Page 46

Natty Day

May

H ours after the sun rises in Boston, Massachusetts, the entire team, all thirty-six of us, and Coach, are awake, although we also already know that not one of the thirty-seven of us slept peacefully, and that we have all been up since before sunrise. This has only been years in the making. A couple of hours of sleep are nothing to lose.

We warm up in a separate area of the athletic complex designated for our team, spending the morning in rich silence, until it’s time for us to make our way to the lockers. The away locker room is set up for us in a nicer way than any of us have ever seen anywhere. Every locker is labelled with a name and number for the day, the corresponding uniform ironed and hung up inside, along with our national logo-embroidered duffel bags, which, depending on the outcome of this game, could become either a happy souvenir or buckshot to the chest.

We listen to Maddie do her pre-game affirmations, the same ones she does before every match, as we get into our kilts and jerseys. They’re brand-new, with the same logo on the left shoulder. WCL Championship 2025 . The material is white, with printed orange letters and numbers crisper than our own university-made uniforms.

‘I am resilient. I am strong. I am passionate,’ chants Maddie, like she’s trying to summon the ghost of self-esteem. At the other end of the locker room, Brianna is lining the girls up so she can get going on hair. I pull my kinesiology tape from my bag and start taping up my shins, then switch to medical tape for my bad wrist.

As I press the pink tape to my skin to make sure it sticks, Colt’s voice whispers in my ear.

That good?

Sure , I reply.

Get out there. Get a red card or two, while you’re at it.

‘Not today,’ I mouth with a little laugh. As much as both of us know the rules of the sport well, that idiot always wants me to get a penalty. Some guys like getting heartfelt handwritten cards from their girlfriends. My dumb fake boyfriend would probably ask for a red card.

You look awfully pretty when you get pissed. Even prettier when you start to blow your top when the ref goes for the card.

I tear the tape with my mouth and toss the roll back into my bag. With a sigh, I look up at the ceiling, decorated with the dramatically lit outline of the New England Bobcat itself.

Colton James Bradley, where are you when I need you most?

We don’t need to enter the field properly to hear how amped up the crowd is – and how many of them are out there. The roaring is almost quadruple what we heard back in DC. You can barely hear the throb of the music when the Clippers rush out of the tunnel, pumping the crowd up so they move from ridiculously loud to borderline deafening. It’s not really that many people in the grand scheme of things: professional football matches fill the entire place up, and this is maybe a small fraction of capacity. But for us, in a sport that’s been in the back corner our whole lives, this is everything.

Before the game gets into full swing, we meet our parents in the tunnel for wishes of good luck and encouragement, at least for the next couple hours. We keep it short and sweet as we always do. Papa and Mumma know the drill. We exchange hugs, and my parents give me their last few bits of advice, as always.

From Mumma: ‘Play it smart, May.’

From Papa: ‘Wreck ’em.’

‘All right, ladies. All right. All right.’ Coach makes her way down the line of us once we’re in the tunnel, giving each of our shoulders a firm pat. ‘I want you girls to know that it means so much to me – so much, that we are here right now. That each of you have put in the hours on the field, and off it. Many of you, I’ve watched you go home and work two, three jobs to keep yourself here. I’ve watched you wait tables and kiss frogs and literally muck shit —’

Maddie bursts out laughing, triggering the rest of us on impact. Coach rolls her eyes, but she bats away a tear. Coach Dillon, the stoic queen of OKC lacrosse, and tears? I don’t believe it.

‘And every little thing you’ve done, I want you to know that it has a permanent place in my heart. That this team has a permanent place in my heart. Always. Whether we win this, or we don’t.’ Coach sniffs, and we immediately surround her in a big Riders hug. ‘Oh, you girls,’ she laughs from inside our circle. ‘Come on. Get ready to go out there. May, darlin’, take it away.’ Coach gives my hand a squeeze, and I nod, signalling to the girls to back up.

‘Let’s do this. Riders on three, Riders on me, y’all hear?’ I grin, adjusting my goggles from where they sit on top of my head. ‘One, two, three—’

‘RIDERS!’ we scream at the top of our lungs, the loudest we ever have, just as the announcer’s voice comes on over the stadium.

‘For the very first time in history , making their Division One College Lacrosse National Championship Debut, the University of Oklahoma City Riders.’

The girls burst out the tunnel with their sticks in the air, howling to the sky as the walkout song of our choice, Luke Combs’s ‘Ain’t No Love in Oklahoma’ blares in the stadium, the enormous chunk of OKC fans packing the stands on their feet, towels already in the air. I run out last with the UOKC spirit stick, a crosse that’s been in the school for generations, with a dozen ribbons in a dozen shades of orange and white tied around it, one for each past captain. I jog under the tunnel of crosses the girls make for me, coming out on the other end to raise the spirit stick at the fans, who roar in reply. The energy is palpable. In just about two hours, we could be standing here as champions.

We stand for the anthem first, and at the end, post-applause, break to the bench to strategize. Coach, binder in hand, is already prepared.

‘Okay, girls,’ she says, head down. We all crowd around tight. ‘I’m gonna put May at the draw. I want my starters on. Cover May’s right. No matter how the ref puts that ball, the girl that takes draws for AT is going to try and force May to the right – always does. I’ve instructed May to use that momentum to carry the ball back, hopin’ that puts us in possession for the first play. Sound good?’

Nods and affirmatives all around. This is it. First play of the championship.

We jog back on and into positions. Lights flash and massive cameras follow the game as I line up at the midline, opposite the girl from Augusta Tech. I look up for a brief moment, and my heart thunders in my chest when I let myself take it all in. If I give it my all tonight, push it as hard as I can … we could walk home with the biggest piece of hardware we’ve ever had. And I could open major doors for my career. For the MLL.

But only if I decide I want to open those doors. Isn’t this beautiful? This crowd? This sport? Isn’t this what I want to do for as long as it’ll have me?

I shake away the thoughts. I can’t do that right now. I can’t think about what I have to gain and lose weeks from now when there’s so much on the line right here.

The ref lines me up with the AT girl, the heads of our sticks against one another, ball in between, our feet on the midline. I meet her eyes through the grilles of our goggles. She has the same look of fiery intent as I do. I know Coach mentioned she’d go right earlier, but I don’t know. Something in my chest, something in the way the ref’s placed the ball, tells me she’s going to push to the left this time – where she thinks I won’t go.

The whistle blows and, putting my legs into the push upward, I forgo the intended right and flick my wrist to the left, letting her help me win control of the ball. I bring my stick upward, my eyes on the ball, and sure enough, the pressure from her end only helps the ball to careen upwards and down onto the grass. One correct decision. So many to go.

As I scoop up the ball, looking for an opening, I hear Brianna’s trusty, ‘HERE!’, and I send it right to her. It’s a clean pass, and then Brianna runs it before connecting with Jordan, out into the clear. My best friend has to do some darting to evade defence, and in the end, AT is too unpredictable. Jordan makes for a shot, and in a flash, the ball’s with the goalie – deflected. Just like that, AT’s already in possession, and we’re in the hole.

The end of the half sees us down 2–7.

‘We won’t make it to the end at this rate,’ groans Maddie as we peel ourselves from the locker room after a pep talk from Coach Dillon. It was rousing – one of her best – but it does nothing to help the despondency we feel when we think about getting back out there.

‘We have to.’ My own voice sounds exhausted. ‘Think of how far we’ve come. And Mads – you’re the future of this team. Jordan and I, our chapter comes to a close this season.’

Maddie swallows hard, nodding. A junior, she will be the one who stays on after us and – more likely than not – will take up the mantle of captain.

‘Guys,’ Brianna pipes up, ‘there are thirty minutes left in this game. Thirty . Our story’s not over just yet.’

Jordan, still on the bench, stick discarded in front of her, taping up a stubborn ankle, looks up, and she finds me among the girls, locking eyes with me. It’s all about this moment for us. We’ve played side by side since our very first match. This is full circle. We have thirty minutes to keep that alive.

‘We,’ I start, ‘are the only Southern Conference team to ever play a championship. The only team . If we take this game, we’ll be the only Southern Conference team to touch a championship trophy, men or women. The only ones to ever hold that title.’

‘And the only team led by a woman of colour to win a championship,’ Jordan adds, nodding my way. ‘We’re here because we have a point to make.’

I purse my lips. In all the chaos, I forget what it means for me to be here – what it means for so many women in this sport. ‘Exactly. And I don’t give a shit if we lose, we’re not leaving until we make that point.’

A silence fills the locker room as each and every one of us, including me, sit with those words.

‘Riders on me,’ Jordan sticks a hand out, moving to the middle of the room. ‘Riders on three. Come on, y’all. Come on.’

Every girl puts her hand in, and I count us down once we’re all shoulder to shoulder.

‘One, two, three, RIDERS!’

We storm back out double time, taking position up and down the field. I prepare for another draw against the same girl. Do I go risky, or play it safe and stick to her right-side tactic this time? The position of the ball gives me no cues.

I blow a hair from my face, letting the blood rushing behind my ears be the only sound guiding my hand.

When the whistle goes off, I choose primal. I choose to let nothing but instinct tell me what to do, and suddenly, the ball’s arcing over my head one moment, and in the net of my crosse the next. I cradle it back to a safe space on the field, from where I can plot my next move.

‘Move right!’ I call out to Jordan. I chew on the inside of my cheek as I jog towards the right of the field. Playing it down the right is my best shot at an opening. AT’s been weak that side all game. Right?

‘PLAY LEFT, MAY!’

There’s no way.

I can’t be distracted now. I can’t falter when the ball’s in my hands. This is all in my head. I’m under duress, the game approaching its end; I’m hearing things.

I spare the briefest glance at the sideline.

Beside Coach Dillon stands CJ Bradley, a hand on Coach’s shoulder, on the verge of crouching, leaning forward with a muscular arm pointing at the opposite side of the field. Those stormy eyes are wide, his hair pushed back under a backward cap. He fully turns to gesture to the left, and I catch a glimpse of the back of his T-shirt. VELASCO #13. My jersey.

‘LEFT!’ he repeats, waving towards their side. ‘PLAY LEFT!’

My body doesn’t have time to question what my brain wants to overthink. I dart left all at once, practically screaming to Maddie, ‘LEFT, MADS! LEFT, LEFT!’

Maddie recovers quickly, and when I chuck the ball over to her, she cradles it immediately, and on foot, sprints behind the goal. She shoots around the back – and she scores .

We all screech in unison as Maddie throws her stick down, pumping her fists. We surround her in celebration. Three–seven. This story isn’t over yet.

My eyes immediately move to Colt when I run back to my position. He nods encouragingly, pacing the sideline the same way Coach does. Initially, I wonder just how dehydrated and stressed I must be for hallucinations to have come into play, but then I hear his voice again.

‘Don’t back down, May! Don’t fuckin’ back down!’

I don’t know if he’s here for an hour, for a day, for a week, or if he’ll disappear from my life again after this game. I don’t know if he’s feeding me lies coated in sugar to hide the truth. But I do know that I’ve always trusted his match judgement, sometimes more than my own. I’m not ready to stop now.

The fourth approaches faster than I can keep track. The crowd is fired up, every single person on their feet. The stadium is deafening as the clock ticks down. We are 13–13 after an action-packed second half. Tied. AT’s seen everything from us. Just one thing we haven’t pulled out yet.

Cornered, Jordan yelps, and I call out ball so she can pass back out to me to regroup. Shit. They’re covering all my attackers. I sure as hell don’t think I could suffer through overtime. So what the hell can I do now to take this game?

‘TWIZZLER!’ Colt shouts from the sideline.

No way. No way I’ll make it up to the crease in time for that.

Twenty seconds. Nineteen. Eighteen.

With no other option, no other ideas, I raise a hand so Jordan can see, swirling it in a loop. Twizzler.

If the defence is going to cover all my attackers, I’ll have to use the defence to launch my goal.

I break straight through the midline, running as fast as my legs will carry me. Defenders charge my way, but I careen left and right. A pass to Maddie, and a pass back to me. I send it to Jordan. I can practically feel the Oklahoma crowd biting their nails as the seconds pass. Five. Four.

‘HIT ME!’

I slip around a defender, and as she reaches out for the pass that Jordan has made my way, I line myself up, back to the defender, and force a spin, turning her away from the ball, and turning myself right towards it. The ball hits the head of my stick. I don’t have the time to look. I whip it straight at the net, praying the goalie’s caught unawares. Praying the goal is good when the final whistle blows.

And then the horn.

‘THAT’S FOURTEEN–THIRTEEN, RIDERS …’

A strangled cry leaves my throat as I toss my stick, clapping my hands over my mouth. I hit the ground immediately, the turf scraping my knees, but I don’t register the feeling. All I can register is endless, boundless euphoria.

The only Southern Conference team to touch a natty trophy.

The only team led by a woman of colour to win a championship.

‘HOLY SHIT!’ Jordan screams, crashing to the ground right beside me, wrapping her arms around me as we both shake with sobs of respite. The girls on the bench storm the field, our entire team forming a bubble by the goal. I hear Coach’s shrieks as she joins us, all of us one great, crying mass as confetti rains down around us, tangling itself in hair and sticking to sweaty uniforms. Orange and white confetti.

The cameras hover over us as we finally stand. I find my way to my feet shakily, in shock.

‘May,’ Jordan squeezes my shoulder with a laugh, tipping her head back towards the outside of our circle. ‘Someone’s here to see you.’

I turn around with a jolt. Colt, arms crossed, smiles proudly from a few paces away. His presence is quiet, but his eyes speak volumes.

‘Hey!’ I call, pushing my goggles as they slip down my forehead as I fight back a smile awash in tears. ‘Couldn’t clear your head?’

He lets out a laugh and shakes his head. ‘Not a chance.’