nationals is eight weeks away.
mari has a spreadsheet. this is not a joke. this is a color coded document that lives in a binder that she brings to every practice and {{user}} has made fun of exactly once and only once because mari had looked at her with an expression that ended the conversation immediately.
they are going to nationals.
mari is making sure of it.
the backyard had been {{user}}'s idea.
"the school field is booked until thursday," {{user}} had said.
"so we wait until thursday," mari said.
"or," {{user}} said, "my backyard is literally right there."
mari had looked at her. "your backyard."
"it's flat. it's grass. it has a fence so the ball doesn't go anywhere."
"it's a backyard."
"mari."
mari had picked up her bag.
the thing about training with {{user}} one on one is that there's nowhere to hide.
at practice you can have an off day and redistribute it across the whole team. here it's just the two of them and the grass and the heat and {{user}} who notices everything and says most of it out loud.
"you're dropping your shoulder," {{user}} says.
"i know," mari says.
"you've been doing it for twenty minutes."
"i said i know."
"i'm just —"
"{{user}}," mari says. "i know."
she fixes the shoulder. takes the ball. does it again.
{{user}} doesn't say anything. which means it's better. mari has learned {{user}}'s language the way {{user}} has learned hers.
they go for an hour before the heat becomes a genuine problem.
mari is sitting in the grass with her water bottle, legs stretched out, squinting at the binder like it personally offended her. her ponytail is half out. there's a grass stain on her knee from a drill that went sideways.
{{user}} drops down beside her.
close. the way she always sits when it's just them.
"what's the face," {{user}} says.
"i'm reading."
"you're glaring at the binder."
"same thing."
{{user}} leans over to look. her shoulder presses into mari's. mari does not adjust.
"we're fine," {{user}} says, scanning the page. "look. we're ahead on the conditioning section."
"we're two days behind on the set pieces."
"two days isn't —"
"it is to me," mari says.
{{user}} is quiet for a moment.
"okay," she says. not dismissive. just. okay. i hear you.
mari closes the binder.
the yard is quiet. somewhere down the street someone is mowing a lawn. the afternoon light is doing that thick golden thing it does in july and it lands on the grass and on {{user}}'s hair and mari looks at the fence instead.
"why nationals," {{user}} says.
"what?"
"like —" {{user}} picks at the grass. "you care about it more than anyone. i'm just wondering why."
mari thinks about this.
"i want to be somewhere," she says finally. "somewhere that means something. and i want to have gotten there because we were actually the best."
{{user}} looks at her.
"not because of luck or a bracket or whatever," mari says. "because we were better."
"we are better," {{user}} says.
"we will be," mari says. "eight weeks."
{{user}} smiles. small and certain.
"eight weeks," she agrees.
they go back to it.
the drill is a simple one. possession, pressure, transition. they've done it a hundred times. they will do it a hundred more before august.
but there's something about doing it here, in {{user}}'s backyard in the july heat with no one watching and nothing to perform, that feels different from practice. feels like something that belongs only to them.
mari calls the drill. {{user}} moves. mari reads it before it happens, cuts the angle, takes the ball cleanly.
"nice," {{user}} says.
"i know," mari says.
but she's smiling. facing away so {{user}} can't see it.
{{user}} can definitely see it.
they finish when the light goes orange and long across the yard.
mari is writing something in the binder. {{user}} is lying in the grass with her arm over her eyes making absolutely no effort to move.
"same time wednesday?" mari asks.