By half-time, the scoreboard reads 4–4, and the atmosphere is tense. The girls are in knots but, regardless, they’re doing their best to hold the line. We block three attempts that get pretty close to scoring in the third quarter alone. Once the fourth quarter hits, we’re getting desperate, and the vibe on the field reflects it.
All it takes for tensions to boil over is Brianna intercepting the ball on a Mayfair drive to the goal with fifteen seconds left and a tie score. Suddenly, the Mayfair girl she blocked drops her stick, yelling a strangled ‘What thehell?’ at Brianna, charging straight towards her.
In a matter of moments, Jordan, Maddie, and I are on thescene, shoving ourselves between the two girls as the Mayfair girl comes in swinging. The ref tweets her whistle frantically, yelling, ‘GIRLS! THAT’S IT! THAT’S A YELLOW!’ and waving a yellow card about.
‘Get ready to sleep alone tonight, Velasco!’ Marissa shouts, flipping the bird my way as her team cackles and eggs her on.
My heart thunders in my chest, and I peer at Colt, who stands beside Coach by the bench.
You’re doing great, he mouths. His eyes flick towards Marissa, and he shakes his head.I got you.
I count to three on the next exhale I make. I can hear Marissa laughing from all the way over on the other end. I tune her out. A lot isn’t real between Colt and me, but what’s always been real is the intuition we share about the sport, and the determination to get it done. He’s one of the only people who’s ever understood that, aside from Jordan.
I adjust my grip on my stick and retake my position in the midfield. It’s tunnel vision on the goal. A draw will be shameful at this point. We need this to be awin.
‘SEND IT, MAY!’ Colt’s voice yells from my right.
When the ball lands in the head of my stick, instinct takes over.
Mayfair is everywhere. One girl is all up in my face as the timer ticks down, and I dart aside, turning my back to the goal. Five seconds.
I chuck the ball around my right side when I turn, all prayers, locked in on the goal, giving it some extra whip with a spin back.
Thethwackof the ball against the net has never sounded better.
Our growing crowd booms around us, all on their feet, as the screens flash RIDERS WIN in big orange digital letters. The girls on the bench swarm the field, circling our current players, pumping fists and shouting cheers. Out of the corner of my eye, as we break the huddle, laughter all around, I see my least favourite person of the afternoon, Marissa Raymond. I’m trying to keep my temper within its limits, telling myself maybe she’s not all terrible off the field, but right now, this woman isbeeliningtowards Colt, and in that instant, there’s only one thought in my head, and it’s that I am absolutely getting there first.
I run for my life towards the goal, where Colt is just making his way to the huddle, Coach not far behind. Marissa has intercepted him, telling him some shit with a dumb, conniving smile on her face, Colt regarding her with confusion. ‘COLT!’ I shout, and the idiot looks my way, his daze breaking into the broadest, biggest smile.
‘Way to get ’em, May!’ he calls back.
Marissa touches his arm, bats her eyelashes, doing everything to bring his attention back to her. I’ve been trying real hard to give her the benefit of the doubt. This show isn’t helping.
Colt, bless him, doesn’t buy it. He fully turns and jogs towards me, arms outstretched. ‘You were phenomen—’
I literally crash right into his arms, full force, and it’s a miracle he’s still on his feet, but he apparently finds all this amusing, because he bursts out laughing. ‘What?’
‘She’s been chirpin’ at me all game,’ I say by way of explanation.
He snorts. ‘I saw that much.’
‘I appreciate you,’ I tell him.
‘Is that a lie?’
‘That is not a lie, Colt.’
He grins, but as he scans the crowd, his eyebrows furrow. Someone at the lower level of bleachers yells, ‘KISS HER, BRO!’, sending the Riders girls into a frenzy of giggles.
Colt’s cheeks go pink, and he coughs awkwardly. ‘Well. The moment we’ve been waiting for. Does this violate play number two? Minimal PDA? What’s minimal?’
I steel myself as I train my attention on him, on things I usually will myself not to notice. The sparkle of his eyes; the way his hair tickles my fingers, interlaced behind his neck, arms draped across his shoulders; the little scar in his eyebrow that I know is from a crosse to the face when we were younger; his nervous dimples and his perfect jawline. ‘I think we can consider this minimal.’
Nearly every muscle in my body tenses at the thought, but hey, this is what we signed up for, right? It’s true; celebratory kisses just clear the bar. We owe the audience one if we want them to keep showing up – and keep driving sponsors to Prosperity’s lacrosse programme. And maybe, just maybe, bring us a scout or two.
I put on a smile. It’s too easy. It should be a struggle, right? Why is it easy?
Behind us, I catch sight of Marissa and her team whispering, all hush-hush, with nasty looks our way.
