Page 44

Missed Me

Colt

T he instantaneous media campaign that follows me to New Haven is gutsy. Photos of May and me from earlier in the season are all over Twitter, labelled, ‘I think CJ Bradley and May Velasco broke up???’ and, ‘THE lacrosse couple apparently didn’t last.’ I do one of those dumb obligatory Instagram story posts at the insistence of the Riders PR team: May and I have peacefully parted ways. We decided this was in our mutual interests, and we have no hard feelings … yada, yada. The fake statements are easier to write than any real words I ever had to muster to talk to May.

‘Getting back to a hundred per cent isn’t linear.’

Dr Mendoza leans back in her chair, crossing one leg over another. ‘I want to make sure you feel that you’re fully prepared – that you have all the tools you need to navigate this season. And part of those tools include the ability to accept what is not in your control.’

‘Accept what is not in your control’ is Dr Mendoza’s favourite sentence. I mean, I get it – what happened to me wasn’t something I could stop or start at will. She loves to tell me it’s not a disease that she can ‘cure’; that it’s a state I need to learn to live with. And sure, it makes sense in theory. It’s a lot harder in practice.

Don’t forget to clear your head, Colt.

All the tools. I think Dr Mendoza might be a little concerned if I tell her my primary tool is wistful memories of my grade-school lacrosse rival-slash-love of my life. I try a less jarring approach.

‘I played back in Oklahoma,’ I tell her. As much as she scared me in our first few sessions together, I came to respect her pretty quickly. She’s pretty much the only person I can talk to and know, for sure, that whatever I tell her won’t go anywhere. Patient–provider confidentiality is great.

‘And how did that happen?’

‘The thing is – I don’t know. I don’t know how it happened. The first few times, I froze up, and then one night, it just … happened.’

‘Well, that’s amazing news, CJ!’ Dr Mendoza sets her little pink notebook to the side and clasps her hands. ‘You don’t sound excited enough about this.’

I’m not, considering I’ll have to repeat the feat without the one variable that I’m pretty sure made it possible. ‘What if I can’t do it again?’ I finally ask.

‘Oh, but CJ.’ She smiles encouragingly. ‘You did it once. So we want to rewire those thoughts, and we want to ask – what if you can ?’

The first day of training camp dawns on us, sunny but temperate weather with a morning brisk enough to warrant a hoodie and shorts combo from most of the Woodchucks. We pull up bleary-eyed, nursing energy drinks, with royal blue merch and screaming woodchuck silhouettes as far as the eye can see. Training camp is essentially an intensive two-week session of practice, overseen by sharp-eyed coaches, which determines what position you end up playing for the season. If you want your favourite spot, you’d better get ready to go to bed totally immobile each night after practice.

‘Hey.’ JJ prods my side gently before we hit the field. His eyebrows are wrinkled slightly as he clears his throat. He’s walking on eggshells. Yikes. ‘I’ve … seen some things. What happened with May?’

Further out, Rod coughs all dramatically loud, doubling over and smacking his chest for effect. Snitch .

‘Nothing, really.’ I smile tightly. ‘She and I, we rekindled something we didn’t really think about, long-term. I guess …’ May’s words come to mind. ‘We just have different destinations in life.’

‘Seemed like you had the same destination.’ Even Connor, normally raring to go and start smacking some cannons into the net, looks crestfallen. ‘Just different ways of getting there.’

I try not to let that bit screw its way into my head when we start warming up, stretches first, then laps around the massive practice field. It’s humongous, well-furnished, state-of-the-art, all the other jargon you could use to describe it. But it doesn’t have the same charm of that hack-job backyard field. A pang of something I initially don’t recognize cuts into my chest. Homesickness .

Coach puts us through the usual drills, passing, running, and then the one I’ve been dreading: taking shots. Rather than one of May’s sticks, this time it’s my own in my hands. Not the same one I went down with during last year’s crash-out, but it feels like it as the team lines up in single file for the fast-paced shot drill.

‘You miss it?’ Rod huffs as he runs from the goal, post-successful shot, to end up behind me, pulling the thoughts right from my brain.

I just nod through breaths that are quickly picking up at the mere thought of facing the net.

‘You miss her?’

The homesickness trickles back. Oklahoma will always be home. This trip back helped me realize that. The sort of homesick I feel, though, isn’t because of Oklahoma. It’s because of May.

I nod again.

‘Can’t believe you,’ grumbles Rod. Ahead of us, JJ calls out, ‘TOP RIGHT!’ and subsequently whips one right into the promised corner to cheers from the guys up front. Rod whoops before looking back at me. He rolls his eyes. ‘Neither you nor her.’

Now the only one in front of me, Drew, sprints, kicking up grass in his wake, before chucking his ball into the dead centre of the goal. I take a deep breath, putting Rod’s words aside, focusing on the task at hand.

Unfortunately, this time, as much as I force myself to forget what he’s said and lock in, I can agree with him. He’s right. We both messed up.

‘COLT!’ Coach calls, throwing the ball my way.

Clear your head. Just take the shot.

My stick goes up on instinct, the ball hitting perfectly in the head. I speed right towards the goal, no hesitation, no questions. Just feeling it. The pressure of the ball shifting when I cradle it and wind back for the shot just before my cleats hit the X on the ground. The shift of momentum when I bring the stick forward, and …

WHOOSH.

The shot soars into the upper left corner so hard that the frame of the goal vibrates, just like it had out in the backyard in Oklahoma.

I jog around the waiting line of guys as they slap my shoulder with shouts of congratulations, to the back of the line. Cheers go up in front when Rod makes his second shot, and it isn’t long before he joins me, all smirky and satisfied.

‘Looks like she brought you back from the dead,’ he says with a jesting punch to the arm.

I manage a smile. ‘Only she could have.’

‘Someone told me you missed me.’

May smirks, her dark hair flying out behind her as she slows her horse down to a casual trot to match mine. She holds the reins with two fingers, and she brushes a stray lock of hair from her shoulder, revealing the strap of her tight black tank top. Her gold heart necklace from her quinceanera makes little clicking sounds when the pendant hits the others around her neck: a horseshoe, a locket. The thick buckle of her belt glimmers in the totally unconcealed sunlight, cinching perfectly fitting Wranglers around her waist. Her butterfly boots squeak in the stirrups.

From slightly behind her, I can see every detail of the tattoo of a flower bouquet just above her elbow, on the back of her arm. Even slowing down, she’s still faster than me.

‘Hold up,’ I call.

She laughs, the richest sound I’ve ever known, and turns to look back at me. Her hair skims my cheek, and when she reaches out with a daring arm, her fingers brush my jaw, her rings kissing my skin. ‘Keep up, Colt.’

With a whoop, she speeds up again, that finicky horse of hers galloping faster and faster, his hooves beating the ground.

‘Come on!’ I pat the side of my horse’s head, but he’s not having it. We don’t move any faster. ‘Hey, May!’

She’s well ahead of us now. I watch as her horse traces the corner of a pond, water and dirt flying up around them. I can’t see anything – I can’t see her – in all the dust. ‘MAY!’ I yell. ‘MAY …’

I shoot up in bed. My chest is pounding, and honestly, my head too.

Great. It’s not enough that everyone around me won’t shut up about her. She’s swinging by my dreams now, too.

Damn it, May.