Owing to Chester being under capacity – not big enough for an East Coast school, believe it or not – the match is being played at Charleston’s Slader Stadium, which is about double the size of what we thought was a lavish home field. Charleston’s green and gold covers the bleachers about as far as the eye can see. Not a soul from as far as Oklahoma should be out here given how expensive tickets are, but there are clutches of orange and white in the forest of Charleston’s fans that make me feel just a little bit more confident.
‘The away team, the University of Oklahoma City Riders Lacrosse!’
I’ve never stepped out to the sounds of booing till this moment.
It’s easy to forget that in the South, lacrosse is nowhere nearas cutthroat as it is out here. Nevertheless, I remember someone mentioned a stat that had hung in my brain: winning would make us the first Southern Conference school to make it to the semi-finals of the National College Lacrosse Championship. The men haven’t even managed it. We’d be the first.
‘HOLD IT TOGETHER, GIRLS!’ I yell, hoping my resolve falls over the girls as they take their positions.
For a brief moment that I immediately regret, my eyes catch sight of Colt on the sideline with Coach Dillon. If we win, we get a first. But right now, seeing him with our coach, as he’s been all season, is a last. I shake it off, blinking and turning my attention to the circle, where I step up to take the draw.
‘All the best,’ the captain from Charleston chirps.
I muster a smile. ‘Thanks. You too.’
It’s a nice sentiment, but I can tell we’re going to be in for a tough game from her hair. Today, Brianna, shaking from nerves, did her best to get us all right for the match, so I still ended up with a nice ponytail braided into two, but the girl across from me is sporting complicated Dutch braids woven with ribbons, hair up with bows and all. We’re so screwed.
And so goes the first half. Charleston is on top form, bolstered by their home field, not to mention the cameras. Usually, the crowd are the only ones who get to watch it all go down. This time, the entire game is being broadcast live. Every failed pass, every time Charleston’s attackers break our line: all of it is being preserved for all eternity.
After a badly needed half-time reset, our run back onto the field is met with, predictably, jeers from the Charleston fans, but by the exit to the tunnel, Colt stands, hands on knees,practically screaming encouragement over the sound of the crowd to make sure we hear him.
My heart wrenches when I reach him, because I know the last thing I should be thinking about right now is the impending end to the months I’ve had with him. But he takes all that away when he stops me, taking my hand and pulling me to him. Wide-eyed, I don’t protest.
He takes my face in his hands, moves his hands to the back of my neck when he presses his forehead to mine. ‘Make sure they’ve got hell to pay, May,’ he says, every word clear as day.
A surge of strength floods my limbs when he lets me go. I run all the way out onto the field, to the beat of thundering marching band drums and opposing team chants.
I can feel it coming from our team before the whistle even blows. The same energy we had in Alabama. The onset of aggression, the sort that’s about to dominate the second half.
With moments remaining in the fourth quarter, when I take the draw, I snatch the ball. I don’t pass, this time. I choose the riskier route, but the one where I see payoff. I run it through the defence, chancing a couple of yellow cards the way I nearly smack a girl out of my way, but once I’m out, I connect with Jordan on attack, and the goal is immediate.
As soon as the ball hits the back of the net, we run to each other, and Jordan leaps on me like a kid trying to get a good view at Disney World, all her anger from the beginning of the game totally dissipated. I laugh and hold her up as she lifts her stick, roaring, ‘LET’S GO! LET’S GO, SOUTH CAROLINA!’
With just one point over Charleston, the final buzzer blows, and it’s insanity.
‘RIDERS ON ME!’ I scream over the unhappy Charleston fans, practically fighting back tears when my girls run over, covering their faces, their mouths, choking back sobs of joy. ‘RIDERS ON THREE!’
Instead of hands in, we link arms, our heads bumping one another, our cries blending together in symphony as we crash to our knees.
‘May,’ Lexi, the ever-stoic, frightening goalie sniffs, slugging my shoulder. ‘Couldn’t have done it without you, squid.’
‘I …’ I don’t make it to words, just start bawling like a complete baby, and I like to think the girls know exactly how I feel without the specifics, because they all sit down in the grass with me and just cry. Even Coach and Colt come over, and Coach, absolutely overcome by emotions for the first time since I’ve known her, is a blubbering mess, immediately absorbed by our circle. Colt stands with a proud smile on his face as the cameras circle us, and I reach out to him, let him take me into his strong arms, wrapping them around me, holding me up after the kind of match that feels as if it’s melted my limbs.
He presses his hands to my cheeks, his steel-grey eyes glimmering with pride. ‘I know you said you think I’ve done well for myself, May, but I got no need to put Prosperity on the map.’ He smooths my frizzy baby hairs back with a deep breath. ‘You already have.’
If my legs hadn’t already been Jell-O, that would have done the job.
I tug Colt to me and mesh my lips against his, leaving no questions unanswered, no lies, no pretending. I don’t do it for any media or any press or stories or anything. I do it becausehe’s given me so much this season, and I’m really, really going to miss him.
After we all wrap it up and head to the locker room to debrief, I follow Jordan’s instructions, extra dramatic, making sure the watching camera doesn’t catch the calculation on my face when I take Colt’s hand with a nod towards the inside of the tunnel. ‘Can we talk?’ I whisper.
‘Yeah. Yeah.’ His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps.Fake breakup.It’s anything but.
We find a quiet spot in the adjoining hallway, down at the end of it, where there’s a door ajar, and I slip through. It’s just an empty auxiliary closet, but I figure it’ll do. I’m ready for this to be swift and painless.
‘So. This is it,’ he says. The banality of it is almost disturbing. This is how our fake relationship comes to an end. In some closet in Charleston.
‘That, out there, felt like goodbye, didn’t it?’
