Her head whips around to me, missing the first pair of girls as they race for the ball. She catches herself in time to spot one of them snatch the ball away from the other.
My lips tug into a smirk as I scribble notes onto my clipboard.
“If you wait for the ball to stop rolling, your opponent makes the play.” Ainsley tosses the next ball and blows the whistle before I can, and the next pair takes off. “Butt down, stick down. Low player gets to the ball first.”
Always focusing on the wrong thing.
“Clean pickups are important though,” I shout before blowing the next whistle. “Form over aggression.”
“You don’t have time to slow down,” Ainsley counters. “You won’t get a perfect pickup on game day. Get to the ball first. Don’t hesitate.”
Her whistle.
I bite down hard, gnashing my teeth. “That’s how you cause a turnover. You need control and precision. Don’t just blindly swipe at it.”
My whistle.
“You’re swiping because you’re late.” Ainsley’s shrill whistle pierces my ear, seeming louder than before. “Beat the ball and nobody cares about your form.”
The next pair of girls at the line pause, glancing between the two of us with wide eyes.
Shit. I lean closer to Ainsley, lowering my voice. “You’re confusing them.”
“Me?” She coughs out a laugh. “That’s all you. Stop undermining me.”
Deja-vu slams into me. This was how it was between us. Skill versus speed. My careful accuracy versus her reckless plays.
Me versus her.
Neither of us seeing eye to eye onanything.
Ainsley pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head, keeping her hazel eyes lasered on mine as she speaks to the girls. “Tryouts are about finding out who has what it takes. You’ll have time to learn technique later. Right now, focus on getting to the ball. Overthink it, and the moment’s gone.”
That last line slices deep like a knife sharpened over the years, waiting for one specific person to deliver its wound to.
She tosses the ball and blows her whistle, but doesn’t watch the girls retrieve it.
I plant my hands on my hips, refusing to back down. “Tryouts are also about finding out who can take direction. We’re not looking for divas who think they can make up their own rules on the field.”
Her nostrils flare as she lifts her chin, stepping closer toward me. “Talent is part of the game. Some people have it and some people never will. That’s reality.”
I close the gap between us, toe-to-toe now as we face each other. “You can’t go big at the expense of the team. Hone your craft and communicate so you can wintogether.”
We’re hurling old insults at each other, forgetting where we are, until someone calls out to us from the bleachers.
“Let’s see you two go after a ball!”
We all turn around in the direction of the voice. A tall, dark-haired girl sports a letterman jacket. I recognize her from the research I did watching last year’s game tapes. Natalie Warner plays offense for varsity, and from what I’ve seen, she’s a fierce and explosive player.
And it’s obvious she has the respect of the current team as her friends around her chant, “Do it! Do it!” The ones trying out aren’t ballsy enough, yet, to join in, but laughter ripples throughout the field.
Ainsley rolls her eyes, not one to take an order unless it’s her own.
But it’s not a bad idea.
I bend down and pluck a ball off the grass. “They’ll learn if it’s modeled for them. Let’s show them what we want them to do, Coach.”
I offer that last word with a sarcastic bite.
