May sighs. She reaches out and presses her hand to my left one where I’ve been rubbing it nervously against my thigh. ‘I am completely fine, Colt. He’s just some uppity rodeo dickhead. It’s nothing new. My dad told me about some of the guys he rode with when he was younger. I should’ve known—’
‘It’s not your responsibility to knowanythingin that situation.’ My voice comes out more upset than I’m prepared for. Gruff? Absolutely not. ‘It’s his responsibility to stop at “no”.’
May nods steadily, shifting her brown-eyed gaze towards the ring. ‘I appreciate that, Colt.’
She gives my hand a soft squeeze, and I see that her appreciation isn’t just words. It’s more than that – it’s someone who’s always thought it was her against the world recognizing that she’s not alone. I know it well, because I recently started to realize the same thing.
The rodeo incident sits fresh in my brain for a couple days after the fact. I give May the same space I usually do, let her do her thing, but the ‘text me when you get there’ messages become more frequent during the rest of the week. Just the way that guy looked at her … ugh.
That Wednesday, the National College Lacrosse Association wraps up seeding all the teams, a longer process than usual owing to extremely close scores for the season, and the bracket comes out as we wait on the field, gathered around Coach Dillon’s laptop with bated breath. With a stunning record this year, we’re hoping for a good spot that will put the Riders straight through to the first round of the playoffs.
‘First round,’ Maddie hums, eyes squeezed shut and fingers crossed. ‘Please. Please. Please—’
‘It’s here!’ Coach announces, and the girls are immediately pushing forward in a bid to get a glance at the screen.
May grabs my arm, eyes wide. ‘Oh my god. Okay. We got …’
The both of us lean in, and the groan we share is immediate. Great. I thought we’d have been seeded higher, but we fell right in the middle of the pack, second fiddle to the East Coast lacrosse schools. And our first match of the playoffs, first round, will be against …
‘Alabama?’ Brianna presses a hand to her forehead. ‘May, look at this bracket! We’re against ’Bama!’
‘Damn it,’ grumbles May. ‘Alabama …’
‘Took you guys out last year,’ I finish for her. Yikes. I mean, they could have been a lower seed and really got stuck with a terrific team as their playoff match-up, so this might be the best-case scenario, but the lore goes deep. Playing a team that knocked you out of the national playoffs always holds double weight.
‘Yep. And we’veneverbeaten them. Our meeting record? Twenty-nine to nothing.’ May steps back and plops right down in the grass, blowing a hair out of her face and throwing her crosse in her lap. ‘Looks like we’re going back for round two.’
‘What if’ – I pick up her stick and extend a hand – ‘I said I’d watched hours of Alabama’s film for this exact reason, because I saw you guys lose to them last year?’
May takes my hand reluctantly, narrowing her eyes. ‘As long as this doesn’t involve setting me up to take a demo shot I’m never going to make in front of the entire team, go on.’
‘What if I said I tailored a shot clinic in case you’d have to go up against them again?’
Coach Dillon closes her laptop, smiling. ‘Oh, and this is exactly why you are here, Bradley. What if you did indeed tailor this perfect shot clinic?’
‘Well, if I did, I’d say we might have a good shot at turning the tide.’ I hand May her stick, and she purses her lips.
‘You think we can beat the best team in the South in the first round?’ Lexi’s voice pipes up. She crosses her arms, regarding me with disbelief.
I’m going to be totally honest. Lexi terrifies me. I clear my throat to avoid an unfortunate voice crack. ‘I do.’
And holy shit. The girl cracks a smile. ‘Then let’s get to it, Bradley.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Hot Cowboy
May
With our day of reckoning against Alabama on our heels, the girls and I are well aware we should probably be living and breathing lacrosse for the next week, but we don’t have the luxury of big East Coast lax towns. Tables don’t stop filling up in the bar, the festivals don’t move themselves a week later, and the cattle don’t park themselves in one spot and hibernate till post-season’s over. Half the team applies for time off from their jobs and doesn’t get it. And those of us working on the farm still end up ankle-deep in muck on the evenings, balancing oncoming finals, lacrosse practice, and chores.
‘Bring ’em round, May!’ Tía Juana calls out to me from outside the fence, a cold sweet tea – salvation – in her hand.
I turn Rocky in response, and the livestock follow with a resigned lowing. ‘C’mon, now. Let’s go!’
‘¡Vamos, May!’ Tía claps a hand against her thigh. She’s ten times more efficient at this than I am. My harried pace – and Rocky’s leisurely one – aren’t quite on par. Now that my horse’s annual moment of speed is past, he’s got no reason to do anything beyond a casual trot.
‘Goin’!’ The cattle moo exasperatedly when I herd them into the corral. The enormous pack of gentle giants are a combination of Tía’s and ours. While the ranch undergoes major reconstruction, my aunt is letting us keep the animals at her farm in Tulsa where she has a ton of extra barn space. The condition? I have to keep doing my chores – an hour-fifteen drive away. I adjust my hat, swivelling towards Tía and guiding Rocky out of the corral before my aunt comes over to close the gate. I dismount my horse, taking his reins so we can lead him back to the field. ‘Where’d you put Colt?’
