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“It was there last Sunday,” Abi said.
“I know it was there last Sunday. I wrote on it on Sunday.” Jax crouched and swept the bench clear of tape with her forearm. “Fine. Old school.” She laid out water bottles for defenders, shin pads for midfield, and one of Carly’s Crocs for Jenna, who was deeply offended.
The team talk that followed was half tactics, half pep rally, and about ten percent baseball metaphors nobody understood. The gist was simple: the opposition were two places above them, had a striker who’d scored nine already this season, and played a high line that left space in behind if anyone could be bothered to run into it.
“And we have a new number five.” Jax pointed at Carly. “Who I’ve been told is the real deal. Don’t make me look stupid, buddy.”
“I’ll try not to.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Jenna was already bouncing on her toes by the door, captain’s armband on, shin pads in, socks up. She caught Carly’s eye and mouthed Lloydy, with the expression of a woman whose master plan had finally come off.
Before they went out, Carly did the warm-up. Not three half-hearted leg swings. All three movements from the video, slowly, against the dressing room wall.
Lauren watched the entire thing with her gloves under one arm and her eyebrows somewhere near her hairline.
“Not a word,” Carly said.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it very loudly.”
“I was thinking,” Lauren said, “that you look like someone who’s seen a very good video recently.”
Carly finished, picked up her boots and walked out without dignifying it. She could feel Lauren grinning at the back of her head all the way to the pitch.
Outside, the afternoon was cold and bright, with a low winter sun that would blind you if you looked the wrong way at a long ball. Along the touchline by the clubhouse, a dozen teenage girls in Blues trackies stood in a loose knot with their hands up their sleeves. The under-eighteens, Carly guessed, eyeing up a place in the first team. A few yards from them stood Greg in a club jacket, coffee in hand, and beside him a man in a yellow coat Carly didn’t recognise.
Jax had already spotted them. She marched straight over, and Carly, who had to pass them to reach the halfway line, heard every word.
“Where’s the tactics board, Greg?”
“The lads’ board?” Greg looked faintly puzzled, as if she’d asked about the weather. “It’s in our store. Came out of the men’s budget, so it lives with the men’s kit.”
“It’s been on that wall for three years.”
“And now it’s in our store.” He smiled. “You’re welcome to put in a request through the joint committee. If your budget doesn’t stretch to one of your own.”
Beth was by the halfway line, in her long black coat, with her hands in her pockets and a scarf wound so high Carly could only see her eyes. She’d said she wasn’t coming. She’d said it twice, on Friday, with feeling.
“Don’t,” Beth said as Carly jogged past.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to look pleased.”
Jenna detoured on her way to the centre circle and stopped in front of Beth, practically vibrating. “Coach! You came!”
“I came to watch my sister. Don’t read anything into it.”
“I would never.” Jenna leaned closer and dropped her voice, though not much. “See the man in the yellow coat? Next to Greg, with the under-eighteens? That’s their candidate. Kevin. He’s got his UEFA C, his first aid, the lot. On paper, he’s better qualified than any of us.”
“On paper,” Beth said.
“If he gets the under-eighteens, he gets a seat on our committee. And once Greg’s got someone on our committee, the merger’s back on the table at every meeting until we give in.”
Beth didn’t look at the touchline. “Then I hope you find someone.”
