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How do you think of these drills?
“With my brain.”
“Do you like making drills?”
“It’s the highlight of my life.”
His short, to-the-point, and sarcastic responses left me even more uncertain of myself than I already was—and when I feel unsure, I start to talk…a lot. It’s like I can’t help it. My mind is so consumed with the idea of not sounding stupid that I end up sounding even stupider. In this case, Warren’s wearing patience only grew thinner as I diverted my focus to what I believe to be a much more pressing point of conversation:
Does the team have a TikTok account?
“Tic, tac, toe? Why would the team play that?”
Who would you say is your favorite player?
“Me.”
How would you feel about a uniform rebrand?
The last question wasn’t relevant, I’ll admit. But maybe if the jerseys were cuter, I’d be more inclined to show up on time every day.
Now, although Warren’s responses were minimal when it came to my questions, his facial expressions?Maximal. Warren has the type of face that hints at a thousand words but won’t say a single one of them.
You know that feeling when you write a test, and you automatically know that it’s off to a bad start? Warren is the test, and I’m flunking. I’m flunking hard.
But then, sometimes, you have a breakthrough. You see the first question you actually might know the answer to, and a lightbulb goes off in your mind.
“Hey, Warren?” My voice comes off as a question as I watch the boys on the field, all of whom have been playing in this “scrimmage” for over an hour and have yet to score a single goal.
Warren stands next to me on the side of the pitch, his eyes narrowed as he watches them intently. This has been my station for the past week—right by his side, and frankly, it’s not a bad place to be. I’ll admit: it’s interesting watching the way his mindworks. The way he’s able to see a play run through once and understand exactly what needs to change.
Rarely do you see a passion so evident within a person, but with Warren, it’s as if he doesn’t have to try. He was made for this sport. I’m positive about it.
I only wish I knew what I was made for.
He hums, not breaking his gaze away from the field as if to tell me to go on.
I take the less-than-inviting response because it’s better than nothing. “I was thinking, don’t you think maybe the team should try something…I don’t know,different?”
My words seem to irk him as he turns his intense gaze directly to mine for what feels like the first time all week. I’d almost forgotten how intimidating he really is…or at least, how intimidated he makes me feel as I immediately regret my words.
Yet, at the same time, I don’t want him to look away. I kind of like that he’s focusing on me right now. I’ve never felt lonelier than I do here in Crawley, but at the same time, seeing him look down at me makes me feel seen. He sees me, but not for how I wish he would.
“Great insight, Delaney. What do you think we’ve been doing this entire week? Or have you been too busy trying to stay awake?” he sarcastically remarks.
I snap out of my haze and fold my arms over my chest defiantly. Every conversation feels like one step forward and three steps back. Whenever we speak civilly, it always seems to end up this way. In disagreement.
“Iknowyou’ve been trying different plays.” I try to mitigate my comment. “But maybe I can provide a new perspective? You know…as someone who’s bringing a fresh set of eyes to the team.”
He swiftly turns his head away, kissing his teeth in annoyance. “You’re the public relations manager, Delaney,” he reminds me. “Not the coach.”
“I agree, but…you’re only partially right.” I choke down my voice after seeing the way he carefully bites down on his lip.
He tilts his head to the side. “Go on.”
“Well…it’s been a week of your so-called “tryout” for me, and you haven’t actually let me do my job, have you? All I’ve done is watch the team play and spend my nights learning everything I possibly can about this sport. So, technically, I’m not the PR manager yet, am I?”
He places his hands inside his pocket. “And what did the internet tell you, huh?” he bypasses my point with a shrug. “What did you learn?” His voice is low and almost analytical as he questions me, causing my heart to skip a beat.
