The intensity of the fluttering increased, reminding me of one of those silly cartoons I used to watch on the telly when I was a boy.
“What is all that eyelash flapping about?”
“Pretty pleaaaaaaaase?” eight out of the nine girls in front of me chanted in unison.
“I said no,” I told them, crossing my arms in front of my chest. “Now, whose turn is it to fetch the cones and balls? I’ll get the practice goals later on.”
The one with the asymmetrical pigtails stepped closer. “It will be just the one video, Mr. Coach,” María—one of the oldest girls in the group at the age of nine—said. “You don’t need to do anything but stand in front of the camera with us, and we won’t even post it anywhere. I promise.” She clasped her hands beneath her chin. “Pretty pleaaaase?” she repeated, stretching the word again. “Mr. Coach?”
Not the Mr. Coach bullshit again. “Just Cam.”
“Does that mean you’ll do it, Mr. Cam?”
I stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “No. Now—”
“But your name is literally cam.” She stepped forward, the whole group moving with her. “And what’s a camera for? Videos!”
I stared blankly at the kid. Jesus, I really needed that extra shot of caffeine I’d missed today. “That’s not where Cam comes from.”
“Where does it come from then?”
“Cameron,” I answered without thinking and immediately regretted it. “But you can call me Cam. Not Camera, not Mr. Coach, and not Mr. Cam. Just Cam.”
María’s head tilted, all that barely contained dark hair shifting with the motion. Out of the lot, she was the sassiest, most outspoken kid. Probably too smart for her own good. So when her lips popped open, I braced myself. Luckily, before she could speak someone shouted in the distance.
We all turned toward the voice, spotting a kid running toward us.
Chelsea.
I knew because out of the ten-player roster, not only was she one of the youngest kids at age seven, but also because she was the one that insisted on showing up to practice in a goddamn tutu. She had them in multiple colors. This one was blue, and it clung to her waist over her shorts.
Christ. That was why I insisted on them not calling me anything but Cam. Expressly, not coach. I was coaching them, but I wasn’t their coach. I couldn’t be.
“Sorry,” Chelsea said when she reached us, breathlessly doubling down. “My ballet class ran a little late, and my mom thought my dad was picking me up. But my dad thought my mom was. So my mom had to call my dad to drive me all the way from Fairhill.” Her chest heaved. “What did I miss?”
“Mr. Camera doesn’t want to record a video with us,” María said. “And he doesn’t even need to dance.”
Chelsea popped a piece of chewing gum into her mouth. “Why?”
“No gum during practice,” I reminded her. “And can the tutu go?”
“She’s channeling her inner Black Swan,” María answered for Chelsea. “Right, Chels?”
Chelsea reluctantly took the gum out with her fingers, tucked it in the pocket of her shorts and gave a nod. “That’s right, Mr. Cam.”
I blinked at them. I was sure that movie had come out before any of them were born. “Aren’t you too young to watch that movie?”
María shrugged. “My brother was watching it last week. I only had a peek, Mr. Cam.”
I eyed the blue thing. “Wouldn’t the tutu need to be black, too?” Another shrug. I suppressed a sigh. “And for the last time, just Cam is fine.”
“You are grumpy today, Mr. C,” María muttered, bracing her hands on her hips. “So… Is Cameron your first name or your last name? Do you have a middle name, too?”
“No middle name. No last name. And now”—I pointed at the girls closest to the supply shed—“can you please fetch cones and balls from the supply room? We’re losing precious time.”
Four of the kids trotted away and when I returned my eyes to María, her expression was skeptical. “So you’re like Zendaya?”
“No,” I answered. “I’m not a zendoya, whatever that is. I’m Cam. Now let’s all—”
“Oh. My. God,” María said very theatrically. “He doesn’t know who Zendaya is.”
“How old are you, Coach Cam?” Chelsea asked, walking around me very slowly, as if she was inspecting me in a new light. Only when she made it back to the front, she said, “You look younger than my granddaddy. He wears suspenders under his shirt. Mom says it’s weird, but I think it’s funny. Do you have grandchildren?”