‘Yeah.’ I sigh, a breath filled to the brim with guilt, and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and into my ponytail. ‘You know what, I’ll-I’ll go talk to him. Thanks, Benny.’
He nods, giving me a sympathetic smile, the kind you give someone who lands themselves in a hospital for something dumb, like not wearing a helmet before BMX biking off a cliff.
I press a palm to my forehead and draw slow circles at my temple as I walk over to Rod. I stretch that walk out as long as I possibly can. Funny how you can go from unable to function without one another’s company to afraid to strike up a conversation.
My neon pink cleats crunch in the grass, and I eventually near him: the inevitable. He’s holding his clipboard, all engrossed in plays. At least one of the two of us is locking in, honestly.
‘Hey.’
He looks up. Vacant, yet again, with just a tinge of that scared look. It darts into his eyes and then leaves them before I’ve had a chance to really clock it. ‘Hey.’
Quickly, he flips a page of his clipboard down, but I catch a glimpse of what was underneath. The plays we made for the kids – together. Some of the X’s are in my handwriting. Some of the arrows are in his. It’s a symphony of minds. The only evidence that we ever gelled together so well before now.
‘I know … the way things are between us …’ I clear my throat awkwardly. ‘It’s not great. But Benny … I just talked to him and I think he’s a little worried we’re a loose cannon. So … can we truce? For the kids?’
Rod swallows hard. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, but he nods. ‘Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.’
‘Cool.’ I tip my chin towards his clipboard. ‘What play was that?’
‘I, um …’ He still speaks in a monotone, still sounds exhausted. ‘I wanted to start aggressive. It’s the only way we’ll be able to cut through Declan’s squad. Same way that the U16 was so hard to crack. So I propose we try this move forward …’
He begrudgingly reveals the play. I’m certain it is both our handwriting on the paper now: mine, more messy and untamed; his, neat and font-like. It almost makes me smile, until I examine the play in closer detail, and my eyebrows draw together in thought. In my experience, at least, I don’t agree. This is too direct. It will put the kids in trouble, and instead of scoring, they’ll lose the ball, and we’ll get scored on.
‘Frankly …’ I tap the paper in thought before looking up. I don’t quite meet Rod’s eyes. ‘I don’t think this is our best option. Can I see the plays?’
Now, his brow furrows. Emotion – frustration – fills his face. Does he think I’m trying to undermine him? ‘Why?’
‘I think there may be a better way.’
He doesn’t say anything, just moves the clipboard in my direction.
I gingerly flip through the pages until I find the one I’m looking for. This is more defensive, and will focus on keeping Declan’s team away from our goal rather than trying to blast through them right away. ‘I like this.’
‘Well.’ He purses his lips. A series of hazy thoughts flicker behind his eyes. ‘I actually … don’t think that will work.’
‘Defence is our best option,’ I push. I would push anyonelike this. If it were May, I would do the same thing. This isn’t some deep-rooted resentment, some need to be right. Is it? ‘I’m telling you, we don’t want the kids in a difficult position where they’re attacking and they get absolutely slammed right around the crease there. They’ll be exhausted. We don’t need first blood. We can hold off.’
‘Jordan, wedo.’ Rod’s voice is insistent. I’m partially glad there’s some bite in him again, but I’m not so glad it’s directed at me. ‘We do need first blood. You haven’t played this guy’s team before. They’re ruthless. If we don’t attack first, hewill, and it’ll be the beginning of a blowout loss.’
‘Were we not supposed to truce?’
‘Not when I think what you’re suggesting is arguably worse for our team, and thereby for the whole camp.’
‘I think we should be a bit careful when we are deciding what is and is not best for other people.’ The ice in my voice shocks me. I didn’t think I was – I never have been before – capable of that kind of plain meanness. I’ve dealt with my own anger all my life, and I’ve never once let my handle on it slip enough to hurt someone else. Now, though, it comes out as if I’d been rehearsing the line, smooth as butter. Rod visibly recoils, the wounded animal appearance returning to his eyes.
‘Great.’ Rod matches my tone: no pity, no mercy. He pulls the clipboard from my hands and tucks it underneath his arm before facing back towards the kids as they run the end of their warm-ups. ‘Let’s just stay out of one another’s way, then.’
‘Rod.’ Shit, shit, shit. I’ve screwed up. I wipe the sweat from my palms on my running shorts. ‘That was out of line. I apologize. We can play attack—’
‘I don’t need your sympathy.’
Now, I am the one who steps back. It’s a taste of my own medicine, of course. I just struggle to understand how things became so bitter over the course of minutes. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but he beats me to the punch.
‘We’ll play attack. Not because you’relettingme. Because I know that’ll be the right decision.’ He doesn’t look back at me. In fact, I don’t know that he’s looking at anything.
I take that as my cue to head back to my corner of the field, well away from Rod, far enough that we can’t screw up one another’s frames of mind during this game. But it’s too late for damage control. My brain is already a twister of thoughts, and I don’t know what I’ll have to pull from to make it through this in one piece.
Chapter Forty-Two
