The only sound for a moment is the splashing of water, and then I break the silence. ‘When did we become friends?’
May blinks. I think I see a hint of shock in her eyes, just barely. ‘When did we become friends?’ she repeats dubiously.
‘When we met up at Moonie’s,’ I recall. ‘You said something to me. You said we were two steers with our horns locked, all through high school. And that it was a rivalry.’ I turn to May. She raises her gaze to meet mine; the only eyes I could stare into from sun-up to sun-down, and then all night long. ‘Is this still just a rivalry?’
There’s a minute where I fully think she’s going to push me into the pool. It’s definitely something she’d do. Instead, she replies, ‘I think, maybe, that I was wrong back then, Colt. I don’t think that it was ever just a rivalry.’
‘Really?’
She smiles softly, and it’s nice, you know, to not go directly to May Velasco’s shit list for once since I met her. But there’s still some semblance of restraint in the smile. Something she’s holding back. ‘Guess it’s nice. To, you know, really be friends again.’
Friends.
But, for the record, I know I don’t just want to be her friend. I want to be the one who puts up her white picket fence and the house for the dog. I want to be the one at the barbecue in her backyard. I want to be at every single match she plays, and I want hers to be the first face I see at every single match I play. I want to tape up her bad wrist and give her a kiss for good luck. I want to wrangle Sav into making me ties to match every outfit she wears. I don’t just want to be her friend. I really don’t.
Matchday is the definition of fear.
The field is dark in the evening, save for the lights illuminating the grass, and up in the stands, ’Bama fans have shown up in full force. It’s an enormous turnout. I try my best to ignore the pointing and questions asking me where May is. We need total focus if we want to nail this one.
I unzip my thin windbreaker and toss it on a sideline bench as the girls jog onto the field. May shoots me a thumbs-up. Her voice echoes through my head –friends –but that’s not what either of us needs right now. She needs people in her corner, and I’m going to be one of those people, no matter what.
I raise a hand in a gesture of ‘wait’, and I turn around so May can see the back of my OKC Riders T-shirt. The crossed stick logo is on the front, along with the big cursive ‘Oklahoma City’, but it’s what’s on back that I care about.
When I turn around again to face the field, it’s hard to make out her expression, what with her goggles and mouthguard, but I can tell exactly what she does next.
She presses her hand to her lips and blows me the biggest kiss.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Pickups and Poor Choices
May
It’s my name.
He’s wearing my jersey.
I’m not completely sure what I’m seeing when he turns around and jabs a thumb at the number on the back of his T-shirt, but it’s me. VELASCO, above a big 13.
Honestly? I am in total shock.
I’ve seen plenty of girls in their football-playing boyfriend’s jersey. In high school and then in college, it’s not something we’re unfamiliar with. As much as I know this is for the plot we’ve fabricated throughout the season, I can feel that it’s so much more than that. I can’t help the tears that well up in my eyes.
Colt turns back, beaming proudly, and my feet practically freeze as if the grass has turned to quicksand. Sure, it’s about keeping up the narrative for the cameras that click away aroundus, but when my eyes meet his, all the chaos disappears, leaving just the two of us. Colt and May.
I press my hand to my lips, and I blow him the biggest flying kiss. It’s no show. I mean every damn bit of it.
That’s the last pleasant lull I get before the match hits us head-on.
During last week’s practice, Colt took us through manoeuvres used by the men’s MLL players to get the ball through a particularly keen defence – a level up from what we’re used to. After watching footage from the last match, it’s clear there’s no way to beat a team this solid by dancing around them. The only way out, he said, would be through. And it wouldn’t be pretty.
We take it literally. Evading penalty carefully, we plough through the defence to get our balls through, playing more aggressively than we’ve ever played before. At one point, Jordan swings her stick so fiercely I think she could probably cut wood with it if she tried. And at the end of the game, tight on numbers, Maddie makes one last Mad Dog goal: our now signature no-look twizzler, smacking the back of ’Bama’s net like we have rent to pay.
The first time inhistory.
‘OH MY GOD,’ screams Jordan when the horn blows and the scoreboard blinks. By two goals, we’ve beaten them, and earned a spot in the second round.
All of us, even the girls on the bench, storm the field, jumping all over each other at the midline, yelling and wailing and crying. Somewhere between Jordan’s arm and Lexi’s ass, I manage a mangled sob of, ‘I’M SO PROUD OF YOU GUYS,’ and the girls sob in return. This isn’t the end of our season – by no means the end of my journey. If I decide to leave lacrosse after this senior season, I don’t intend on leaving quietly.
