The spare hurley had three strips of black tape around the handle and somebody's initials scratched into the bás.
“Nobody wants that one,” Niamh said.
Ruth tested its weight. “Why?”
“Too heavy. Slight curve. Possibly cursed.”
“Perfect for a beginner, so.”
“Exactly.”
It was Ruth's first camogie session since school and her first time entering any dressing room knowing she would not lie if somebody asked about the photograph on her phone. She had rehearsed several answers during the drive. Nobody asked. They were too busy arguing about bib colours.
Niamh showed her how to shorten the grip. “You're trying to strangle it,” she said. “Let the hurl do some of the work.”
“The hurl and I have only just met.”
“It likes you. Hasn't hit you yet.”
The first drill went badly. The second went sideways. During the third, Ruth connected cleanly and sent the sliotar through an open gate into the car park.
“Distance!” Niamh shouted.
“Direction?”
“We'll cover it next week.”
After training they stood beneath the awning while rain hammered the metal roof. Niamh held out her hand for the spare hurl, then stopped.
“Keep it,” she said. “If you're coming back.”
Ruth looked at the scratched initials. “Were these yours?”
“First year adult. I was terrible.”
“You said it was cursed.”
“I improved when I stopped using it.”
Ruth laughed. “Strong sales pitch.”
Niamh pulled up her hood. “Coffee before Thursday training?”
Ruth considered the question for exactly long enough to enjoy being asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “But I'm bringing the cursed hurl.”
“I was counting on it.”
Ruth carried it to the car like something temporarily borrowed and already hers.