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Breathe in. Make sure the arrow is seated properly on the rest and the string. Raise to eye level and stare down the shaft, ensuring that the tip is pointed precisely at the center of the target. Double check stance, and take a few seconds to adjust for the wind and distance.

Next, breathe out. Make sure not to breathe back in at this step, because the rising of your chest will change the arrow’s position relative to the target, and the shot will be off course. Instead, keep steady, and draw the string using your back muscles, not your arms. As soon as the nock of the arrow gets to your jaw, anchor it in place for about two seconds, holding the draw steady as you make final adjustments. Once you’re confident in your aim…

Loose!

My arrow flew with the confidence of a lion chasing a wounded gazelle. It sliced through air with dauntless force, rushing at my quarry. So fast was it that gravity and friction weren’t anywhere near enough to slow its pace or throw its trajectory. After it crossed the seventy meters separating me from the target, the metal tip dug deep into it, stuck firmly in…

Blue.

I groaned to myself. This was my sixteenth shot this practice, and I still hadn’t even hit gold, let alone a bullseye. I looked both ways down the field and saw multiple arrows piercing the center of their targets, some with frightening consistency. I knew that I could do that too. I had multiple times before, and it earned me my scholarship, but I couldn’t figure out what had been out of place for the last few weeks. Senior year had just started, and I was already falling behind. I’d even practiced over the summer, and still it felt like my bow was betraying me.

Frustrated, I drew another arrow from my hip, and cycled through my process again, taking extra care to aim and steady my breathing. I loosed once more and hit…black!?

I drew the last arrow in my quiver and fired it off with no regard for technique or aim, and of course it just barely struck the edge of the target in the white. I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to coerce myself into calming down, before Collin piped up from my left, holding his draw.

“Getting angry isn’t going to help, dude.” He loosed his arrow, it whizzed down-range, and stuck firmly in the eight-ring. Just last month, I could do that in my sleep.

“What makes you so sure? Loosing with my fucking eyes closed couldn’t do me any more harm, at this point.”

“I’m telling you man, you got taller.”

“I’m twenty one, the only thing I can grow anymore is my–”

I got cut off by a booming voice directly behind me calling my name. “Aiden MacRae!”

The entire field fell silent as I felt my spine turn into solid ice. Behind me was a stout, pot-bellied middle aged man with beady, angry eyes and a face that looked like he was born sucking on a lemon. He wore a University of Sheffield sweatshirt and baseball cap, designed to hide his tragically hilarious comb-over. Denial is understandable, but when your only hair left is gray, thin, and just two inches above your ears, your choices are “bald” or “embarrassment.”

Coach Whitmore sauntered up to me and inspected my lousy work. He didn’t need to inspect for long. Clicking his tongue with a rhythm of annoyingly smug condescension, he walked downrange and plucked my arrows from the target himself. I did my best statue impression as he returned and placed himself a foot away from me. I was substantially taller, but that didn’t make him any less intimidating. The man had a fuse millimeters long, and my lackluster performance had lit it.

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“MacRae, what’s your highest score so far?” His words dripped with venom, poised to sink his fangs in.

I took a small breath and created mental distance. “Twenty-five, coach.”

“Twenty-five, huh?” He was pulling back, readying his strike. I’d drawn his ire before, and been present when other team members had ticked him off, so I knew what to expect. But this was the first time he’d ever come at me for underperforming. He continued, “Did you break an arm over the summer, MacRae?”

Here we go. “No, coach.”

“Then what in the fuck is your damage!?” He launched the armful of shafts down at my feet, smacking my shins with some of the wood. It stung, but my expression stayed perfectly neutral. Things would only get worse if I reacted. “Last semester you were shooting 48-55 average, and out of fucking nowhere you can’t even hit yellow accidentally?!”

Silence. It always bothered the coach that I was the only one he couldn’t coax a reaction from. One would think the common, how-to-avoid-bullies logic would apply and he’d move on, but he only ever dug his heels in deeper. He would berate me over the tiniest infractions of technique, petty details of bow maintenance, and was verbally abusive at any opportunity. And I wasn’t his only target.

Of course, he’d been reported multiple times, but nothing ever came of it. He was an alumnus, and he made substantial donations to the school. As long as he was never arrested, the archery field may as well have been his own castle.

He must not have been in the mood to be stone faced today, because after his outburst, he took a breath, and broke out the big guns. “Get your shit together, MacRae, or I’ll need to make room on the team for someone who does.” He walked past me back to his observation post at the rear of the field.

I never thought I’d have that threat leveraged against me. It wasn’t an idle one either. The coach liked to “prune” low scorers from the team whenever he could, so as to keep us “fit and competition ready.” Like he gave two shits about us. He just wanted to make sure he had plenty of trophies to his name. It’s not like he would be left hurting for players either. Archery was the only thing Sheffield University was known for.

I knelt down and returned my arrows to my hip quiver. Everyone had gone back to their own practice, besides Collin, who knelt beside me. “He wouldn’t, bro. You’re the anchor! Besides, it’s senior year and you’ve tolerated him this whole time, he’d be an idiot to get rid of you now.”

“I get the feeling that he wants me gone because I’ve tolerated him for so long.” I stood back up into a firing position, and Collin stepped back to his target.

Normally the coach’s threats didn’t rattle me, but I had no choice but to take this one seriously. My scholarship was being held hostage, and it was the one thing keeping me from a mountain of debt as soon as I graduated. I needed to shape up.

Collin pitched in with another piece of advice from my side. “Remember what I told you. You need to want it.” He loosed his current arrow, and struck just shy of center.

So easy to say. Then again, if I wanted to break this slump, I’d need to start somewhere. I nocked an arrow, and took aim once more.

Breathe in. Make sure the arrow is seated properly on the rest and the string. Raise to eye level and stare down the shaft, ensuring that the tip is pointed precisely at the center of the target. Double check stance, and take a few seconds to adjust for the wind and distance. Ignore the itching in your nose.

Next, breathe out. Make sure not to breathe back in at this step, because the rising of your chest will change the arrow’s position relative to the target, and the shot will be off course. Instead, keep steady, and draw the string using your back muscles, not your arms. As soon as the nock of the arrow gets to your jaw, anchor it in place for about two seconds, holding the draw steady as you make final adjustments. I want to hit the bullseye. I want to stay out of debt. I want to keep using my bow. Once you’re confident in your aim…

I sneezed.

As soon as I released the string, my core folded on itself as my body oh so kindly evacuated my sinuses. I didn’t have the chance to watch the arrow fly, but I already knew it sunk itself in the dirt somewhere, a waste of effort. Reflexively I began to think of a way to placate Coach Whitmore, but calling it a fluke wouldn’t hold up when I’d already been shooting so poorly. This was the last nail in my coffin.

I started to spiral, trying to think of where I’d go from here, until Collin clapped me on the back and cheered, “That’s more like it!” I finally looked up at my target.

Bullseye.