Sharp shadows are cast across the lacrosse field, intensifying the midday heat. A layer of sweat instantly coats my skin, but I can’t attribute all of that to the heat. The bleachers are packed, a sea of students buzzing with anticipation, their chatter a lowhum beneath the glaring sun. I stand at the edge of the field, my cleats digging into the turf, stick in hand, heart pounding a rhythm of defiance and determination. Regardless of the impending humiliation I'm about to suffer, he will not break me. Not today, not ever.
Everest is already standing in the center of the pitch, his sandy blonde hair glinting in the light whilst he stretches for his shirt to rise and a round of girly screams to echo around me. I roll my eyes. I’ve been more impressed by a cheese grater than the washboard abs in front of me.
Like my own, his jersey is white and yellow, displaying the Hollowbrook Vulture’s lacrosse logo. I had to drag this old practice jersey out of lost property and shake the dust off it, but there was no way I was walking out here without the number one that I earned splayed across the back. Everest has had his made to show the same. He adjusts his gloves with deliberate slowness, his smirk a permanent fixture. His confidence is infuriating, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within me. This isn't just a game. It's a battle for respect and redemption. It's about reclaiming what was taken from me.
Straightening my shoulders, I walk forward. A chorus of boos accompany me, my back prickling as they bounce off the thick skin I’ve built up. It’ll crumble later, but that’s fine. I walk straight up to Everest, cocking a brow at the purple and black marring his throat.
“I suppose I have you to thank for this morning’s annoyance,” Everest tilts his head. I raise my gaze to his eyes, unfazed by the clarity sparkling in them. He assesses me sharply, apparently deciding I actually have no idea what he’s talking about, and his whole demeanor changes for the worst. His posture relaxes and a fresh smile creeps onto his face. Cocky bastard. “I’m surprised you came, Faker.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t learnt to stop underestimating me yet. Or maybe you just want a matching bruise on your jaw.”
Everest sniggers quietly. “I always knew you had a bit of a sadist in you.” I ignore the bristle that runs down my spine. Everest doesn’t know shit about me, and he never has.
Pursing my lips, I look anywhere else as a referee steps forward. Her chestnut strands are pulled back into a tight ponytail, her eyes downcast to the black and white striped uniform she wears. It looks more suited to a sex store than a pitch, but that’s how I know Everest hand-picked both it and her. “You’ve been dragged into this too, Claire?” I scoff. She doesn’t respond, but Everest does.
“I thought it would be poetic. Your old co-captain calling the game that shows everyone you belong at the bottom of the pack.” Laughter bursts from me.
“Oh, and that makes you the alpha on top?” I ask. Everest’s smirk deepens, and he half shrugs. My god, he’s actually delusional. Enough with the small talk. “Let’s do this already.”
Claire nods before she can catch herself. Peeking a look at Everest, he frowns disapprovingly but sighs.
“Let’s do this already,” he reiterates, and it takes everything in me to not knee him in the balls there and then. He’ll be wearing a cup anyway. “First to five wins.”
Claire curtseys, like give me a fucking break, and walks to the edge of the pitch. Her whistle pierces the air, signaling for us to start. We circle each other, eyes locked, the world narrowing down to this moment. The roar from the bleachers turns deafening, beating down on me like a physical weight. The ball is released, and we lunge simultaneously. Our sticks clash, the ball springing free. I pivot, sprinting after it, muscles coiled and ready.
Scooping the ball, I cradle it as if I’m weaving through a line of invisible defenders, my breath steady and movements fluid.The months of being out of the game melt away, muscle memory taking over. I’ve spent more hours practicing this sport than I have slept in the past few years. It’s my strongest talent, even if my calves and biceps are burning quicker than I’d hoped.
Everest is on me, his presence a shadow I can't shake. He lunges, but I spin, evading him, the goal in sight. I shoot. A swift, precise flick of the wrist and the net ripples. Boos erupt but I’m beaming. Thank fuck I’ve still got it. I look at Claire, waiting for her to confirm it. She stutters, the whistle frozen between her lips as her eyes flicker between the only two players on the field.
“That was a clean goal, call it!” I shout over the racket surrounding us.
Everest's jaw tightens, his eyes narrowed but he gives a single nod. Claire’s whistle rips through the noise and she points one finger to me. Smart move. I roll my neck, the breath entering and leaving me in frustrated pants. The odds of me walking out of here as captain are already stacked against me. I hadn’t anticipated I’d be working against blatant cheating, and that was foolish of me.
The next run is more aggressive. The audience is becoming impatient for the inevitable. Everest slams into me, our sticks entangled. The ball pops loose, and he grabs it, charging downfield. I chase, matching his strides with anticipation coiling in my gut. He shoots, and the ball sails into the net. This time, the whistle doesn’t hesitate and Everest does a victory lap with a fist in the air. The fucker.
Sweat pebbles my forehead, the midday sun beaming down as if fall isn’t imminent. Everything irritates me more than it should. The brightness glinting on the grass, the headache I’m getting from squinting against said brightness, the crowd’s jeering, the way Everest is showboating whilst I’m steaming like a thanksgiving turkey.
Everest scores another goal without any effort, the strain in my shoulders and calves burning me alive. I make a move to swipe the ball out from underneath him, making it halfway down the pitch before Everest catches up and tackles me. There’s a crack of our sticks clashing, his shoulder connecting with my cheek as he spins and takes the ball with him. I fight against the sense of defeat clawing its way up my throat but it’s nearly impossible.
Grinding my teeth, I chase him down, no longer focused on winning but on merely hurting him. If Everest limps out of here with a broken rib or two, I’ll consider that a success. Lifting my stick high like a golf club, I swing and catch him hard in the hip. He stumbles but doesn’t falter nearly as much as I’d hoped, recovering in time to score himself another goal.
More cheering, more showboating. Claire throws three fingers up and blasts her shrill whistle, although she’s about the only person around here who doesn’t appear as smug as Everest. I press my gloved hands to my thighs, leaning over as I drag breath after breath into my lungs. My vision pulses at the edges, sweat prickling the corners of my eyes. My mouth is bone dry, my legs like concrete, and my pride feels like paper being shredded into a thousand hopeless pieces.
It was stupid to show up here today. I should have cut my losses and called the whole thing off. But that would mean admitting Everest is better than me, and I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m the only person who stands up to him. Old habits die hard, I guess.
“This is getting kinda sad, Meg,” Everest saunters past me, slowing just enough to mutter under his breath. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s call it quits now, and maybe I can find you a role filling water bottles or scrubbing shoes?”
I snap upright, my spine rigid and my pulse screaming through my ears. Absolutely, unequivocally no way in hell.Before I can spit a reply, he’s moved on, uncaring for my response. Pure unadulterated fury ripples in my arms and my grip tightens around my stick. Visions of ramming it through his teeth plague me, anything to wipe that smug smirk off his face and remind everyone on this damn campus who built this team from nothing but raw talent and blind belief.
But instead, I turn away and try to convince myself it’s the talent that matters. The hollow thud of the net sounds and I twist my neck so sharply, pain shoots south. Everest is retrieving the ball from his net, throwing and catching it as Claire announces a fourth goal.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! We weren’t even in a play!” I call at her. She avoids my gaze. Clenching my jaw, I decide I’ll catch her later when she’s not under Everest’s scrutiny. One asshole at a time.
The final round is called. Just one more run before Everest has bragging rights over me for the rest of the year. One last chance to claw back some respect in the eyes of my old team members. Everest chucks the ball to Claire, guiding her to the center of the pitch. Her cheeks are blazing red, her chest heaving with quickened breaths. I know Everest has some moderate appeal beneath his layers of egotistical jackass, but Jesus Christ. Pull yourself together woman.
I ignore the wink he tries to throw my way, and brace myself for the next play. If I can get another few goals and close the gap just a little bit, I might not feel so pathetic tomorrow. Although, that’s debatable. Claire tries to steady her hand, tossing the ball high between us. It hangs in the air, the entire audience stalling on bated breath as if time has frozen, then drops.
We both lunge. This time I’m faster, my stick catching it with a satisfying thwack. I pivot hard, blowing past Everest before he can even blink. A small rush of hope flares in my chest as I head for the goal, wind slicing at my face, muscles howling but alive.This is what I was made for. I just need one more shot to prove to myself that I’m not completely useless anymore.
