The dull brown of her irises doesn’t look amused. ‘Give me one reason why we should.’
I sigh, tugging on my whistle. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I should have—’
‘Don’t be sorry.’ Her voice is deadpan, cold. ‘Don’t be sorry, Colt.’
Man. The ice in her tone is sharp; it cuts deeper than I’d like. ‘I’ll strike you a deal, man. Best of three, if I beat you best of three, will you talk to me? Please?’
May is quiet for a moment, her hands frozen mid-untying of cleats, her gaze trained on the crisscross of the white laces. ‘It’s been five damn years. You don’t get to come back and cut deals.’
She shucks off her cleats and replaces them with leather-strapped Birkenstock sandals over Nike socks, bringing herself to her feet.
‘Please,’ I press on. Ithasbeen five years. It’s been five years, and not once during those five years did I stop thinking about how I screwed things up, the way I left. I’ve sat with my regret, and now, it’s time to do something about it. ‘May, Ineedto talk to you.’
‘Youneedto.’ She drops her bag with a loud thud and turns back around to face me.Screw you, her face says, and for good reason, honestly. ‘Three,’ she says. ‘Miss one, and we’re done.’
The breath I’ve been holding finally leaves my lungs, but another sharp inhale immediately replaces it.Shit. ‘Okay,’ I reply slowly. ‘Okay.’
‘You asked for a scrimmage.’ May scoops up her crosse and picks her way down the stairs. I grab one of the demo crosses from the pile I’ve yet to put back in the shed. It feels foreign in my hands, and not just because it’s not my game stick. It’s unbalanced. My fingers twitch against the cool metal, my arms seizing up.
‘Yeah,’ I reply on a dry throat. Sure, I asked for it. I hadn’t expected her to agree.
‘You’re the mostcockamamie“guest” we’ve ever had, you knowthat?’ May snaps as she takes her place beside me on the field. We’re about a third of the way up the field from the crease – a long, long shot. She holds out a hand without even meeting my eyes. ‘Need a ball.’
I toss one her way, worn as it is, and she catches it in the net of her stick, rotating her wrists to keep it there. She brushes a lock of jet-black hair from her face, the loose threads of her red evil-eye bracelet just skimming her cheek, and lines herself up, squinting to get the goal in her sights.
The way she flicks it is so quick, with such a deft movement of her arms, that I don’t actually register her stick moving until the ball hits the back of the net triumphantly, leaving the goalposts quivering. No cleats, aged equipment, nothing special except for raw talent.
‘You,’ says May.
She takes a step back to swap spots with me. My hands are still shaking on the stick. I look her way for just a moment. The only thing I see on her face is the barest hint of expectancy.
Chapter Six
Made the Time
May
The legendary CJ Bradley holds a women’s lacrosse stick as he lines himself up to take on our goal. He’s led the league in shot-for-shot midfielder stats since he started playing on the New Haven Woodchucks, drafted in what was technically his junior year. This is where he’s most at home. But for all his bluster, something’s missing in the way he stands.
I throw him a ball, and he cradles it idly for a moment, eyes trained on the goal. The steely gunmetal of his irises glitters beneath long lashes that flutter against the brutal Oklahoman sun, his well-defined jaw ticking in concentration. I might have stopped giving him the light of day – or at least tried – but I can’t deny the fact that he’s got skills. Always did, always will.
Colt lunges forward, and I’m ready for it to be an immediate net. Except, it isn’t. The ball veers far right, and before I knowit, the thing has wound around the goal and clangs against the fencing in the back with a sadclink.
What thehell?
He’s already prepared with another ball for me when he turns back, and suddenly, he’s the one who doesn’t want to meetmyeye.
My next shot’s an easy one. Coach had me run these time and time again when I was starting. It’s muscle memory, and for a lax team captain, not to mention alleged goal-bagging midfielder extraordinaire, it definitely should be, injury aside. Despite it all, I stand back and watch as he takes his second shot, and it flies over the net. Well,damn.
‘Best of three, you said?’ I shrug as I jog to the goal to grab the balls. ‘Sorry, cowboy. Looks like that’s a game, fair and square.’
‘May …’ Oh, hell no. I can’t do more emotion from him. I pause, balls in hand, and stop to listen to whatever he thinks he’s got to say to me.
He swallows, removes his cap and smooths down his tousled hair before popping it back on. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he struggles to find words. ‘May, do you ever think about what could have been?’
My mouth goes just slightly slack. Do I ever? About what could have been? ‘For the sake of my sanity,’ I start, the red-hot flame of anger building up in my chest, ‘I try not to.’
‘I do.’ His voice is quiet, gentle. ‘And I wanna talk to you. I don’t wanna make excuses. I just want to talk.’
