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The pass is perfect. Her shot at the net is perfect. I don’t see what happens after she aims and launches the ball, but the split second of dead silence followed by an explosive mix of cheering and groaning from the crowd makes it clear.

She scored. The Lobsters scored.

“YES!” I scream as everyone backs off from where they’re still caging me in. “YES!”

“TWO MORE MINUTES, LOBSTERS!” I hear Coach thundering from the sidelines. “JUST KEEP THAT LEAD FOR TWO MORE MINUTES!”

Two minutes. We can keep them from scoring for two minutes. We could do it in our sleep.

This championship is ours.

Iz charges past me, shaking their fist and shouting something I only just make out as, “NO RAGRETS!”

I whoop and shake my stick in reply, following after them to set up for the face-off.

When we toasted to our reunion on my first night back at the Babe Cave, I told my friends I wanted this year to be something special, something to remember. I wanted to take chances and make everything count.

All things considered, I’d say I’m off to a pretty—as Jane would say—friggin’ great start.

We win the face-off, and as soon as the ball is in play, I’m flying around the field, pushing and straining through the burn and fatigue to give these last two minutes my all. Toronto’s team is playing as hard as we are, but I know we want it more. I want it more. Everything in me is screaming for victory.

The ball changes possession so fast and so many times I’m sure we must be just a blur to the audience. As the seconds tick by, I can feel the desperation in the stands grow like it’s a storm cloud gathering over the field, waiting for the chance to split open and streak the sky with thunder.

We’re close. We’re so close.

I catch a pass from one of our midfielders and start tearing up towards the goal. I’ve lost all sense of time, but we can’t have more than a few seconds left. The end of the field is swamped with players. There’s almost no chance I’ll score, but I only need to keep them from scoring until our win is called.

I search for someone to pass to, and then I see it.

My shot.

It’s another crazy, potentially impossible opportunity no player in their mind would risk taking—just like that winning goal I scored during our first home game.

Maybe I am crazy sometimes. Maybe I have reckless moments that seem irresponsible, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe sometimes you just need to take the damn shot and stop worrying about what everyone else will say.

So I take it. I take the shot, and we win the title.

Everything after the ball hits the back of the net is a blur. I think we even have to go through another face-off and finish out the last few seconds of the game, but I don’t remember any of it. I’m in an adrenaline and endorphin-fueled haze, and I only come back to myself when I’m squished into a dog pile in the middle of the field with all my screaming friends surrounding me.

We’re pure joy, all of us somewhere between sobbing, laughing, and shouting at the top of our lungs.

This is what we’ve worked for.

This is why we do it.

This is why we’ve all got little lobsters tattooed on our ankles: because nothing beats the feeling of being a team.

I squeeze the players closest to me and make a promise to all these people right here and now.

I’m going to be the best captain I can be. I’m going to be the leader you deserve.

It’s a tall order. It’s an order that still terrifies me with its immense, demanding tallness, but I’m ready, and I know I’ll have all the help I need.

I extricate myself from the pile so I can head to the sidelines and grab some much-needed water, lifting up my goggles so I can swipe away the dampness on my cheeks as I do. I’m not sure what’s sweat and what’s tears. I’m going to need the longest shower of my life after this.

“There she is! Our shooting star!”

Coach comes over from where he’s been alternating between hugging his wife and hoisting Khadija up in the air like she’s a trophy. He’s taken his aviators off, and his whole face is lit up brighter than I’ve ever seen it. He’s practically bouncing on the turf, and I beam right back at him.