The Long Puck

It was a Wednesday. It was always going to be a Wednesday.

On Mondays the under-12s had school hockey. On Tuesdays the pitch was rented out to the astroturf cooperative. On Thursdays the senior men trained, which meant Wednesday was the only day Doireann could get the under-12 camogie panel onto the main pitch without being yelled at, and it was the only day Neasa could also get onto it, because Neasa was a secondary school teacher who ran choir on every other possible evening.

So it was always a Wednesday, and this Wednesday, at five past seven, Doireann was standing in goals at the far end of the pitch while Neasa walked seventeen twelve-year-old girls through a short-puck drill in the centre circle.

"Plant your foot!" Neasa was yelling. "Plant. Your foot. Órfhlaith, plant your foot before you strike, love, or Doireann will send it back at you like a — "

"— a missile," said one of the twelve-year-olds.

"Thank you, Sadhbh."

Doireann, watching this from two hundred metres away, could not quite hear it, but she could see Neasa's shoulders shaking with not-laughter, which was the tell Neasa had had since they were fifteen.

A ball came in high. Doireann caught it one-handed, flicked it onto her bas, and stroked it back low and flat along the grass towards the group. The ball skidded twenty yards and came to rest at Neasa's feet, perfectly tee'd up.

"Ah, show off," said Neasa, audibly, and the under-12s giggled.

Doireann smirked into the collar of her jersey.

Sadhbh, not-without-ulterior-motive, peeled out of the drill and jogged down the pitch to Doireann. "Doireann."

"Sadhbh."

"Doireann, can I ask you something?"

"Sadhbh. The drill."

"It's quick."

"It's never quick."

Sadhbh was twelve. Sadhbh had big brown eyes and the tactical calm of a hostage negotiator. Sadhbh said, "Is Ms Whelan your girlfriend."

Doireann, leaning on her hurl, looked down the pitch at the distant shape of Neasa, who at that moment was demonstrating a hand-pass with entirely the wrong grip for comedic effect.

She looked back at Sadhbh.

"Why," she said, with no particular inflection.

"Because Mam says you are and Aoife Ní Shé says you aren't and Aoife Ní Shé owes me two euro if you are."

"Right."

"So is she."

Doireann had thought about this conversation for about eight months. She had run it in her head in all sorts of shapes. In none of the rehearsals had the asker been twelve and possessed of gambling debts.

She said, "Yes."

Sadhbh nodded once, very seriously. "Grand. Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Does she know?"

"Does she — yes, Sadhbh, she knows. She's my girlfriend. She's known since the start."

"Fair enough." Sadhbh looked up the pitch. Then, without turning back, as if she were asking about the weather: "Is it hard being gay in camogie?"

Doireann blinked. "Not in this club, no."

"But in some clubs."

"Probably in some clubs. I don't know all the clubs."

"My cousin's on a club over in Offaly. She's not out. She says it's fine. But, like. She's not out."

"Right."

Sadhbh nodded again. "Grand. Thanks." She turned to jog back.

"Sadhbh."

"Mm."

"If your cousin ever wants to talk to anyone about any of that, there's a thing called Sporting Pride. I'll give your mam the link. They have — I dunno. People."

"Sound."

"Right."

"Doireann."

"Sadhbh."

"Aoife Ní Shé now owes me two euro, which I will be accepting in coin."

"Run, Sadhbh."

"Running."

Sadhbh ran. Doireann watched her rejoin the drill, and saw her say something to Aoife Ní Shé at the back of the group. Aoife Ní Shé's shoulders sagged. Neasa, not seeing this but sensing it, turned and squinted down the pitch and mouthed, what?

Doireann shrugged, grinning.

After training, folding goalposts into the shed, she told Neasa about Sadhbh and the gambling debt, and Neasa laughed for a full thirty seconds, leaning on the shed door.

"I knew that child was taking money off people."

"We should coach her."

"We should put her in goals."

"She'd own Leinster by U16."

Outside, the last few cars were pulling out of the car park, parents doing their weekly three-point-turn. The sky was the colour of weak tea. Neasa flicked the shed light off and then, because nobody was looking, briefly rested her forehead on Doireann's shoulder.

"You alright?" Doireann said.

"Yeah. It's nice."

"What is."

"This. A twelve-year-old asking, and you just saying yes, and that being the end of it."

"Mm." Doireann rubbed Neasa's back. "It mightn't always be."

"No, I know. But today it was."

They locked up. Walked to the car together, hurls over shoulders, the sliotar that Sadhbh had "forgotten" to return rolling loose in the boot.

"Next week," Neasa said, getting in, "I'm teaching them the long puck-out. Ground stroke. Off the bas."

"They'll all miss it."

"I know."

"Then you'll demonstrate it."

"Then I'll demonstrate it, and they'll all learn nothing, and I'll feel great."

"Good plan."

"Yeah."

The car pulled out of the car park. Overhead, the pitch lights clicked off one row at a time.

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