OFF FIELD TRAINING DRAFT

  LAYNE DANIELS

  CONTENTS

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  11. Taryn - 1124

  12. Bodhi - grand gesture

  UNTITLED

  My first memories in life are of sunshiney saturday mornings on fresh cut and marked fields. Running around in clumps of other tiny tots, our chubby legs pumping, ponytails bouncing, chasing after soccer balls big enough to reach our knees. Orange slices and juice pouches.

  ONE

  Taryn Ellis

  “Open net, Ellis! Open. Damn. Net!” The adage about college and pro coaches not yelling on sidelines may hold true during games, but scrimmages are a prime opportunity for the coaching staff to scream like banshees.

  Lately, it seems like screaming at me is all they do. And I know it’s my own fault, alright? I’m not completely oblivious. Nor am I the type to lie to myself hoping to avoid accountability.

  This is my senior year at the University of Mariposa, and I’ve been a starter on the women’s soccer team since the first game of my freshman year. So maybe after all these years I’ve let my confidence bleed into arrogance just a bit, but who would blame me? Coach Vanderman, clearly.

  The night before our season opener, I may have gone to a party on frat row, despite it being strictly forbidden. And while there, I might have drank a little-lot of the party punch, also massively verboten. In my drunken stupor, I possibly-okay totally- challenged the university football team’s kicker into a field goal contest. Completely demolished him. And then went campus viral in a video someone caught of me peeing on the football field to mark ownership of him and his position.

  Yeah, yeah, yeah. Gross. Uh huh. Sober Taryn agrees. Blitzed on vodka lemonades Taryn still thinks putting arrogant man-babies in their place and urinating on their pride is brilliant.

  So the sideline screaming? Well, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’m in serious dookie with my coach, my athletic director, and even the dean of the university himself. Lucky me.

  I lengthen my stride, the ball rolling ahead of my boots in the dewy early morning grass. I see the line coach is yelling for. I didn't need his alert, I saw the space opening to make way for my shot almost before the keeper was in motion to make it. A month ago I would have pulled a skill move out to finish the goal shot with a flourish. A Rabona, maybe. Or a Maradona spin. Something flashy that would remind everyone why I’m the untouchable face of the Mariposa King-ette’s soccer team.

  Yeah, the King-ette’s. Don’t ask me why the school decided when Title Nine became a thing and women’s athletics began to grow, that they should girl-ify the university’s mascot, the Kings. Yet here we are.

  And here I am, on a Tuesday morning, sweating before daybreak on a dew soaked field getting screamed at by a coach who’s holding a grudge from shit that’s absolutely done and dusted. Not that I’m dumb enough to say that to him. Nope. I’m arrogant, not asinine. Instead of pulling a flash move, I simply drill the ball through the open space between our back up goalkeeper’s hip and the post. Lacy dives, but it’s a half-beat too late. The ball sails into the back of the net and I peel off toward the sideline to grab a quick chug of electrolyte water.

  In a game, there’s no stopping to grab a drink, but scrimmages are just a chance for our second and first string to compete against each other and get ready for game day. Sometimes it’s an opportunity for a backup player to move into a starting spot, but I never really worry too ,uch about that. The school’s women’s team was a joke before I got here, and Coach Vanderman has been building it around me ever since I arrived.

  That’s not just me being arrogant. Part of my scholarship requires that I help his coaching staff during the off seasons with recruiting and scouting college showcase soccer tournaments for talent to add to the team. I’m confident after I graduate this upcoming spring, the team will continue being a dominant force in our division. We’ve worked hard for three years to convince bright, upcoming soccer stars to come to the University of Mariposa and play for the Kingette’s.

  It’s arguable that I’m almost as good at persuasion off the field as I am on the pitch. Shenanigans aside. Vanderman’s been steady pissed at me for weeks though, and I’m starting to wonder what it’s going to take to get him off my back. The season’s almost done, there’s virtually no chance we aren’t odds on favorites to win the national championship, and I’m bored of being on my best behavior.

  And if a little piece of me is acting out because I’m not sure who I’ll be in four weeks when my collegiate career is over with, well, who would blame me for that, either?

  TWO

  Bodhi Wells

  Goalkeepers and strikers are natural adversaries. Even within a team, there’s a mental curtain that was always between me and the google-scoring position players on the squad. Whether they’re rocketing the ball into the goal across the field from mine or not, their job is to find net. And the keeper’s duty is to keep the gaping maw of the box guarded enough to keep them out of it.

  Taryn Ellis wields the ball on her feet the way an archer nocks their arrow in the bow. Precision and steady confidence pour from her, even as Vanderman hollers himself hoarse while he runs along the sideline. I see the same line she does, through eyes used to spotting my own accidental lapse in the goal box when I played for the Mariposa Kings. An instant later, Vanderman spots it too, and stops screaming at her to drop pass the ball back to a teammate. Now he’s screaming at her to take the shot.

  “Shoot, Ellis! Dammit, what’s the delay? Send it or shoot it!” If he started frothing at the mouth it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.

  Her shoulders go tight and I know she’s hearing him. Hearing him and getting annoyed at the micromanaging he’s attempting. Unnecessary micromanaging. She knows it. I know it. If Vanderman would calm himself down for a heartbeat, he’d see it too.

  Taryn’s on his shit list right now. So he won’t lay off her. To be fair, in his position I wouldn’t either. I read the file Athletic Director Franklin put together to brief me. Taryn Ellis is a smokeshow in every way that counts. Stunningly attractive, smart as a whip, and athletically gifted on a level very few ever manage to be. While she’s spent a fair amount of her time here at University of Mariposa partying and having a good time, she’s also spent the last three years showing nonstop commitment to the team and to the program.

  Clear up until about a month ago, at least. Which is when she started going off the rails and getting wilder than the university is willing to look the other way for. I’ve known who she is, loosely, for several years though our paths have never crossed. I graduated the year she was a freshman, and I’ve spent the last two years abroad chasing the dream of playing professional soccer.

  After being sidelined with my second major concussion in as many years, the team physician insisted I stop playing professionally. The risk of permanent damage from traumatic brian injuries is too great to run the risk. I’m lucky my alma mater was willing to bring me back on as a grad assistant, working toward a master’s degree in social work. The whole program will be free for me, assuming I work for the athletic department while I’m attending.

  Student loans are always an option. That’s certainly how most people get their degrees. I want to work in a field notorious for providing low wages, so avoiding debt as much as possible is a priority. I’m lucky enough to have made decent money during my short stint as a professional athlete. Most of that money I have socked away in investments I plan to use to fund my dream.

  I want to open a specialized boarding school for kids in disadvantaged communities to be able to attend and receive not only top notch education, but also competitive training in their sport of choice and life skills mentoring. A first generation college student, I didn’t have the advantages of kids with families who understand how to leverage tuition assistance, scholarships, and life on campus when I got to college. Long before college, my family didn’t have the means to provide a competitive league travel soccer experience for me. I had to work harder to get the skills I needed to catch the attention of recruiters so I could earn a full-ride to school.

  Which brings me to my presence in the stands this morning, watching the women’s team scrimmage its first and second string against itself. AD Franklin wants me to fix whatever Taryn Ellis’s problem is; then sit on her until the end of the season so she doesn’t derail the team’s likely chances of bringing home its first national championship in women’s soccer.

  “You want to babysit jocks and turn them into scholarship winning powerhouses, Wells. Consider this advance training for that gig.” Franklin knows exactly what buttons to push to ensnare me and guarantee buy-in.

  He wants Taryn Ellis pinned down and held steady through the end of the season? I’m on her.

  THREE

  Taryn

  If I said I could feel eyes on me, it wouldn’t be saying much. There are always eyes on me when I’m on the pitch. Fans waiting to see where I’ll send the ball. Coaches picking apart every flex of every muscle, looking for flaws in execution or possible injuries that might impact play. Even my teammates are watching me for the next pass or shot on goal. I live my life under the spotlight. I’m used

to it.

  Something’s different this morning. Clear into my bones I can feel the intensity of attention boring through me. The thing to know about my position on the soccer field, is that it’s one of focus married with endurance.

  Meaning, I don’t have a spare second to scan the sideline to figure out where the new feeling is coming from. Whoever it is, I know I’ve never felt their eyes on me before.

  A little bit woo-woo? Maybe. It is what it is. I keep my legs pumping, sprinting back and forth from midfield into the goal box. Each press forward is timed to keep a defender ahead of me, staving off the fury I know the coaches will unleash if I go off-sides. My retreats back toward the center line help create availability for the midfielders to move deeper into our own half to assist the defenders when our opponents control the ball.

  Sweat stings my eyes and if there’s anything I’d ever change about being a soccer girl, it’s that. I’ve had a ball at my feet practically since I took my first steps, and my eyes still burn like today’s the first time I’ve practiced and not the bajillionth. The shin splints I’ve been battling since spring training camp earlier this year send shocks of spiky pain clear to my hips with every thud of my heels on the turf.

  An actual soccer game is ninety-minutes, broken into two periods with a short halftime in between. Starting striker for the team, I’m on the field every single one of those minutes. A scrimmage though? Those go until the coaches tell us we’re done. Vanderman’s so pissed at me, I think he’s going to drill us until I drop.

  “This is your fault. You know that, right?” Lennox grumbling at me is nothing new. I extend my hand to help her up from the dive she took blocking my shot on goal. No one else on the field deserves the punishment my antics earned the team less than Lennox. She was the only sober one at the party that night, but since she’s Leo, the aforementioned kicker I embarrassed’s twin sister, I expected her to be glad I took him down a peg. Leo’s always being an asshole.

  “Got that message. Sorry Len. I’ll take a dive next time Solange slide tackles me so coach will finally call practice.” Solange plays defense for the second string, although at the rate she’s perfecting those damn sweeps I think she’ll be pulled up to starter pretty soon. I’ve got the bruises to document her skill development.

  Not even sixty seconds later, I get my chance. Solange hits the turf, cleats tucked, barreling toward the ball at my feet. I tug it backward with the tip of my boot, but allow momentum to carry me forward over both the ball and her foot. I want to end practice, not hurt my teammate.

  I let gravity take over, rolling me ass over teakettle until I’m sprawled on my back in the still dewy fake grass. My arms and legs starfish out to the side as everyone scrambled to get possession of the ball. In a real game, I’d be rolling around, hamming it up for the ref in hopes of drawing a penalty flag on the opposing player.

  For today I let the puffy white clouds dotting the bright blue morning sky hold my attention. At some point coach’ll either blow the whistle, or I’ll be trampled into oblivion. Either way, Lennox will get her wish and practice will be over.

  “That’s it, everybody off the pitch before one of you delicate flowers catches an injury!” Vanderman loves treating us like we’re weaker or less than because we’ve got ovaries. I’d love to see him run a single drill with period cramps and a tampon jammed where the sun don’t shine.

  Since I’m getting what I want, I keep my mouth shut. See? Check me out, experiencing bouts of maturity and learning from my foolish exploits. Somebody dig out the gold star stickers, cuz I think I’ve earned one today.

  FOUR

  Bodhi

  Taryn Ellis is an enigma from top to bottom. The first thing I did when Director Franklin gave me this assignment was to request her athletic file and her academic records. Model student, poster girl for a rising women’s soccer program at a school dominated by mens teams, and if the documents I reviewed are to be believed, a role model until very recently.

  “You can see why Vanderman’s so adamant there’s a problem. Whatever it takes to keep her reigned in, you have the athletic department’s approval. Our only expectation is that you won’t allow her to become injured or to quit before the championship.” Franklin has been a pompous ass since I was an undergrad student athlete here.

  The fact that he’s willing to give me unquestioned power over a woman who I’m a complete stranger to is offensive. It makes my gut twist with anxiety. If I were so inclined, I could take my position and the staff’s willingness to turn a blind eye to use whatever tactics I choose to dominate Taryn. That’s so fucked up, no matter how much I promise myself I won’t take advantage of her.

  “What does Vanderman suspect? Drugs? The tests she’s taken so far this season have all been negative. Trouble in her classes? Man problems?” That last thought gives me a twinge in the chest. I don’t like the idea that Taryn could be pining for some faceless coed. Examining why that is will have to wait for later. The subject of our discussion is striding straight to where Franklin and I are standing. Zero hesitation in her steps and a look in her eyes that promises attitude incoming.

  “Early in the day for you to be out of your office, Director. Come to make sure your prize asset isn’t risking the big win you want so bad?” There’s no mistaking the hurt under the antagonism in her voice.

  Pieces of the picture start sliding into place, though I can’t be sure I fully understand what’s going on just yet. Her accusation, such that its veiled behind her flippant tone, clues me in that it’s not likely a substance abuse issue or love life drama. Unadulterated fury is raging behind her snark. And behind that? Hurt.

  My mind filters through the information I recall from the file on her, searching for anything that had been out of the ordinary. The only child of still married parents who seemingly doted on their athletically talented daughter, Taryn’s grades have never been lower than A’s and B’s. Her high school transcript shows academic honors as well as participation in show choir and pottery classes in addition, of course, to the multiple sports that she played. Nothing to indicate a wild child, or a brat.

  The age of internet accessibility gave rise to recruiting dossiers that chronicle even the smallest details about potential scholarship recipients. It wasn’t surprising to me that her file included details about her social media history and recreational habits. Nothing in any of that information tended to explain why this good girl has suddenly become so bad.

  “New trainer?” Her eyes assess me in my khakis and university polo, dismissive in a way that raises my hackles but without the scorn she openly showed Franklin.

  “Something like that. Miss Ellis, I would caution you to be a bit more respectful in the way you speak to me. You may be a star player, but in a few short weeks when the season is over, you’ll simply be yet another university student. While I will remain the final decision maker here, long after you’re gone.” Franklin’s threat isn’t specific, but there’s no mistaking its presence.

  The plot thickens.

  Taryn’s eyes go to his and I watch the flicker unease douse flames that were white hot just a blink ago. Her shoulders drop and her whole body seems to fold in on itself. Worry I wasn’t expecting to feel arrows through me until it find a home in my chest, tightening around my heart like a winch.

  Babysitting an out of control player to secure the funds I need to complete my masters program was a plan I could work with. Catching feelings for a girl who is very publicly evolving into a hot mess is a lot more than I’d ever envisioned myself allowing to happen. That might be the party line my head is touting, but it seems like my heart is mounting a takeover.

  FIVE

 

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