Page 21

Foul Play

May

I don’t give away emotions easily, and I’m still not completely sure why I surrendered to Colt in the way I did.

Even at the end of the week, as we warm up on the field for the home match against Mayfair, my first one back from concussion watch, it feels like a source of shame when he looks at me from the sidelines with this new air of guilt. It’s clear that if we keep going on like this – unable to meet one another’s eye, awkward, decidedly loveless – Rod Wilson, who I can tell is already suspicious as he watches the warm-ups from the sideline, may just find out we’re lying about our relationship, but that’s a whole other can of worms.

Fortunately for Colt, my focus right now has to be on nothing but locking in for this game and keeping consistent for the sake of my tuition.

With every ball I whip into the net, that dumb sentence replays in my mind. I got a lot of things out of that move, but I lost you.

BAM.

There’s not a day that’s gone by since I’ve left that I haven’t thought about that.

BAM.

‘May!’ Coach shouts, clapping her hands. ‘Save some for the match!’

Oh, I’ll have plenty left for the match.

We stand for the anthem as the Mayfair girls shoot daggers at us with their eyes, and we shoot daggers right back, tightening ponytails and goggles to show them we’re all business. The Mayfair match was one of the only ones I had a decent performance at last year, and I plan on making sure that’s the case again. Hailing from near Austin, Texas, Mayfair is a team of spoiled daddy’s-money girls who’ve had quality gear and expensive energy drinks at every turn of the way. I find it never puts us at a disadvantage. If anything, it gives the Riders a competitive edge.

At the draw, I lock eyes with Marissa Raymond, Mayfair’s captain, the backs of our sticks’ heads against one another as the ref places the ball in between.

‘Get ready to apologize to your little boyfriend,’ she taunts through her mouthguard. ‘He’s gonna regret picking a Riders girl after this shitshow.’

‘Oh, and you could do better?’ I mumble. Shit talk, chirping , is a key component of lacrosse, men’s and women’s. We’d be nothing without it. It’s the most we can manage without whacking one another and taking a severe penalty.

Marissa’s a walking Barbie. Five foot nine, with a long blonde braid that has Mayfair navy ribbons woven into it, and big blue eyes that stare straight into your soul. Maybe she’s used to guys chasing her around at Mayfair, but I’m not sure what she expects out of us here. She turns Colt’s way, to where he’s got his arms crossed, all coachlike in his quarter zip and whistle. And she blows him a kiss , complete with a dirt-eating grin.

‘Trust me, honey,’ she whispers conspiratorially. ‘We’re taking this match. And I’ll be taking your boyfriend home, too.’

The ref blows the whistle.

I almost swipe her head off with my stick on the draw, because if she’s here to play, I’m going to prove I’m no less. I don’t know what surge of jealousy floods my body and I know Colt’s not my boyfriend, but I don’t care. There’s no way this chick is winning.

Mayfair tries hard to keep their promise, but we push back – hard.

By half-time, the scoreboard reads 4–4, and the atmosphere is tense. The girls are in knots but, regardless, they’re doing their best to hold the line. We block three attempts that get pretty close to scoring in the third quarter alone. Once the fourth quarter hits, we’re getting desperate, and the vibe on the field reflects it.

All it takes for tensions to boil over is Brianna intercepting the ball on a Mayfair drive to the goal with fifteen seconds left and a tie score. Suddenly, the Mayfair girl she blocked drops her stick, yelling a strangled ‘What the hell ?’ at Brianna, charging straight towards her.

In a matter of moments, Jordan, Maddie, and I are on the scene, shoving ourselves between the two girls as the Mayfair girl comes in swinging. The ref tweets her whistle frantically, yelling, ‘GIRLS! THAT’S IT! THAT’S A YELLOW!’ and waving a yellow card about.

‘Get ready to sleep alone tonight, Velasco!’ Marissa shouts, flipping the bird my way as her team cackles and eggs her on.

My heart thunders in my chest, and I peer at Colt, who stands beside Coach by the bench.

You’re doing great , he mouths. His eyes flick towards Marissa, and he shakes his head. I got you .

I count to three on the next exhale I make. I can hear Marissa laughing from all the way over on the other end. I tune her out. A lot isn’t real between Colt and me, but what’s always been real is the intuition we share about the sport, and the determination to get it done. He’s one of the only people who’s ever understood that, aside from Jordan.

I adjust my grip on my stick and retake my position in the midfield. It’s tunnel vision on the goal. A draw will be shameful at this point. We need this to be a win .

‘SEND IT, MAY!’ Colt’s voice yells from my right.

When the ball lands in the head of my stick, instinct takes over.

Mayfair is everywhere. One girl is all up in my face as the timer ticks down, and I dart aside, turning my back to the goal. Five seconds.

I chuck the ball around my right side when I turn, all prayers, locked in on the goal, giving it some extra whip with a spin back.

The thwack of the ball against the net has never sounded better.

Our growing crowd booms around us, all on their feet, as the screens flash RIDERS WIN in big orange digital letters. The girls on the bench swarm the field, circling our current players, pumping fists and shouting cheers. Out of the corner of my eye, as we break the huddle, laughter all around, I see my least favourite person of the afternoon, Marissa Raymond. I’m trying to keep my temper within its limits, telling myself maybe she’s not all terrible off the field, but right now, this woman is beelining towards Colt, and in that instant, there’s only one thought in my head, and it’s that I am absolutely getting there first.

I run for my life towards the goal, where Colt is just making his way to the huddle, Coach not far behind. Marissa has intercepted him, telling him some shit with a dumb, conniving smile on her face, Colt regarding her with confusion. ‘COLT!’ I shout, and the idiot looks my way, his daze breaking into the broadest, biggest smile.

‘Way to get ’em, May!’ he calls back.

Marissa touches his arm, bats her eyelashes, doing everything to bring his attention back to her. I’ve been trying real hard to give her the benefit of the doubt. This show isn’t helping.

Colt, bless him, doesn’t buy it. He fully turns and jogs towards me, arms outstretched. ‘You were phenomen—’

I literally crash right into his arms, full force, and it’s a miracle he’s still on his feet, but he apparently finds all this amusing, because he bursts out laughing. ‘ What? ’

‘She’s been chirpin’ at me all game,’ I say by way of explanation.

He snorts. ‘I saw that much.’

‘I appreciate you,’ I tell him.

‘Is that a lie?’

‘That is not a lie, Colt.’

He grins, but as he scans the crowd, his eyebrows furrow. Someone at the lower level of bleachers yells, ‘KISS HER, brO!’, sending the Riders girls into a frenzy of giggles.

Colt’s cheeks go pink, and he coughs awkwardly. ‘Well. The moment we’ve been waiting for. Does this violate play number two? Minimal PDA? What’s minimal?’

I steel myself as I train my attention on him, on things I usually will myself not to notice. The sparkle of his eyes; the way his hair tickles my fingers, interlaced behind his neck, arms draped across his shoulders; the little scar in his eyebrow that I know is from a crosse to the face when we were younger; his nervous dimples and his perfect jawline. ‘I think we can consider this minimal.’

Nearly every muscle in my body tenses at the thought, but hey, this is what we signed up for, right? It’s true; celebratory kisses just clear the bar. We owe the audience one if we want them to keep showing up – and keep driving sponsors to Prosperity’s lacrosse programme. And maybe, just maybe, bring us a scout or two.

I put on a smile. It’s too easy. It should be a struggle, right? Why is it easy?

Behind us, I catch sight of Marissa and her team whispering, all hush-hush, with nasty looks our way.

Colt’s fingers gently tip my chin back towards him, and his voice is quiet enough that only I can hear when he says, ‘She’s not even an option next to you, Manmayi Velasco.’

My heart flutters against my chest, butterflies scrambling to escape my rib cage, and when our lips meet, the butterflies go absolutely feral. His words are like honey, sweet, all-consuming. When I close my eyes, I relish every single one of them. This is business, I know, but as easy as the smile was, this is easier. It’s so easy for me to fall into his affection, even all these years on. As his thumbs stroke my jaw, his strong hands moving to cup my cheeks, I can’t figure out whether that ease of falling is a good thing, or a terrible thing.

The crowds scream around us, but the only thing I can hear is the blood rushing behind my ears as we pull apart, and a corner of Colt’s mouth tips up in a little smirk. ‘Not bad for no rehearsal.’

The thudding of my heart is still uncontrollable. Adrenaline, certainly. We’ve just won a game. Of course, that’s what it is. This is definitely not a teenage fantasy come true. I’m not losing it right now.

‘Not bad,’ I repeat.

Well. Not bad, and then some, but you won’t catch me admitting that to him.