Roses Are Not Red

Iris

The November chill slices through me, but unlike my Team, I don't react. They are quivering from the shoulders down, their spaceship-blue shin pads buffeting the wind. They're complaining they want to head in, so I pretend I can't hear them through the mouth guards. I do not pretend to hide my snarl. We're not going to win the league again if we're stood here shivering on the pitch. 

We're lucky. Not many Coaches would agree to stay this late after college, but one of them, I can't tell which (they all look the same to me in their green and white tracksuits), is lounging by the gates. I think he's smoking, but, like I said, I can't be sure at this distance. I'm standing at the far edge of the pitch, my famed 'Sledgehammer' hockey stick in hand. My legs are bare, scratched all the way down to the ankles. There's a bloodied scab on my left knee, beginning to peel in the wind, while my right shin is practically shredded. There's an old scar too, hidden beneath my mossy college hoodie. I shake my head, tapping the stick on the Astroturf. As Captain, I decide when everyone gets to home. If anyone leaves now, they're off the Team. After all, no one is indispensable. The new recruits – there's two so far, from the lower year – are lingering at the back of the group, whispering to each other like locusts waiting to descend. One of them is a boy with a rack of sheep's wool hair, while the other, a girl, is hiding beneath her fringe.

"Will someone get her a clip?" I snap. I slam the hockey stick against my own foot for emphasis. My Vice Captain – I never bothered to learn his name – winces tightly. I sneer at him, satisfied. I know what he thinks of me. In fact, I'm counting on it.

"Look alive. Let's get out there. Split into threes. I want to see you passing, weaving. Grab a ball, grab a stick if you don't have one. If you don't have a mouthguard, buy one soon," I'm saying, even though I know everyone has a stick. Even though no one in their right mind would be in a hockey pitch with me without a mouth guard. Even though were teeth and gums are unprotected. For some reason, perhaps God, if He existed, must be toying with me, I had yet to scar my face. Shame. All my blood canticle hair and ivory skin was missing was a large ghastly scar, preferably on the upper lip. Part of me chuckles at the thought of what --- would say. A scar on my face. I wonder if he'd even notice.

The new recruits are swamped with eerie cones, where they awkwardly weave the ball around the flattened pyramids, both of them shooting terrified stares in my direction when they thought I wasn't looking. My Vice Captain works with them, directing them with his silken voice. I shrug. Move off to another group.

"Pick it up, guys!" I yell, offering them a wide grin. They look up, shoulders sagging. I know that look of relief all to well. The kind of relief when you diffuse an UXB.

"Do you want to win this term? Because I know I do. Keep that stick lower than your hip," I say to one of the first years, who seems to playing golf, not hockey. She blushes, hands shaking as she dips the stick further downwards. I sigh. Stand beside me.

"You're killing me. You look like you're holding a sword. Do I look like the Captain of the fencing team to you? Here," I say. Hunkering down, I display my stance. Instantly, my Vice Captain goes on the attack. He runs for the ball, weaving and ducking. I side-step him with ease, the hockey ball almost glued to the stick. On his way past, I aim for his shin with my own. He goes down with a grunt. I turn around, nodding the girl. But there are flames in my eyes, my ears, my mouth, my nostrils. I'm overflowing with embers; it's as if my bones are melting.

"Come on," I yell. I've instantly returned to snapping. "Move!"

Everyone twitches into life, each one an automaton. I might as well be cracking a whip out here. They're not moving fast enough – they're sluggish. We'll never make the first game, never mind the entire league.