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!’

Mary Kate didn’t answer. She was conscious – now – but she refused to look at me. She was just staring up at the ceiling in despair in her mud-splattered shirt and sweatpants. The bedraggled red flags still hung from her waist. I kept up a cheery stream of conversation – at least what I thought was a cheery stream of conversation. I may have gauged incorrectly the amount of humor that Mary Kate found in her situation when she was lying in an infirmary bed and missing out on the possibility of seeing victory Gatorade droplets running down Football Michael’s beautiful abs. And actually it was possible it had been a victory; Pat had stepped in as quarterback after carrying Mary Kate off the field and putting her on a stretcher.