Stories From 2011 (Dear Players, What's Mine, Queen Bee)

Queen Bee: Chapter 11

                “I’m not blind coach, but this is the better league and there’s no manual saying I can’t tryout,” I exclaim.

                “Yes, but there’s me and I am the coach,”

                I frown, “Yeah, but how would you like it if the headline of next week’s issue said “Sexist Coach Does Not Let Girl Try Out,” I pause, “Or better yet what if we wait and the headline says, “Cornwall beats Palms due to one of Palms' girls,”

                Coach snarls, “You wouldn’t,”

                “Oh but I would and you know that pesky paper is always looking for new stories,” I reply cocking my head to the side.

                “7 minutes for you,” is all he says.

                I roll my eyes, “My pleasure,” I look at his little name tag and chuckle, “Dick,”

                “The name suits you,” I mutter under my breath before jogging back to place.

                Dick looks at me annoyed before blowing the whistle. I start with a slight jog. All around me the boys pick up speed and leave me in the dust. Coach laughs loudly. I don’t bother picking up the speed. By the time I finish the first lap everyone else is already half a lap ahead of me. I let them get a little farther away when I start running faster.

                Step, step, breath, step, step, pump arms, step, step, breath.

                One of the guys, who I have yet to learn the name of, stares at me in amazement as I start to overpass him. I finish the second lap in record time.

                If there was one thing I was created to do, it’s to run. I love it with my entire being. I love the air around me; the pure and utter concentration; the knowledge that there’s always an end to strive for and I can choose that end. It’s everything I’ve always wanted; freedom, certainty, accomplishment…happiness.

                “That’s impossible,” someone yells behind me.

                They snap me out of my haze, but I don’t pay much more attention to them. My mind’s back on the fact that I have someone to prove wrong; someone to show that no matter how much they can try to write me off I’ll never be predictable.

                “5 minutes 30 seconds,” Dick yells through clenched teeth as I finish the third lap.

                I grin as I pick up even more speed. I don’t dare look back because when I run I only look forward. I know it’s a little ridiculous, but it’s just a little rule I have since my mom left. It’s better that way- to never look back.

                I only have an eighth of the lap left so I slow down and start walking,”

                Coach looks at me like I’m stupid.

                “I’m letting them catch up a little,” I explain, but still don’t look back to see how far away they exactly are.

                I’m panting hard by now, that familiar dull ache starts settling on my legs and arms so I start running again. I jump past the “finish line” or in this case where the coach is standing.

                “6 minutes 45 seconds,” he tells me.

                “Shucks that’s my slowest time yet,” I reply shaking my head in mock shame, “It usually takes me about 7 minutes to run a mile and this was less distance,” I tell him.

                Dick stares at me disbelievingly, “Just go sit on the bench while the rest finish. Then we’ll see if you should join soccer or track,”

                I refrain myself from glairing- not because there’s something wrong with track but because the coach is still being a sexist baboon.

                About a little less than a minute later coach has cut three people and now fifteen of us are standing in a line.

                “Congratulations,” coach starts, “You’ve all made it on the team. Although four of you will be second string,” he finishes staring right at me.

                I meet his gaze unfazed. There’s no way I’m second string-none.

***

                I run and gain on the other person. He sees me and speeds up, but I’m faster than him and soon I’m running alongside him.

                “Don’t even try,” he spits at me.

                I growl and kick at the ball. He brings it to the opposite side, but I don’t give up and twirl around him. Then, once I see an opening, I kick through the middle making the ball stray from his feet. After that I run. I gain control of the ball just at someone comes to take it. I roll the ball on my foot while I’m running and kick it up-high.

                Someone on my team head butts it back in my direction and I jump and kick it in the air. The ball goes to the high right corner. The opposing team goalie misses.

                The score is tied.

                Coach blows the whistle.

                “Mathew, Thomas, Mike, and Jake…second string,” coach says.

                There are collective groans from the four.

                “Team captain goes to Trent,” he continues throwing captain jersey to Trent.

                Trent grins,” I’m captain!” he yells cockily.

                Then coach turns to me. He looks at me long and hard before sighing in defeat.

                “Co-captain,” coach tells him before throwing a jersey at me and then dismissing us.

                Trent looks at me mouth hanging open.

                I just give him a smug look.

~Camille~

                I watch them mingle. My blood boils. I want her gone and now I know exactly how to do it.     

                Trent will hate her.

                And it’s quite simple too.