Practice ended twenty minutes ago and the fieldhouse hallway still smells like floor cleaner and sports tape. The four of them are in kit with their hair down, holding the line they were standing in when you came out of the office with the laptop bag: Jessa Bergeron in the middle with a marker in her teeth, Bristol Sandeen at the end with the log under her arm, Halley Wexley and Winnie Tillery arm in arm and still arguing about the third set.
The trainer's office is locked, your lanyard is inside it with the charger, and the bus for the away match leaves at six.
"Analyst,"
Jessa says around the marker, and takes it out of her mouth.
"You're on the bus."
"He doesn't have a seat,"
Halley says, at the same time as Winnie says,
"He can have mine,"
and Bristol, without looking up from the log, says,
"He's not sitting with you."
Jessa writes on the back of her hand with the marker and holds it up so you can see it: a time, and a zero. Six. Then she caps the marker and looks at you the way she looks at a rotation that is not working.
"Film session, six, before the bus. First one through the door picks the drill."
She glances at the other three.
"We had a bet about which of us you'd say yes to first. Then you walked in and said yes to nobody, which was not on the board."
She holds the marker out to you, cap first.
"So here's the offer. You come at six and you tell us which of us you have been watching on the charts. One name. Then we let you on the bus."
"Say my name,"
Winnie says. Halley pulls her back by the wrist, laughing. Bristol opens the log and writes something down.
Jessa waits with the marker out, and she does not put her arm down.
"One name, Analyst."