“Nice, Rutland,” Coach Harper says. “Kipler. You’re up.”
Well, fuck me. I take a breath, trying to block out the world around me and ignore the fact that Alka is so close. There’s a lot to talk about, like how the hell this even happened.
The point of ‘touch in the box’ is to know your surroundings and be able to shoot a goal with as little looking at the goal as possible so you can keep the majority of your focus on the ball. It begins with your back toward the goal and kicking the ball up into the air.
New team. New coaches. Alka here. I take a breath and imagine all those things washing away as I let it out.
I kick the ball into the air. It rises maybe eight feet before coming back down. I catch it with the side of my dominant foot as I turn sideways, giving maybe a tenth of my concentration to recognizing where the net is in my peripheral vision before kicking it into the corner. It goes in, and I release another breath. Thank fuck.
“Excellent,” Coach Harper says. “Doherty.”
Another guy takes my place, offering me his fist. I hit it on my way by with my own and rejoin my team around the goal.
“I swear, this campus has the hottest coaches,” the guy beside me says.
I look at Harper. I mean, yeah, she’s cute, I guess. Looking at the guy next to me, I realize he’s watching Alka, not Harper. My lips twitch.
“So hot,” he says, shaking his head.
A guy beside him snorts. “Head in the game, fucker.”
He looks at me, shrugging his shoulders. “Greer Ikaika,” he says.
“Roux Kipler,” I reply.
“You think the coach is hot?” Greer asks.
I glance at Alka. “Yep. Definitely.”
He gives me a smug smile.
“Ikaika. You’re up,” Coach Harper says.
Greer winks at me and jogs the short distance into the box.
We continue this until everyone has three turns. I’m relieved that I make all three shots. Considering I haven’t practiced since leaving Longwood, it’s a weight off my shoulders that I didn’t loseallmy skills over the summer.
“Pair up. No look passing.”
I scowl internally. I’m best at looking where my target is and meeting it. This is definitely one of my weak points. At least I can recognize it.
“Partner?” Greer asks me.
I nod.
The team breaks into pairs and spreads out around the field and perimeter. We spend the next twenty minutes blindly passing the ball. You just need to know where your target is at all times. It’s not so much about the goal as it is being aware of where your teammates are. Being able to make the pass without looking at your opponents helps keep them confused and unable to predict your moves.
It’s easy to keep my attention off Greer when looking away means I’m facing the direction of where Alka’s sitting while we’re moving this way along the pitch. He’s watching me. Has he even looked away? My heart pounds in my chest.
“Nice,” Greer says, and I look his way. “That was expert level no looking.”
I give him a smile and grunt a noise as if I did it on purpose.
We spend a while doing a few other drills until there’s twenty minutes left of practice. Then we’re split into three groups of ten with a goalie in each net. Ready for a little scrimmage against each other.
I’m not surprised that I’m one of the guys on the field. I’m new to the team. I’d be nervous under any circumstances in this situation, but my boyfriend is sitting on the bench watching me… as my coach. I’ve never wanted to prove myself so badly in my entire life.
Soccer is a lot of endless running around. Unlike football where you have an offensive line and a defensive line and one sits out while the other plays, we’re all together in two forty-five-minute halves. We don’t get constant breaks to catch our breath. If we do, they’re short, so my heart rate rarely has time to calm the fuck down.
