Page 36

’Bama Rush

Colt

‘ I can sing the entire thing.’

‘No, you can’t ,’ chides Maddie. ‘I don’t believe it. We learned that in elementary school. Have you been rehearsing?’

Jordan nods vigorously. ‘Yes, ma’am. And I know the whole song .’

As we walk down the hall of the ridiculously nice hotel, Jordan takes a deep breath, and suddenly, she’s belting the entire ‘Fifty States’ song at opera-singer volume.

‘ALABAMA, ALASKA, ARIZONA, ARKANSAS …’

‘Oh my god.’ Coach Dillon looks terrified. ‘I had no idea we’d let a ten-year-old on the team.’

‘CONNECTICUT! BA-BA-BA,’ chants Jordan, with a little wiggle on the last three beats.

‘This is why you never challenge her,’ May says, her tone that of a tired mom. ‘She does this.’

‘Has she had multiple coffees on the way out?’ I ask her in disbelief.

‘Nothing. Just a bottle of water and a grilled cheese sandwich before we got on the plane.’ She purses her lips. ‘Trust me. This is what I’ve been dealing with for years.’

‘UTAH, VERMONT, VIRGINIA—’

‘Okay, okay! OH. KAY.’ Maddie extends her arms, fully stopping Jordan on her walk. ‘I believe you. I concede. All right?’

Jordan grins proudly. ‘Good.’

I find it pretty unserious that this is the same team that will, tomorrow, be required to top the number one in the Southern Conference. I guess it’s a good sign they’re loosening up, especially after Coach had them watching film all last night before heading out this morning on a seven a.m. flight. Which is why I’m shocked Jordan has the energy of a toddler today.

Loading into rooms is a chaotic process. The girls have to hustle to get their stuff down before grabbing snacks in a big banquet room that’s been set up for our team. It’s probably the best we’ve been treated on the road so far.

We are herded towards the press next, where the Riders do their usual rounds at the mic, May and Coach Dillon speaking on the sentiment leading up to the game. Press leads us right up to our time on Alabama University’s practice field, for a light run-through of some of our key strategies, and a blow-by-blow of the points I made sure to hit during our shot clinic a week back. Since the match will be played in the evening, something the team’s not used to, this is their last chance to get in the most realistic rehearsal possible.

Once we wrap up on the field, we grab a dinner more enormous than we could have imagined in the same banquet hall – they have steak – and disperse, everyone trying to settle their minds to get the best sleep possible. I know from experience it rarely works, no matter what you try. I’ve done melatonin, sprayed lavender on my pillow, turned on every available flavour of white noise to force myself to sleep in the past five-ish years. Something about the impending threat of a game just transcends all remedies.

I end up at the hotel pool, out in the back, with my feet dangling in the water. The heat hangs thick in the Birmingham air. It’s going to be a sweaty night game tomorrow, that’s for sure.

‘You know,’ May’s voice comes from behind me, ‘we’ve never beaten Alabama. Like, ever.’

‘Never?’

‘Mm-mm.’ She shakes her head, slipping her flip-flops off to my right and taking a seat. She lets her legs hang in the water with a contented sigh. ‘Not since the National Championship was organized in ’85.’

‘So y’all are feeling the nerves.’

‘A little bit, yeah.’ May chuckles nervously, and her dimples etch their way into her cheeks. A coil of hair falls from her messy bun, and she bats it away so it falls down the back of her neck. I could think of a couple ways to ease her nerves. Shut up, Colt. God. Not a good time. ‘You know what it’s like. Being captain.’

I shrug, nodding matter-of-factly. ‘A little bit.’

She lets out a laugh. ‘Mister Pro Lacrosse. Woodchucks.’

‘Stop it! They’re a noble mascot.’

May’s snort tells me she’s not buying it. I flip her the bird, and she just bursts out laughing even harder.

‘You’re going to fall in,’ I warn her.

‘I won’t,’ she cracks up. ‘I swear. Anyway.’ With an exhale, the last of her laughter subsides. ‘Are you scared?’

‘Scared?’ The word is a double-edged sword for me. Am I scared? Perpetually. Does she want to hear me be honest, or does she want me to provide respite? I end up choosing honesty. ‘I guess … you could say so. I’m just scared I won’t have done my best in preparing you guys.’

The shadow of a smile quirks the corners of May’s mouth up briefly. ‘I understand that completely.’

The only sound for a moment is the splashing of water, and then I break the silence. ‘When did we become friends?’

May blinks. I think I see a hint of shock in her eyes, just barely. ‘When did we become friends?’ she repeats dubiously.

‘When we met up at Moonie’s,’ I recall. ‘You said something to me. You said we were two steers with our horns locked, all through high school. And that it was a rivalry.’ I turn to May. She raises her gaze to meet mine; the only eyes I could stare into from sun-up to sun-down, and then all night long. ‘Is this still just a rivalry?’

There’s a minute where I fully think she’s going to push me into the pool. It’s definitely something she’d do. Instead, she replies, ‘I think, maybe, that I was wrong back then, Colt. I don’t think that it was ever just a rivalry.’

‘Really?’

She smiles softly, and it’s nice, you know, to not go directly to May Velasco’s shit list for once since I met her. But there’s still some semblance of restraint in the smile. Something she’s holding back. ‘Guess it’s nice. To, you know, really be friends again.’

Friends.

But, for the record, I know I don’t just want to be her friend. I want to be the one who puts up her white picket fence and the house for the dog. I want to be the one at the barbecue in her backyard. I want to be at every single match she plays, and I want hers to be the first face I see at every single match I play. I want to tape up her bad wrist and give her a kiss for good luck. I want to wrangle Sav into making me ties to match every outfit she wears. I don’t just want to be her friend. I really don’t.

Matchday is the definition of fear.

The field is dark in the evening, save for the lights illuminating the grass, and up in the stands, ’Bama fans have shown up in full force. It’s an enormous turnout. I try my best to ignore the pointing and questions asking me where May is. We need total focus if we want to nail this one.

I unzip my thin windbreaker and toss it on a sideline bench as the girls jog onto the field. May shoots me a thumbs-up. Her voice echoes through my head – friends – but that’s not what either of us needs right now. She needs people in her corner, and I’m going to be one of those people, no matter what.

I raise a hand in a gesture of ‘wait’, and I turn around so May can see the back of my OKC Riders T-shirt. The crossed stick logo is on the front, along with the big cursive ‘Oklahoma City’, but it’s what’s on back that I care about.

When I turn around again to face the field, it’s hard to make out her expression, what with her goggles and mouthguard, but I can tell exactly what she does next.

She presses her hand to her lips and blows me the biggest kiss.