw doesn’t mirror the same shock as the rest of the players. If I were to take a guess, I’d say it was verging on horrified. ‘I sustained a nasty knee injury this past year, so I’m still a little shaky on the field, but I hope some of the pointers I have to offer can be of value to you all. It’s really an honour to be back in Prosperity.’

The team is receptive. They help me out throughout our first shot-on-goal clinic, where we run drills, practise speeding up shots, and more over the course of an hour. I give them the technique, and they put it into play. After I’ve done my time, Coach Dillon takes over, having them pass, scrimmage, drill some more. By the end of practice, every member of the team is more than keen on grabbing their things and hauling their ass off the field. But for my own selfish purposes, I still need answers.

Dillon heads for her office, and I make a beeline for May, where she sits on the bleachers, legs draped over the row beneath hers as she unlaces her cleats. ‘May – Manmayi!’ I shout after her.

Her eyes flit upward, narrowed and reluctant to meet mine. ‘What?’ she grumbles.

‘Can we talk?’ I ask from ground level. I look up to regard her as properly as I can. ‘Just a little?’

The dull brown of her irises doesn’t look amused. ‘Give me one reason why we should.’

I sigh, tugging on my whistle. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I should have—’

‘Don’t be sorry.’ Her voice is deadpan, cold. ‘Don’t be sorry, Colt.’

Man. The ice in her tone is sharp; it cuts deeper than I’d like. ‘I’ll strike you a deal, man. Best of three, if I beat you best of three, will you talk to me? Please?’

May is quiet for a moment, her hands frozen mid-untying of cleats, her gaze trained on the crisscross of the white laces. ‘It’s been five damn years. You don’t get to come back and cut deals.’

She shucks off her cleats and replaces them with leather-strapped Birkenstock sandals over Nike socks, bringing herself to her feet.

‘Please,’ I press on. It has been five years. It’s been five years, and not once during those five years did I stop thinking about how I screwed things up, the way I left. I’ve sat with my regret, and now, it’s time to do something about it. ‘May, I need to talk to you.’

‘You need to.’ She drops her bag with a loud thud and turns back around to face me. Screw you , her face says, and for good reason, honestly. ‘Three,’ she says. ‘Miss one, and we’re done.’

The breath I’ve been holding finally leaves my lungs, but another sharp inhale immediately replaces it. Shit . ‘Okay,’ I reply slowly. ‘Okay.’

‘You asked for a scrimmage.’ May scoops up her crosse and picks her way down the stairs. I grab one of the demo crosses from the pile I’ve yet to put back in the shed. It feels foreign in my hands, and not just because it’s not my game stick. It’s unbalanced. My fingers twitch against the cool metal, my arms seizing up.

‘Yeah,’ I reply on a dry throat. Sure, I asked for it. I hadn’t expected her to agree.

‘You’re the most cockamamie “guest” we’ve ever had, you know that?’ May snaps as she takes her place beside me on the field. We’re about a third of the way up the field from the crease – a long, long shot. She holds out a hand without even meeting my eyes. ‘Need a ball.’

I toss one her way, worn as it is, and she catches it in the net of her stick, rotating her wrists to keep it there. She brushes a lock of jet-black hair from her face, the loose threads of her red evil-eye bracelet just skimming her cheek, and lines herself up, squinting to get the goal in her sights.

The way she flicks it is so quick, with such a deft movement of her arms, that I don’t actually register her stick moving until the ball hits the back of the net triumphantly, leaving the goalposts quivering. No cleats, aged equipment, nothing special except for raw talent.

‘You,’ says May.

She takes a step back to swap spots with me. My hands are still shaking on the stick. I look her way for just a moment. The only thing I see on her face is the barest hint of expectancy.