Page 5

Y’all Had Your Moments

May

‘ L et’s work behind the crease, ladies!’

Cleats rustle in the grass as midfield and attack line up behind the net for today’s lesson, one we hope will give us some edge when we start our season.

Coach Dillon claps her hands. ‘I want a shot on goal from each and every one of you! Let’s see it!’

I watch as Maddie, in full Mad Dog mode, cradles the ball effortlessly, flicking around the net to land her shot easily. My hands feel slick against my crosse as our coach beckons me forward. I keep my ball steady in the mesh of my stick when I come up from behind the crease, eyes on nothing but the spot I want to shoot into. That exact spot. I won’t let my gaze stray.

And as much as I know it’s just practice, the satisfaction that fills my chest when the ball slaps the back of the net is nothing short of what I’d feel in a game. It’s got me dizzy. I whoop as the girls howl excitedly. Pre-season is in full swing.

We share a hearty scrimmage after the drill, followed by a slow cool-down session of conditioning. By the end of it all, we’re shucking off cleats like they’re work boots. We love the field, but after practice, it’s a relief to be off it.

‘God, I think I have civic duties tonight,’ Maddie groans, blowing a strand of perfect blonde hair from her face.

‘I think I’m scooping shit tonight,’ chirps Paige sarcastically, earning a grumble of agreement from many of us in the bleachers. She’s our strongest defender, but she, like the rest of us, has every right to be tired of the double life.

‘Don’t get me started on scooping …’

Jordan’s quip vanishes into thin air as she’s stunned into silence, her head swivelling towards the chain-link fence separating the fields from the parking lot way down ahead of us.

‘Jor.’ Maddie gives her a shake, but no response. We follow Jordan’s stare to the empty lot, where a dark blue Dodge Ram pickup truck has made itself at home. Its owner swings himself out of the cab. The hiss of air that escapes my lips, sneaking between my teeth in exasperation, is completely involuntary.

The girls are in a silent frenzy. Huge eyes meet one another as immediate recognition passes from teammate to teammate. Maddie’s the first one to look my way, and she says, in a voice as hushed as a rustle of wind through the tallgrass, ‘Bradley.’

Anyone who’s anyone in this state knows him, which is funny considering he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about this state. Anyone who plays lacrosse certainly knows him. Much of this team idolizes him, so Maddie’s reaction doesn’t surprise me. Jordan stabs an angular elbow into my ribs with a look of shock.

‘He’s back,’ she mouths.

My body goes rigid. I hope my eyes go cold. I move to stand, to get my butt off the grass and get out of here before he comes over to make that dumb, smiley small talk of his, but Jordan grabs my arm, her eyes still trained on Bradley as he enters the field with a giant grin pasted on his face, all the way up to his grey eyes, creased happily in the corners. He runs a hand through his unfortunately stunning, windswept light-brown hair that sneaks past his ears, all overgrown and wavy. For a fleeting millisecond, I can’t blame Jordan for staring, but the millisecond is over almost before it begins.

I turn away, attempting to take my friend with me. ‘Jor. Jordan, it’s time to go—’

‘Hey, May!’

Great.

I swivel back and make sure I shoot a glare at Jordan on my way around before my eyes land on the man himself.

‘Manmayi Velasco,’ he calls, still wearing that dumb grin.

He’s significantly taller than I remember, which is not unexpected, considering it’s been just about five years. Last we’d met, he had just started to get taller than me. I don’t love the fact that even if he sat down beside me now, I’d have to tilt my chin up to look him in the eye.

He saunters over to the bleachers where we’re packing our things up, and the rest of the girls, unhelpfully, are about as gobsmacked as I am. Someone has to say something before I burst a blood vessel.

Unfortunately, that someone is CJ Bradley.

He rocks back on his dumb polished boots. Boots . He can’t have been on Oklahoman soil for more than twenty-four hours. With a tip of his head, he says with a smile much bigger than this situation calls for, ‘It’s been a minute, huh?’

Well, hot damn , it’s been more than a minute, and this fool is acting like we just saw one another last month. I’d like to call him out on it, but I’m not sure if I’m capable of forming words in my anger right now. I don’t think it’d benefit anyone even if I did try to form words.

‘You stayed,’ he continues with an air of pride. Pride? Who gave him the right? He didn’t stay. He jumped ship the second he got the option. He had the chance to come back, and he deliberately turned it down. What the hell is he so proud of?

I grit my teeth. ‘CJ—’

‘Everyone who’s anyone in lax knows about you,’ he begins with a charming smile – the trademark Bradley smile, the smile that caused me all my problems to begin with. That’s how he gets you. It’s like one of those ridiculous fish with the dangling light in front of its face. ‘Can’t wait to see you play in person, May.’

‘I’d prefer Manmayi.’

Jordan elbows me, although Bradley seems to ignore it completely.

‘Well,’ he says, beaming in that blissfully indifferent way of his, ‘you sure you wouldn’t want to scrimmage together again sometime? Just once? For old times’ sake, y’know.’

‘I’d rather not,’ I reply tightly.

It’s true. If I were to get on the field with him again, I wouldn’t trust myself to overcome the uncontrollable urge to rip out his hair strand by strand.

With that deeply uncomfortable thought, I give him a courteous parting nod (too courteous, if you ask me). I tap Jordan’s hand, snapping her out of her stupor. ‘I gotta get going. I got chores to take care of,’ I tell him stiffly.

I clamber to my feet, duffel over my shoulder, and haul my ass out of the crime scene as quickly as I can with Jordan in tow, leaving Colt looking over his shoulder with a hint of something that might be regret in those normally unfaltering eyes.

‘Colton James Bradley,’ says Jordan once we’re well away from the field. The allegedly fierce attacker has a dazed quality to her voice, all starstruck.

‘Thank you so much for giving him a beat to open his big mouth.’

‘Oh?’ She turns her wide-eyed gaze to me. ‘What happened to junior year? When Manmayi Velasco said she was “grown up now”?’ Jordan throws air quotes around the final three words to ensure they hit their mark.

‘Doesn’t count when you’re dealing with him ,’ I mutter, focusing on the airbrush strokes of the HOME OF THE RIDERS mural on the wall outside the field to distract myself from the conversation Jordan has boxed me into. ‘If he can’t grow the hell up, why should I?’

‘Yeah, that’ll happen when guys go pro like that.’ She tilts her head at me in that same spirit of curiosity.

I run my hand through my ponytail of straightened hair with a heavy sigh. The last time I had any contact with Colt was when he was leaving for New England, and I hadn’t heard from him since. The definition of a teenage boy who never grew up.

‘Y’all had your moments.’

‘Damn if we did,’ I snort. Moments is one word for it. Moments is the wrong word for it.