Ma is the first one to croon, ‘Oh, you two are just the sweetest.’
May’s cheeks go pink, but there’s a hint of gratitude in her eyes that I return when I grin. ‘Almost makes me wish I hadn’t moved up to New England so I could’ve seen every year she’d run in it.’
Not a single word out of my mouth is a lie, and I hope May knows it. I hope she knows I used to sit at every rodeo, listen to the announcer call her name over the booming speakers and join in the applause after she and her horse had done the cloverleaf perfectly – effortlessly – her braid thumping against her back, a tip of her hat as she finished the run.
At the end of the dinner, May’s tiramisu sits completely cleaned out, the glass container empty on the table, and the two of us help clear dishes. At the sink, she hands me a plate, meets my eyes, and says, ‘You wish you hadn’t moved. But you moved anyway.’
A lump grows in my throat at the glancing hint of pain in her voice. It’s the first time I’ve really heard it so quietly, tentatively. What my actions did to her.
I take the plate, and I turn off the water so I can make sure she hears what I tell her next. ‘Yeah, I did. I got a lot of things out of that move. College, the Chucks, lacrosse, all that. But May, man, I lost you. And there’s not a day that’s gone by since I left that I haven’t thought about that.’
This time, she has to hear me out. She’s definitely not asleep. She definitely heard it all.
Gaze lowered, May brushes a wave of hair behind her ear, tucking it into her braid. I have to fight the urge to weave itback in myself. Then she looks up at me, and it’s unnerving how vulnerable she seems. The familiar red-card chaos look is gone, replaced with big eyes, welling with tears. The only other time I’ve seen her like that was after her first concussion, way back in middle school. Manmayi Velasco never cried.
She says, voice so quiet it could be a whisper, ‘It really, really hurt, Colt. It still hurts.’
Chapter Twenty
Foul Play
May
Idon’t give away emotions easily, and I’m still not completely sure why I surrendered to Colt in the way I did.
Even at the end of the week, as we warm up on the field for the home match against Mayfair, my first one back from concussion watch, it feels like a source of shame when he looks at me from the sidelines with this new air of guilt. It’s clear that if we keep going on like this – unable to meet one another’s eye, awkward, decidedly loveless – Rod Wilson, who I can tell is already suspicious as he watches the warm-ups from the sideline, may just find out we’re lying about our relationship, but that’s a whole other can of worms.
Fortunately for Colt, my focus right now has to be on nothing but locking in for this game and keeping consistent for the sake of my tuition.
With every ball I whip into the net, that dumb sentence replays in my mind.I got a lot of things out of that move, but I lost you.
BAM.
There’s not a day that’s gone by since I’ve left that I haven’t thought about that.
BAM.
‘May!’ Coach shouts, clapping her hands. ‘Save some for the match!’
Oh, I’ll have plenty left for the match.
We stand for the anthem as the Mayfair girls shoot daggers at us with their eyes, and we shoot daggers right back, tightening ponytails and goggles to show them we’re all business. The Mayfair match was one of the only ones I had a decent performance at last year, and I plan on making sure that’s the case again. Hailing from near Austin, Texas, Mayfair is a team of spoiled daddy’s-money girls who’ve had quality gear and expensive energy drinks at every turn of the way. I find it never puts us at a disadvantage. If anything, it gives the Riders a competitive edge.
At the draw, I lock eyes with Marissa Raymond, Mayfair’s captain, the backs of our sticks’ heads against one another as the ref places the ball in between.
‘Get ready to apologize to your little boyfriend,’ she taunts through her mouthguard. ‘He’s gonna regret picking a Riders girl after this shitshow.’
‘Oh, and you could do better?’ I mumble. Shit talk,chirping, is a key component of lacrosse, men’s and women’s. We’d be nothing without it. It’s the most we can manage without whacking one another and taking a severe penalty.
Marissa’s a walking Barbie. Five foot nine, with a long blonde braid that has Mayfair navy ribbons woven into it, and big blue eyes that stare straight into your soul. Maybe she’s used to guys chasing her around at Mayfair, but I’m not sure what she expects out of us here. She turns Colt’s way, to where he’s got his arms crossed, all coachlike in his quarter zip and whistle. And she blows him akiss, complete with a dirt-eating grin.
‘Trust me, honey,’ she whispers conspiratorially. ‘We’re taking this match. And I’ll be taking your boyfriend home, too.’
The ref blows the whistle.
I almost swipe her head off with my stick on the draw, because if she’s here to play, I’m going to prove I’m no less. I don’t know what surge of jealousy floods my body and I know Colt’s not my boyfriend, but I don’t care. There’s no way this chick is winning.
Mayfair tries hard to keep their promise, but we push back – hard.
