‘Hell to pay,’ I mouth, even as I tug on my jersey and kilt and tape up my legs. His voice still echoes in my ears when we line up in the tunnel entrance, from where we can see that the stands are completely packed. It’s one of the biggest crowds this derelict stadium has ever seen, totally full of fans, the first few rows of the student section crammed with the usual game bib overalls and beers, and yet the only thing I hear, still, is, ‘Make sure they have hell to pay.’

The game opens with the hallmark Oklahoma City–San Antonio home game tradition, the Running of the Rider, a local rodeo champ on horseback storming the field with the university flag in hand, and from there, we take command of the grass the second the whistle blows. San Antonio, even one natural disaster less frazzled than us, falls behind at first, and by the end of the half, we’re pulling ahead.

It’s the third quarter when San Antonio really must have got a verbal thrashing in the locker room, because play starts to pick up. One of their attackers cuts right through our defence for just their second goal of the game. Two turns into three turns into four and, before we know it, the last quarter is on our heels. We run like the Rider is chasing us down the field, and it pays off.

‘OPEN!’ I yell, as Maddie rushes to the right, dodging a defender and shucking the ball overhead. It lands straight in the head of my stick. One of San Antonio’s midfielders tries to rush me, but I toss the ball back to Brianna, who keeps it safe until Jordan is open on attack. Seconds on the board, she swings the ball to Jor, and my best friend whips it straight into the goal so hard that if the goalie blocked it, it’d blow a hole through the head of her crosse. Top cheddar – the ball just slaps the top of the net, and just like that, the whistle blows, and the home fans are chanting, the bass turned up on ‘Riders in the Sky’ so the entire stadium thrums with roaring and cheering and whipping of orange towels.

Winning a game is a dream. Winning a Roper Rivalry is heaven. The pearly gates are open, and the Oklahoma City Riders are in the playoffs.

The student section is screaming, ecstatic after sitting on their hands all fourth quarter. They’ll cost the school a penalty greater than tornado damage if they storm the field, so the best we can do is leap the barriers ourselves, jumping into the student section to celebrate with the sea of orange and white. Beer spills every which way, sticky remains of shooters coating the benches, but the girls couldn’t care less.

‘MAY!’

‘COLT!’

The grin on his face is as broad as his extended arms. ‘MAY!’