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God, what the hell was going on?
Snap out of it, I instructed myself.
“Today we’re going to be doing strength tests,” I continued, finally remembering my voice. “I need to see where you’re at before we get out on the field. Personally, I also like strength tests as a good goal-setting tool. It might be hard to define past improvement, but it’s simple to chart out if you’re lifting heavier weights or doing more pull ups.”
The words ‘pull ups’ rippled through the group, and a few made unhappy faces. I didn’t blame them, pull ups sucked, to put it bluntly. But Catya was nodding in agreement and that was enough for me.
I elaborated. “We’re going to start with wall sits, then mile times, some of the aforementioned pull ups, basic weight work, flexibility tests and a few other things. I’ll set up rotating stations.”
One girl with a reddish bob and prominent freckles, interrupted, “Seriously? Can’t we do some like, getting-to-know-you games or something?”
“Yeah,” another seconded. “Easy stuff.” Groans of agreement sprung up from the group.
Catya let out a low ‘shh,’ and the complaints immediately died down. Whatever else these girls thought of her, they respected Catya as a leader.
“Coach Simon wants to make us a stronger team,” Catya said. “Let’s let him try.”
I eyed her, grateful for the support while still cognizant of the skepticism in her voice. ‘Let’s let him try,’ she had said, as if she were waiting to be impressed. Fair enough. Growing up the way I did, I too found it hard to trust wholeheartedly. Ok, sure, maybe I was hoping she’d just blindly support me, but I respected her more for doing otherwise.
“Thank you, Catya,” I said in a voice pitched one key too low, enough that her eyebrows raised at the intimacy of the tone. Shit. I’d have to watch that. “Now then, let’s begin.”
The girls didn’t move. I guess I should’ve expected that. They needed a little more convincing. Catya pulled her face into a mask of support — in stark contrast to the questioning, unsure visage she wore before — and moved next to me. The hairs on my arm rose. We were nearly touching. She smelled like citrus and wood.
“Okay,” she said, a little humor in her tone. “You heard the man. No more griping.”
She turned to face me, and I immediately lost the air that had moments ago filled my lungs. Up close, I saw that her lashes were so long they nearly touched her brow bone, that her face was the shape of a heart, that her ears were adorned with a variety of gold jewelry which was definitely against league rules, but who cares, they looked good on her. Details of her sprung out at me as if her face were a pop-up book.
She tilted her chin down meaningfully, as if to say, ‘your move.’ I gulped.
“Right then,” I said, and began to list off circuit station instructions. We passed around heart rate monitors that they’d strap onto their chests to give me read-ups on speed, heart rate, energy exertion, etc. I thought back fleetingly to my childhood soccer days. We barely even had inflated balls, let alone special equipment for every measure of human ability under the sun. Man, had I upgraded.
The girls, having got over their initial grumbling, nodded, following my every word. I’d had my fleeting doubts, but I now saw that they were professionals — beneath the petty moaning, they were serious about the sport. Good. I liked that.
“One more thing,” I added, hoping the embarrassment didn’t show in my cheeks. “I’m not good with names and faces, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to use my Polaroid to take pictures of you and write your names on the photos.”
Normally, a school would give me a “face book,” not to be confused with Facebook, that included the roster names along with pictures of the athletes, but ULA, with such short notice, had failed to do that. So I was on my own.
“Ooh, photoshoot!” one joked.
“But there’s horrible lighting in here,” another moaned.
“Don’t worry,” I laughed back, “these photos aren’t going anywhere. I’ll just shoot them in the middle of your sets, nothing serious.”
A girl screamed, “While we’re sweaty and gross? Ew, no!”
“I need photos of you how you’re usually going to look during my practice, not how you look on Instagram,” I replied with a grin. “Sorry about that.”
There was some more pushback, but they all eventually ceded the point. Between pushups and pictures, pictures were still the easier task to swallow.
“Okay,” I said, rounding to the finish. “That’s all I’ve got to say. You can go get changed.”
“Oh, we’re already changed,” Catya said, still close by my side.
Without warning, she threw off her bulky sweatshirt, revealing a striped sports bra. In my peripheral vision, I could see that the other girls were following suit — taking off clothes, packing them into duffels — but my attention was on Catya. Her collarbones stuck through the thin layer of her skin as if eager to escape confinement, her breasts small, rounded, perky.
