Until now, girlfriend had been jumping, kicking and punching like she was in that tae-bo DVD my middle-school gym coach used to put on when she was too hungover to teach. My room-mate was pumped. She was fired up. She was hardcore. She was ready for action. Then Football Michael squinted across the grey, overcast field and pointed to the approaching team – specifically, to two members.

‘There!’ he said. ‘Those are the offensive linesmen.’

Mary Kate stopped jogging. She stopped mid-punch, and her arms dropped to her sides. Her mouth fell open. Her shoulders slumped and all the color drained from her face. I can only describe it as de-Hulkifying. A second ago, she’d been a killer, a champion, a Bonecrusher. Now she was terrified, trembling all over, and squeaking like a mouse in a Pixar movie.

‘Them?’ she squeaked.

I looked. My stomach sank. ‘Oh shit.’

Coming towards us, towering over our heads like massive redwood trees in the XXL blood-red shirts of the opposing team, making the field tremble beneath our feet with every step their size-13 cleats took, were a pair of six-foot-two, incredibly muscular, ruthless athletes with matching scowls on their faces.

Pat pushed his shaggy hair back for a better look. ‘Are those …?’

‘The Rowers,’ Mary Kate breathed.

‘What are the friggin’ chances?’ I said in awe.

For years, we had lived in terror of these enormous women. For years, we had tiptoed down the hallway, hushing each other as we passed their door, not daring to take the last Kit-Kat in the vending machine for fear of retribution, never removing laundry from the dryer in case it was one of the dreaded XXL grey Varsity Crew sweatshirts, never completely relaxed in our own home.

Now this fearsome two-headed monster was looming above us, ready to swallow Mary Kate whole.

A shrill whistle blew. The referee called out, ‘GAME TIME! QUARTERBACKS ON THE FIELD FOR THE COIN TOSS!’

Football Michael clapped Mary Kate on the back. ‘Let’s go, QB!’

I have to hand it to the girl: as she walked out to face the firing squad, her plastic flags were flapping in the wind, but her Khaleesi braids did not budge an inch, and she held her head high.

‘You can do it, Mary Kate!’ Pat called after her, but his words were carried away by the wind.

14

‘You know, it could have been worse.’

Those were the half-assed words of reassurance I offered as, two hours after the football game, I stood next to Mary Kate’s hospital bed in the school infirmary.

‘I mean, look at that girl,’ I continued, gesturing to the next bed, where the previous Bonecrushers quarterback, Lauren, lay in a drugged, painkiller-induced sleep with her broken leg elevated with so many swings and pulleys it looked like she was in the sex dungeon from Fifty Shades of Grey.

‘She’s been here for, like, two weeks. The school nurse even bought her a Kindle Fire. And you only have to stay here overnight!’