by Jon Thorn
Natalie watched from the stands. This England side were good, very good, probably the best for a generation. They were beating Germany easily, already they were three goals up, and if this penalty corner came off, they would be in an unassailable position. It was a pleasure to watch a national side doing well at last. However, it wasn't the team she had come to watch; but rather one man, the man now taking the strike. He was a compact, slightly built man, his fair hair cut short to his scalp, an athletic man, an attractive man. But Natalie was not concerned with his looks, it was his skill she was after. She needed a hockey coach, and needed one urgently.
Her school was through to the semi-final of the national championships and just when they needed to be preparing hardest, her hockey coach had, with utmost bad-timing, chosen that week to suffer a debilitating heart attack. She could hardly blame the woman, it wasn't her fault, but it did leave the school with rather a problem. Natalie had staked her reputation as headmistress on winning success, in every area, and even on the sports field her ambition was relentless. And so she was here, watching Mark Thorne, seeing if he had what she wanted. She could have gone for a woman, but all of the national women's teams were hopeless right now, and she only wanted the best. For Natalie McInnes and for Burnside College, only the best was ever good enough. That was why she had taken the trouble to find out who on the England team was available at short notice - and Mark Thorne was the name that kept coming up. Natalie cheered with the rest of the crowd as the corner was converted into another goal for the home side.
Mark showered leisurely after the match, suffused with the happy glow of victory and making the most of the feeling while it lasted. Hockey was the only thing that made life worthwhile at the moment. Since leaving the army eighteen months ago, things had been a struggle. He had hoped he would walk into a management job but somehow his face didn't ever seem to fit. The skills of an infantry officer were not what firms were looking for. Sure, he could lead a company of men in a night attack on a well defended enemy position, and bring off victory with minimal casualties. Sure, he could handle a variety of weapon systems. Sure, he could live rough for days on end and still motivate his troops. But these were not the abilities that commercial organisations were looking for. And besides that, he didn't have the slickness and false charm of some of the other candidates. Mark said what he meant, and he said it directly. That's the way it was done in the army; in the civilian world he felt like a fish out of water. Except on the hockey field, there he felt like a god.
Slowly Mark dried himself and got dressed. It was always at this point, when the euphoria of victory began to fade and reality began to kick in again, that he felt at his lowest. Yes, there were training sessions to enjoy but the next match wasn't for a few weeks, until then he was stuck in the soul-destroying routine of looking for work and not finding any.
Mark said his goodbyes to his team-mates, declining their offer of a celebratory drink and headed towards the back of the building where his car was parked. He was stopped by a shout from Peter Ingram, the team manager, "Mark! Wait a minute."
He turned back.
"Have you got a moment? There's somebody here wants to meet you."
Mark shrugged and strolled across to the manager; it was probably some spotty fan wanting an autograph, but what the hell, he wasn't in any hurry. He followed Peter back to the office. As they entered the room Natalie stood to greet them. For a moment, Mark was taken aback; this was no spotty teenager, but an elegant and rather beautiful woman. She was, he guessed, in her mid-thirties, her short fair hair framed an attractive and intelligent face. She held out her hand, "How do you do? Natalie McInnes." She spoke with a soft Scots accent. Mark shook her hand, surprised at how firm her grip was.
"How do you do? Mark Thorne," he introduced himself.
"Sit down, both of you," Peter gestured to the easy chairs. "Can I fix you some coffee?"
"No thank you," Natalie replied.
"No Pete, not for me thanks," said Mark.
"Then I'll leave you to it," Peter said. He left the room, closing the door behind him.
Now that they were on their own, Mark took a moment to look at this woman a little more closely. She was hardly an average hockey fan, dressed more for a business meeting with her smart understated suit, than for an afternoon in the stands.
"What can I do for you?" Mark asked.
"You can come and teach hockey at my school," Natalie replied.
Mark was taken aback by the directness of her words. He didn't quite know what to say ... "W..What did you say?," he stammered.
"I said I would like you to come and coach the hockey team at my school."
"But ... but I haven't applied for any teaching post ... I'm not ..."
She cut across him. "Yes I am well aware of that. I haven't advertised the position. I wanted to choose the best and I have chosen you."
He had been about to make his excuses and decline the sudden offer but now Mark was flattered; it's always good to be told you are the best there is. He raised his eyebrows, "OK ... well ... why don't you tell me some more?"
"Very well. Burnside College is an independent boarding school on the West Coast of Scotland. Until recently its record has been rather uninspiring. I have made it my job, as headmistress, to raise the profile of the school and gain a measure of success."
"You're a school headmistress?"
"Yes I am ... don't I fulfil your stereotype for the role, Mr Thorne?"
"No, it's not that ..." Mark coloured a little. "... you just seem rather young, that's all."
"Success comes early in any profession to those who are good enough ... I'm sure I don't need to tell you that, Mr Thorne."
He nodded, "OK point taken. So tell me, where do I fit in exactly?"
"Well, one of the areas where we have been successful of late is on the hockey pitch. The school team has just reached the semi-finals of the national championships. All was proceeding well until very sadly, three days ago, we lost our team coach, Marjorie Hamilton. It has therefore become imperative that we employ someone as quickly as possible."
"What are you offering were I to take the job?"
"We would be able to offer you a fee of six thousand pounds for a term's contract; in addition, accommodation would be provided free of charge ... I understand from Mr. Ingram that you might be available to start immediately?"
Mark smiled, she certainly seemed keen to have him, and the fee was certainly reasonable. He answered her question, "Well ... yes I am available ... but I would like to know a little more. For example how old are these hockey stars ... what age group are the lads in?"
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