‘Yousuck,’ I retorted. ‘Stop chucking those at me, I have two now.’
‘Or what?’ She mirrored my expression, planting her stick in the grass, a hand on her hip. At that time, at least, we were literally eye to eye. Her stare bored right into my head, and I realized we’d moved much closer to one another. I could smell her expensive perfume, make out the little lacelike edges of her pendant. ‘What’ll you do about it, Colt?’
Man. I look back and think that things would be so different if I’d put my fear aside and done exactly what we should’ve about it. But I was a dumb teenage boy. So I did the only thing I knew, instead.
I reached around May blind, my eyes still on her, flicked my stick towards the goal, and sent one of the two balls she’d launched at me flying straight into the net. The sound echoed in the night, the kind you could hear even over the party raging on in the barn.
‘I’ll have you play that best of five, probably.’ I cleared my throat, holding the second ball out to her.
Something in her face flickered for a moment. It could’ve been the terrible floodlights going out for a millisecond, or May trying to blink a hair out of her face. But I swear, I sawsomething.
‘Let’s do it.’
Chapter One
Heard Round the World
Colt
Major League Lacrosse Playoffs, October 2024
‘WE GET IT DONE, YOU HEAR ME? WE GET THIS DONE, IT’S FINALS, BABY!’
Arms linked to form a huddle, my teammates reply by way of whoops and shouts. I feel a hand clutch my stick and give it a good shake, and another tap the back of my helmet. The energy is electric, and we’re all at the point of the night where we’re just itching to hit the turf. Heavy bass pours through the speakers mounted all around Mill River Stadium, but I hear nothing but the guys’ roars.
‘WE GET THIS DONE, WE INVADE NATE’S!’ adds Drew, earning excited yelps at the mention of the New Haven Woodchucks’ unofficial team bar.
‘WE GET THIS DONE, I MOVE OUT OF MOM’S!’
I’d groan and grumble at that one from Connor, but we’re too hyped up on adrenaline to make a joke about Connor’s home in his mother’s basement. We’re also too broke to make a joke about it, for the record. No one ever warns you that all pro athletes are made very, very unequal.
‘GOOD FOR YOUR MOM!’ JJ beats me to the punch.
Chaotic laughter and jersey-tugging ensue, at least till I get the boys back on track.
‘Listen, guys.’
Their voices fall, the huddle tightening when they hear the dead serious undertone. We’ve never been a serious team. In fact, we’re the most unserious in the league. We’re also the youngest, on average. But when it comes to it, as captain, I refuse to drop the ball if our season depends on it. We’ll switch up when we need to.
‘We’ve hadshitseasons before.’ Nods and grumbles of acknowledgement all around. ‘Maybe I only saw one of ’em. But I saw enoughthisyear to know that no matter what people have to say, no matter how many times they tell us we’re too young, too hopeful, this team has proven them wrong. This team wasmadefor the championship.’
Team dad Rodney ‘Rod’ Wilson is the stern voice that joins mine in encouragement; nothing new from my best friend on the East Coast. ‘Picture us with that trophy. Out there under the lights with the hardware. Top of the league. Top of the damnsport.’
Rod gives me a nudge.Keep it going. I nod, picking up his energy. ‘We arefour games away, boys. Four. Three, after this, and we’ll be on top of the world. Does “national champion” sound fuckin’ good enough?’
Gloved hands slap padded shoulders, as every single one of us howls in agreement. We’ve always been close – you have to, to play a sport that involves so much trust – but we’re never closer than we are right before a match. Especially the most important one we’ve played to date.
‘ALRIGHT, BRING IT ON! ONE, TWO, THREE, BREAK!’
We scatter and jog onto the field on autopilot as we take positions, cleats crunching in the grass. I can’t help looking up at the stands. It’s a bigger crowd than we’re used to pulling in, the usual New Haven Woodchucks lacrosse fanatics sitting front row, but new faces packing the upper bleachers in anticipation of tonight’s underdog event. I tug at the strap of my helmet, relish the bit of peace we get before the game starts and all hell breaks loose for four quarters of chaos and stress.
Way more so than usual, Mill River Stadium is all Woodchucks today, fans toting banners and posters for our first playoff ever as a Major League Lacrosse team. Granted, we’re as young as the league – only about ten years old – but history is history. If we can break this playoff game, we can prove we’ve got a good shot at it all: the championship title.
JJ smacks me in the back with the butt of his stick as I start my trek towards the centre of the field, wrinkling my crisp blue jersey. Technically, I can’t see him, because he’s behind me the entire time, but the insufferable snicker that follows the blow tells me everything I need to know about my attacker.
‘Chucks’ve never gotten this far. Get it done,’ he hums, quoting my words and wagging his stick off to my left.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ With a roll of my eyes and a chuckle, I take my midfield position just behind the site of the face-off, marked by a midline and a circle at its direct centre. The ball is placed onan X in the middle of the circle, at which the face-off specialist from Boulder and our specialist, Andy, are each crouched in what’s best described as a lopsided squat, crosses parallel to the ground. Andy’s like me, never been the biggest player on the roster – medium height; doesn’t carry some crazy quantity of muscle. The Boulder guy is the picture of his team’s home city, about the size of a small lighthouse. Dull eyes the colour of steel glare past Andy and shoot lasers at me from behind his helmet grille. If this man stick checked me, he might take my entire arm off while he’s at it. I pray he’s a FOGO – face-off, get off, meaning he’ll be subbed off once he’s done his thing – because if he isn’t, and he stays on to play, I’d consider it a miracle if all my appendages were still attached to my body by the end of this game.
