Page 6 of Striking Heat
“Not getting a shot on goal,” he clarifies.
“Yeah, it did.” I remember the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I left the field and how I wanted to crawl into a hole rather than head to the pressroom. And then it just got worse. I wonder if Danny ever played a sport. I make a mental note to Google him when I get home. I want to know more of his backstory and what makes him tick. Maybe that will help me fire back at him during the press conferences. Or better yet, stay out of his crosshairs.
“Don’t get into your head,” Coach says.
Fuck, he’s still talking. I nod slowly.
“So, you’ll give a pep talk after practice today?” he asks. “I think the players would really enjoy hearing from you.”
“Um, yeah, sure,” I stammer out.
Coach pats me on the back. “I knew I could count on you. Thanks, Mac.”
I nod as he jogs over to the assistant coach, Andrea Chapman.I almost wish he had sent Andie over to talk to me. She’s not as intimidating as Coach Watts. He was a men’s coach before he coached us. Sometimes I think he forgets that we like a bit of a lighter touch than the men he’s used to coaching. Or that the slaps on the ass that may have been appropriate when coaching men might not be the best with women. Hendrix only had to mention it once and he stopped.
Andie is a petite blonde, who, despite her size, made quite a splash in the NWSL, and now she’s back after a very short retirement to coach us. I’m thankful to have her. She was a defender, has great insight for field view, and has really helped the defense take charge. You just wouldn’t know it from the last game.
I think about what to tell the team and how to motivate them. Practice is winding down, and I’ll have to step forward soon and call them to me. The other players, even my friends, are keeping their distance, but pretty soon I’ll have almost thirty sets of eyes staring at me. My stomach does a flip thinking about it.
Some of the practice squad players tend to keep their distance from us starters. I want to tell them not to do that, because I don’t have any more experience playing in this league than they do. Some of them have even been on teams before, and for that, I have a twinge of imposter syndrome that I was able to come right out of the NCAA and play. It’s unprecedented. But I think that was part of what Mr. Cromwell was going forwith this new team—shock and awe. We’ve achieved the shock part. We completely shocked them on Saturday night with how little we could score.
“Alright, girls, round up.” Andie is walking toward me and motioning for the team to follow her. “Gather around. Your captain has something she wants to say.” Andie pats me on the back, nodding that it’s my turn to speak.
I clear my throat and look around at the half circle that’s been formed. I’m at the center of it, and it makes me uneasy. My stomach flips, and my palms begin to sweat. I’m suddenly not sure that I’m the best person to say something encouraging to thisteam. I still feel like I need a few words of encouragement myself after the last few days. But my blue eyes meet Cass’s, and she gives me a wink.
“Great practice today, everyone. I saw a lot of heart out there. I want to see the same amount of heart on Saturday. I know it’s only Tuesday, but we’ve gotta get our heads in the game and show every last damn one of them what the Tampa Bay Blaze is made of. We aren’t going to be that flash-in-the-pan team that everyone is predicting. We are going to overcome challenges and show them that we belong in the NWSL. There is so much talent on this team, and more importantly, there is so much heart. And we will not go without a fight. We are here to stay,” I say, putting my hand out in a fist for everyone to do the same. “Let’s go, Blaze on three. One, two, three. Blaze.”
The girls all join me, and I think I see some passion in their eyes as they head away from me. Most of them say bye to me or make a point to tell me it was a great speech. Some of the second-string girls want to say anything to the captain. I remember feeling that way too when I was a freshman in college. I wanted to be known too. My heart goes out to them because I want them to see the field. Hell, I want everyone to see the field. But if the starters can’t get it together, people will assume the bench can’t either.
I’m lost in thought as I’m taking off my cleats and shin guards. I barely notice Amelia drop down beside me until she starts talking.
“Great job, Mac. Really, you’re doing great things for this team, even if it feels like you aren’t.” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Now, do you wanna go grab some lunch or something? A bunch of us were talking about hitting up Tropical Smoothie.”
I nod. “Yeah, that sounds great.”
Chapter Four
~DANNY~
Imake no apologies for what I wrote. Some would call it my attempt at a takedown piece, but it wasn’t. Did she piss me off with the bit of flack she threw back? Kinda. I’m not used to them giving it back. Usually, women, or just athletes in general, get thrown a hard-lined question that makes them question their place and they fold into themselves.
But not Mackenzie.
She gave it back to me as good as she got it. Part of me wanted to be proud of her, but my editor wasn’t happy that someone had one-upped me like that. Martin likes it better when we’re the ones dishing out the jabs, not letting them catch us looking vulnerable. He knew that was what had happened. Nick was with me and told him as much.
I hadn’t always wanted to ask the hard questions of athletes after a tough loss. I knew what that felt like, believe it or not. I didn’t want to be the one who made them feel so low. It happened by accident, actually. One of the pitchers from the Tampa Bay Rays recognized me as the son of a football all-star who was good enough to have played with the likes of Emmett Smith. The fullback who had been unstoppable.
He knew there were some issues there with Dad—the whole world did. My dad hadn’t been photographed at too many of my swim meets. He liked being reminded that his son was at the Olympics, because it gave him clout, but he wasn’t really there to support me. He would always give quotes like, “The kid’s doing alright—for a swimmer.” Sure, I was highly decorated, but not enough for dear old Dad.
I’ll probably never be enough for him, and my mother realized that long ago. She left my dad when it was obvious that he wasn’t going to be the best support system for me. The alimony and notoriety she had for being married to an NFL player had served her well. She worked on the board of the Tampa Bay Children’s Hospital and was able to do some good with local nonprofits. My dad took care of her enough so that she didn’t need to work and was always at my side when I swam.
The shot the pitcher took at me, though, hit a nerve. I’d fired off my question from the hip, asking him how it felt to have been ranked as the better pitcher on the field, then choking. He didn't know what to say. He was perfectly happy dishing it out to me, but getting back wasn’t something he was prepared for.
Martin had eaten it up. A few local morning shows had picked up the footage of the pitcher’s face when I had asked that question. Of course, there were also pictures of me and talks about how I used to swim. How a career-ending shoulder surgery had done me in. The lawsuit that had followed and the money earned for damages because I would never again be a swimmer. All of it had been aired out. Martin didn't care about that part, though. He knew I was prepared to go for the jugular, and he liked that. He liked that kind of journalism. But that wasn’t what I had set out to do.
I wanted to cover athletes who were making a difference both on and off the fields, courts, or in pools. I would always cover the matches. I loved the competition. I loved how my blood flowed with adrenaline when I was around the contests. Itwas exhilarating. It helped me keep that spark inside of myself alive that swimming always had. My larger pieces were about how a linebacker was working in the Children’s Hospital, or how the soccer player worked Thanksgiving in the soup kitchen. Not tearing a girl down because she happened to end up on the NWSL team a billionaire had created because he was bored one day.
He set it up as his home base and brought in his guys, even his bratty kid, who wasn’t really a kid anymore, but a twenty-something named August, to help run things. Eventually, Aggie will run the team. The question is: will he run it into the ground? But I will have to cover that, and with the same malice I went after Mac with.
