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Roper Rivalry

May

T he stomping of feet in the stands, and the first few chords of ‘Riders in the Sky’ by Johnny Cash, the two sounds that any Oklahoma City Riders fan knows like the back of their hand, fill the stadium, audible from half a mile out as we make our way through the gates in full formal. Dressing up on game day is one of those time-worn professional sports traditions, and out here, the rivalry absolutely demands it. Every single one of us has shown up in two-piece pantsuits, detailed in subtle ways that speak to our journeys to collegiate sport.

My pantsuit, not quite a pantsuit, was made by Tía Juana back when I was in high school, and since I stopped growing around junior year, I’ve never needed a new one. She tailored it off her brother and the youngest of the three siblings, Tío Pablo’s, old mariachi outfit, but with the cut of Mumma’s favourite Indian outfit from the 1990s. The trousers are wide legged and high waisted, and the top is technically another two pieces. One is the solid black crop-top blouse, matching the plain trousers, and the other is the black duster jacket. Tía and Buela embroidered it themselves, with white vines and gold edging modelled from Tío’s mariachi jacket, and red roses on the shoulders. It’s what I’ve worn for years, and I don’t plan on switching things up anytime soon.

I’m taken aback when Colt shows up at my side for the walk into the stadium, a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses resting on his face, sports jacket ironed, matching black to my suit, and most surprising of all, a tie with the exact same embroidery as my duster. I hadn’t expected him to actually work up the courage to ask Savannah about it, especially after he went to hide in his mom’s garden, but I sent him the photo when he asked, and apparently, here he is. It doesn’t spare my attention that this is the first time I’m seeing him in formal wear since as far back as my quinceanera , and that he certainly cleans up nicely. Really nicely, honestly. I curse my easily distracted brain.

He tips his head my way with a sheepish smile. ‘You look good, Red Card.’

‘Not so bad yourself, New Haven.’

Someone’s big camera flashes our way, a sobering reminder that this is not only one of the biggest events for Oklahoma sports, but also one of the best-covered. And that means Colt and I can’t be lacking at any point this weekend.

We exchange a knowing glance, and he does the corny slide of the glasses down his nose, a nod of his head, a teasing smirk. ‘Right on in. They’re waiting for you.’

‘Oh, Colt, you know well enough that they’re waiting for us .’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Stick to the game plan.’

Side by side, we file inside towards the tunnel, down the halls through to the locker rooms. All the hubbub of the crowd fades out pretty quickly, and the girls trickle steadily into the room, already looking for their bags so they can get to locking in for the game.

Colt and I stop in the hall just before we reach the lockers. Technically he stops first, and then gives me that little glance of his that tells me to hang on. ‘I wanna make sure you’re okay.’

‘Okay?’ I feel my hackles rise immediately. ‘I thought we had the conversation about—’

‘No, I wanna make sure you’re okay .’ He jerks a thumb towards the field, where we can still hear the thrumming of the eager crowd through the walls. ‘That’s a massive crowd. And if I’m not wrong, there’s definitely at least one MLL coach out there somewhere. This is the biggest lacrosse match-up in the South. I’m sure you don’t need to be told twice.’

I definitely don’t. I’ve been thinking about it since we came into Chester to help pick up wreckage and fix the stands. The same stands a coach might sit in, this very weekend, to watch us play, hunt for prospects. It’s not even just the thought of a coach watching. Colt’s a step ahead of me. Obviously having him back home, and at every single lacrosse game front row, has had its perks for our programme, filling our stands for essentially the first time in Oklahoma women’s lacrosse history, but the pressure is mounting, too. I had already had to worry about keeping my performance this season consistent, holding onto my tuition, as well as getting us to the championship, and now I still had to decide if I was even going to declare for the draft.

It all floods my brain way too quickly, and Colt must see the terror in my eyes, because he curses under his breath. ‘Sorry. Do-over. That wasn’t what you needed to hear. May. Look at me.’

He steadies me by the shoulders, and as much as I feel like a confused little kid, I do look at him. His grey eyes bore into mine, and he opens his mouth to say something, closes it, takes a beat. It’s a moment before he finally gives me the decisive words. ‘Make sure they have hell to pay.’

A tense breath escapes my lungs, and I waggle my head in what I hope is a gesture of ‘yes’. What? What is going on?

Coach Dillon yells for him, and he shoots me one last encouraging smile before jogging off to take care of whatever might be going on, still in that damn suit of his, and suddenly, my brain is all thoughts of how well those pants fit him and how his stupid overgrown hair looks extra fun to run your fingers through all swept back like that, and the way ‘hell to pay’ might have been one of the hottest things a man could say in that situation.

‘Hell to pay,’ I mouth, even as I tug on my jersey and kilt and tape up my legs. His voice still echoes in my ears when we line up in the tunnel entrance, from where we can see that the stands are completely packed. It’s one of the biggest crowds this derelict stadium has ever seen, totally full of fans, the first few rows of the student section crammed with the usual game bib overalls and beers, and yet the only thing I hear, still, is, ‘Make sure they have hell to pay.’

The game opens with the hallmark Oklahoma City–San Antonio home game tradition, the Running of the Rider, a local rodeo champ on horseback storming the field with the university flag in hand, and from there, we take command of the grass the second the whistle blows. San Antonio, even one natural disaster less frazzled than us, falls behind at first, and by the end of the half, we’re pulling ahead.

It’s the third quarter when San Antonio really must have got a verbal thrashing in the locker room, because play starts to pick up. One of their attackers cuts right through our defence for just their second goal of the game. Two turns into three turns into four and, before we know it, the last quarter is on our heels. We run like the Rider is chasing us down the field, and it pays off.

‘OPEN!’ I yell, as Maddie rushes to the right, dodging a defender and shucking the ball overhead. It lands straight in the head of my stick. One of San Antonio’s midfielders tries to rush me, but I toss the ball back to Brianna, who keeps it safe until Jordan is open on attack. Seconds on the board, she swings the ball to Jor, and my best friend whips it straight into the goal so hard that if the goalie blocked it, it’d blow a hole through the head of her crosse. Top cheddar – the ball just slaps the top of the net, and just like that, the whistle blows, and the home fans are chanting, the bass turned up on ‘Riders in the Sky’ so the entire stadium thrums with roaring and cheering and whipping of orange towels.

Winning a game is a dream. Winning a Roper Rivalry is heaven. The pearly gates are open, and the Oklahoma City Riders are in the playoffs.

The student section is screaming, ecstatic after sitting on their hands all fourth quarter. They’ll cost the school a penalty greater than tornado damage if they storm the field, so the best we can do is leap the barriers ourselves, jumping into the student section to celebrate with the sea of orange and white. Beer spills every which way, sticky remains of shooters coating the benches, but the girls couldn’t care less.

‘MAY!’

‘COLT!’

The grin on his face is as broad as his extended arms. ‘MAY!’

I don’t know how we keep doing it, unchoreographed and unplanned. It’s probably adrenaline, I tell myself. All the thoughts fly right out my head, though, when I run straight for Colt, still in his button-down and trousers and that tie of his, and I jump right into his arms. He catches me effortlessly, and I try not to focus on the fact that our bodies are flush against one another right now, or that I’m hanging onto him for dear life, laughing as he spins me around before setting me down gently.

‘No kiss this time, New Haven?’

‘It’s not real, remember?’ He smirks, but something in that stupid smirk is absolutely real. Something is certainly simmering, and it’s not just the adrenaline.

‘As if.’ I return his smirk. ‘I’m sure you wish it was.’

MAY! What? May, shut up!

Colt raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re the one holding onto me like this.’

No way. He doesn’t get to turn it around on me. I move to drop my hands like I just touched a hot pot, but some strange force of nature keeps me from doing so. The CJ Bradley effect. Do I want to punch him? Do I want to kiss him? Why can’t I make a decision? ‘Don’t let it fool you.’

‘Hey, there’s nothing wrong with going the extra mile to sell it.’ Maybe Colt is playing nonchalant, but the flush of his cheeks betrays him. When we put the game plan together those weeks ago, we’d laid the law down. This was all business.

In the pit of my stomach, I know we’ve been well beyond all business for a while now.

‘Oh, I know we need to sell it, trust me.’

‘Sure ’bout that?’ He gives me that stupid billion-watt smile of his, the one that pulls you straight to him like a magnet. ‘We just gonna stand here?’

‘Absolutely not.’

I don’t know if it’s because I want to prove him wrong, or because I’m starting to find myself drawn further into his orbit than I’d like to confess, but this time, when we kiss, it’s not like the last. Our bodies melt into one another, my pulse thumping in time with his. His fingers tangle themselves up in the strands of hair sticking out the sides of my ponytail. The smell of his cologne and the taste of coffee on his lips are impossible to ignore, no matter how much I tell myself this is for everyone but us, no matter how much I try to focus on the rising screams of the crowd. I grip him tight like I’ve got a point to make. And honestly, maybe I do.

‘COME ON!’ Jordan’s full-volume shout saves me from any more rumination about what the hell I’m doing, startling us apart. Colt just shoots me such an easy, sheepish grin. Is he deep in the same thought I am, with all his simple smiles and effortless gestures?

Jordan rushes over and grabs my arm, her ponytail in disarray from a dive into the student section. ‘RIVALRY TROPHY!’

We’re pulled away from the sidelines in a sea of teammates, and in all the chaos, even as we take the field to raise the rivalry trophy, a tall gold piece of hardware adorned with a statue of a cowboy atop a rearing horse, Colt holds tight to my hand. Maybe this time he’s the one holding on, but I can’t say I want to let go, either.