Page 14

Run It Back

Colt

‘ G ET INSIDE! THROUGH TO THE CREASE!’

It’s deep into the third quarter, and Coach Dillon is at the point where her clipboard is about to fly out of her hand and achieve terminal velocity. The girls are down just one goal. We’ve had a shot clinic since the opener last week, and our performance – especially against a team like the Mattison Marauders, from Kentucky, second in the league – has been much improved. But as Coach loses her shit when Maddie misses an open shot, I can’t help adding a big fat brick to the giant pile of blame on my chest. This is because you aren’t teaching them right, Colt. You gotta pick up the stick and get over yourself.

‘She’s tryin’,’ Coach Dillon says aloud, definitely more to herself than anyone else, as she brushes a dark brown curl from her brow and adjusts her jacket.

‘They’ll get there,’ I add, and the coach nods in agreement.

It’s not looking great, though. We’ve tried every formation up to this point, and somehow, the Marauders’ defence is five steps ahead every time. Our enormous student section, which feels as though it’s breathing down my neck, is bleachers and bleachers deep with a sea of orange and white. Silver bead necklaces and sparkly black eye glitter as frat guys throw their hands up in dismay with every missed shot. An empty shooter bottle flies through the air and lands in the benches.

‘DUDE!’ a guy in orange and white striped bib overalls shouts from the front row, pointing right at me as he leans treacherously far over the rail, just in case I didn’t realize who he was trying to address. ‘GET YOUR GIRLFRIEND IN LINE!’

I get it. Everyone has the right to get pissed during a rough game. I’ve got pissed at my own team during a rough game. At that moment, though, it doesn’t matter that I’m just posing as May’s fake boyfriend, I’m up to the rail before I can register it. The flare of phone-camera flashes point straight at me as students let out calls of ‘ooh’ and ‘oh, shit’.

‘What’d you say?’ I brace my foot on the step up to the front row. This guy’s maybe two inches shorter than me and has the dumbest college-bro attempt at a cross between a fade haircut and flow I’ve ever seen. Is that supposed to be a mullet? What is that?

He has some nerve, because he gets further up in my face, lifts the beer in his right hand, and says, like I can’t hear him clear as day, ‘I said, YOUR GIRLFRIEND’S SHIT, bro!’

‘I might be three concussions deep into my career’ – I push myself up onto the ledge so I’m now a good foot above the guy – ‘but I can tell you that between you and my girlfriend , one of you’s a self-made Division One athlete, and one of you’s sittin’ on your ass shotgunning beers in the stands calling women “shit”. Find a fucking mirror and check yourself. Bro.’

The crowd in our immediate proximity hoots and shakes their phones in satisfaction, and before I grab a practice stick and check this dumbass myself, I hop down from the front row ledge and make my way back to the coach. For someone who’s supposed to discourage violence during games, she appears strangely satisfied, hiding a little smile of appreciation on her face.

‘Well, well,’ she says, ‘for a faux beau, you’re holding on tight.’

I feel my greatest enemy, the deceptive flush of red, make its way up my neck. ‘I’m just doing my due diligence.’

Coach Dillon hums her assent, and we turn back to the game, where the girls are picking up the pace double-time. Shouts of plays sound as May takes the draw – and with the whistle, pushes her stick up in a bid for the ball. She wins out over the girl opposite her from Mattison, and Coach and I whoop.

‘LET’S GO!’ I shout. ‘GOOD HUSTLE!’

May gets the ball over to Maddie at the first shout of ‘GOT BALL’ from the defender guarding her. Maddie darts around another defender and passes the ball clean back to May. From there, it’s May Magic that’ll take us the rest of the way.

She dashes towards the goal on impossibly light feet. Coach clutches my shoulder, eyes wild, clipboard extended, and we lean forward in anticipation as a unit. This is it, this is it. It won’t get us up, but it’ll tie us, and pressure is pressure.

‘COME ON, MAY!’ I shout.

She lunges forward to take the shot, and the ball soars. Our eyes follow it, until a defender dashes up towards May and, before we know it, the defender’s crosse has made a sloppy arc, at the end of which her stick nails May square in the back of the head.

I’ve seen way too many of these in men’s games, but the danger here is that women don’t have helmets. If you take a hit, it’s straight to the skull, and when May goes down, clutching her head, the medics move instinctively.

‘CRAP!’ I hear someone yell from behind me, and I’m not gonna lie, I feel much the same way. My heart thunders like it wants to pop right out of my chest. I lunge forward and Coach, who’d been frozen mid-hype, recovers her composure, tugging on my arm with a shake of her head. ‘WHAT THE HELL?’ she shouts, the most she can do in this situation. ‘COME ON, REF!’

The referee subsequently shows a very appropriate red card, but my eyes are still on May. She’s not getting up, and I can’t see much through the crowd of medics, but whatever is happening doesn’t look good.

Right in front of me, I watch as the entire scene morphs into something I recognize far too well. Surrounding May are a group of guys in blue jerseys and shiny helmets, and in agony on the ground is me. Calling out her name in vain. In tears.

My hands go clammy. No way can I just watch this happen. If my heart was thundering before, it feels like it’s about to burst now.

‘Can’t we go check on her?’ I’m practically pleading with the coach, who looks as helpless as I feel.

‘Colt – you’re not the head coach. They could eject you for the next couple of games …’

Whatever. I’ve already fought a frat guy. I have nothing left to lose. The ref can show me a red, for all I care.

Before Coach can hold me back again, I bolt onto the field, sneakers crunching in the grass, my breathing ragged as I weave through the crowd of players, into the inner circle of three medics. The pounding of my heart slows when I notice that May’s eyelids are fluttering, lips forming words. Thank God .

‘What’s goin’ on, man?’ I crouch down next to her and look to the lead medic for some sort of declaration.

‘She’s gonna be groggy for a minute,’ he tells me. ‘We’ll definitely need to get her checked out further in the tent to rule out a brain bleed or anything severe, but I’m pretty confident it’s just a concussion.’

I groan. It’s never ‘just a concussion’. May’s gonna be devastated. That’s at least two games she’ll have to miss on concussion watch; that six-step protocol they put you on will definitely take her out of play for the Riders’ first away game – her last first away game. Sentimental value is a major factor, of course, but missing games won’t look good to the school either. For her scholarship, her spot on the team, just one concussion could spell trouble.

‘May.’ I try to meet her eyes as if it’ll get them fully open, get them to focus. ‘Hey, May. Hey, hey, hey, look at me.’

She squints, her vision still wavering. ‘Colt?’ Her voice is a whimper, probably the most helpless I’ve ever heard her, and I immediately hate it.

‘I’m here.’

With an unsuccessful heave, May pushes herself just barely off the grass and, as she slumps back against one of the medics, I cradle her head in my arms. ‘Whoa, hang on. You’re concussed. Give yourself a minute.’

Shit . The entire team’s around us, more staff. May’s out of it, and even in this situation, we have face to save. The dumb lie has to live. Dote, damn it, Colt!

Fortunately, even post-concussion, May’s intuition beats mine. She gives my hand a squeeze, as if to nag me, Play the role, dude.

As much as it’s in keeping with the role, it doesn’t feel like one when I reach down and sweep a strand of her hair off her cheek, tucking it behind her ear and into her headband. ‘You’re gonna be just fine,’ I whisper.

‘That was a smart move.’

May holds an ice pack to her head, legs dangling over the side of the PT table as she winces. ‘The run onto the field.’

Post-game, it was straight to the tent for May, even though she was able to get up on her feet. The Riders ended the game with a draw against the Marauders, and May learned she would be out for two weeks, at the least, and in for the six-step concussion protocol.

From the pained look on May’s face now, it’s clear to see she’s not happy about it. But there’s another expression, perhaps a hint of curiosity, that dances across her face. It could also just be the concussion. Or simply the fact that I’ve never been great at reading emotions.

She uncaps an electrolyte drink and takes a long swig. ‘It was admirable. Definitely helped our case. I mean, I ate shit, but at least we got something out of it. You didn’t have to do that, though,’ she adds quickly.

A twinge of nerves, the most emotion she’s shown openly, flashes across her face and then disappears, and she’s back to her straight-faced, nonchalant usual. She’s a little too good at this.

‘I know.’ I lean back against the doorframe and watch as her eyes search me for some sort of tell. ‘It’s just …’

Honestly, where do I start? That I believed I could undo all the mistakes I had made, that I understand all the ways I went wrong when I could’ve had something with this phenomenal girl? I believed that yes, she was gonna be just fine, but also, that there was some kind of hope that we would be just fine some day?

But the second we got off the field, I realized just how dumb I was to so much as entertain the thought. Like May had said a month back, no one asks to have their heart backed up over again after somebody’s already flattened it.

‘It was the right thing to do,’ I finally finish, and the weight in my stomach is as dense as lead. ‘It’s what everyone expected, right? Just keeping up appearances.’