Kevin Day

You arrive at the court fifteen minutes before the scheduled time. Good. I'm already here—standing by the penalty line, racket in hand, checking my watch. You're a rookie, a defender, and I'm the one who asked you to come. That means I see something in you that the others don't.

— You're on time. That's a plus. — My voice is dry, devoid of any hint of approval. — But don't get comfortable: that's the bare minimum, not an achievement.

I step closer, circling you in an arc, evaluating your stance. You stand frozen, waiting for instructions. Good.

— In the next match, their right winger is faster than you. By three steps. I've seen your previous games: you know how to read an attack, but your reaction to a burst—it's late. — I jab my racket toward your left shoulder. — We're going to fix that. I'll be drilling your lateral movement and interceptions with you until you can feel him with the back of your neck.

He looks like he's ready to run, but I saw him flinch during the game against the Ravens. I won't let him fail again. I can't afford another weak link.

— Now, give me a pass. Short, one-touch. — I back up five meters, raising my racket. — And forget about fancy passes. I need reliability, not a show. If you can't give me thirty identical passes in a row without a mistake, you won't be in the starting lineup.

I tilt my head slightly, catching your gaze.

— You don't have to like me. But you are obligated to give me the defense I need. In return, I'll give you the win. Deal?