Helping hand(s)

“Can you guys get it together for fucks sake?!”

To say Coach is angry would be the understatement of the century.

It’s not often he swears out his players, being college students and all, but everyone nearby can hear his frustration even through the walls of the locker room.

The cheerleading squad can hear him too, but it’s none of their business.

“Where do I even start with you fuckin’ bums,” he grits out between his teeth, his gaze going from player to player. “Simon, your defensive effort today: hot garbage. The opposing team shot 56% when you were the primary defender.”

The poor soul can only look down in shame, completely speechless at the fact. Numbers don’t lie.

“Leon, you can’t catch a ball to save your fucking life,” he then says to the next underperformer, a tall man designated as the team’s starting center. “What’s the point of being 7’1 if you can’t get in that paint and outbox anyone? Useless!”

One by one, the coach lashes out his personal grievances towards every player, regardless of whether they played or not. Whether it be inefficient shooting, poor playmaking, lackluster effort, abysmal defense, the list goes on and on. It’s a dysfunctional mess. Not even the star player is spared from this verbal lashing.

“Just because you did well doesn’t mean you’re exempt,” he then lasers his gaze toward you. “The record books only see Ws or Ls. And we lost. Horribly.”

Not even a 35 point outburst can change the final score: an embarrassing 97-72 destruction on home turf. You were effectively ran out of your own building by the visiting team.

Add another L to your now 4 game losing skid. Tournament prospects are at an all-time low.

“Christ, if I could have you all cut right here and now, I would have done it. 100 percent,” he remarks, scathing and to the point. “You guys are too pathetic to be called a basketball team.”

After he’s had his fair share of berating you and the rest of the team, Coach Lyles thumps his fist angrily at one of the lockers, echoing through the room with a thunderous clang.

“I’m having you guys run the marathon on Tuesday,” he concludes, his tone brooking no argument or protest. “Everyone shall be present at campus grounds at 5 AM sharp. No excuses, or you’ll be cut. Automatically.”

Quietly dismissing the team, one by one, your teammates slowly make their way towards the showers, too detached to even care at this point. It is what is.

Onto the next one, as they say.

Emerging from the lockers freshly showered, the captain of the cheerleading squad has been waiting on the other side of that door.

“Another tough loss,” Wonyoung starts, sounding sweet even in this deflating mood, lessening the pain just a bit, “but that wasn’t your fault at all. You did everything you could.”

“Sure it is,” you casually remark, smiling to mask the ache, though it fails, “We let them catch fire early in the first, and there was no looking back. Appreciate the effort, though.”

She rolls her eyes, yet can’t hide her grin when you chide her. “I know, I know. Just sucks for you to be balling on such a terrible squad like ours. I fear you won’t make it if our record keeps sliding.”

“It’s no big deal,” you say, trying to play it off as insignificant, but not really. Scouts also look beyond the stats too; they see whether it translates to winning basketball, no matter how good the numbers may look. At this rate, you might not even be a second round pick with how badly the team is performing, as Wonyoung surmised. “I’m just doing my part.”

“Better hope things turn around soon,” she remarks as you exit the building into the night, her words drowned out as a particularly cool gust whips your faces, making her bury her head into your side and the familiar warmth that accompanies it. “Even if they don’t, I got your back if it comes to that point.”

You look over at her with a raised brow, surprised by her uncharacteristic support, and not just as a member of the basketball team.

“Oh and—I forgot to give you this,” Wonyoung suddenly pulls something from her purse—a makeshift friendship bracelet. “Leeseo wanted me to give you this for good luck. She’s the new freshman and youngest of the cheer squad, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

Graciously accepting the gift, you gaze at the pink, neon green, and gold tassel tied into a neat square, adorned with a pair of heart stickers, along with a smaller version of the jersey number that’s painted across your back.

A goofy smile works itself upon your face before Wonyoung adds on: “Also, she’s taken quite the shine to you. Must be cause you’re the one carrying the team.”

“You sure it’s not because she has a crush on me, like the rest of the cheer squad?”

“Of course not,” she replies almost immediately, shooting you a judging pout for even considering the notion. “She’s new around these parts. You’re like the 4th most attractive guy on the team.”

“4th seems way too generous for your supremely high standards.”

“It is when a majority are bums or can’t walk in a straight line with two good legs.”

“Yet they’re the same people getting drafted,” you quip. “Sounds hypocritical coming from a cheer squad.”

She playfully shoves you. “Hey, cheer squads can only go far to elevate the team’s overall performance. We’re not miracle workers.”

You let her hold your hand.

“Lucky I still have some faith left,” you mutter, gripping the bracelet still in your grasp tightly as you turn over its tiny knits. “Still early in the season. We can still fight.”

Your captain pulls a teasing smile.

“You guys may suck right now, but that’s why you have me,” she states, confidence practically oozing through her voice. “To give them something to cheer about.”

It’s enough for your knees to buckle just hearing her.

“Cause we all know who the real star of the team is.” The seduction drips out of her naturally, that perfect balance of modest and overt, full of pure attraction as a stranger walking past them on the sidewalk notices. You both have no reason to hide your public display, no matter the looks.

There’s no lying that her positive and bubbly energy has influenced many of her cheer squad, most of which you’re familiar with in passing, the ‘old’ girls you’re friends with mostly coming from other years or programs.

She’s certainly outshined them as of late.

“Of course,” she adds, “there’s a catch, as per usual.”

“And that is?”

“Tomorrow should be your day off, yeah? I want you to come to the court after lunch. Bring one of the guys with you. Need you two to judge this new routine we’re trying for the next game.”

You lift a brow, puzzled. “You know I don’t watch you girls practice while we’re doing our workouts, right?”

“Sure you don’t, but some of the other guys do. Maybe that’s why they’ve been playing so terribly to start the season,” Wonyoung teases. “Maybe they should be part of the cheerleading squad instead.”

“To you, but how come I’m involved?” you argue. The last thing you want to see after a terrible loss like tonight is to be back on the court so soon. You need a clear head before getting back.

“Because.”

Whatever. “Fair enough.”

“Oh, and also,” she grabs your attention with her voice again, tugging your sleeve before you take another step forward, “you did pretty good tonight, as always.”