‘Yep. And we’ve never beaten them. Our meeting record? Twenty-nine to nothing.’ May steps back and plops right down in the grass, blowing a hair out of her face and throwing her crosse in her lap. ‘Looks like we’re going back for round two.’

‘What if’ – I pick up her stick and extend a hand – ‘I said I’d watched hours of Alabama’s film for this exact reason, because I saw you guys lose to them last year?’

May takes my hand reluctantly, narrowing her eyes. ‘As long as this doesn’t involve setting me up to take a demo shot I’m never going to make in front of the entire team, go on.’

‘What if I said I tailored a shot clinic in case you’d have to go up against them again?’

Coach Dillon closes her laptop, smiling. ‘Oh, and this is exactly why you are here, Bradley. What if you did indeed tailor this perfect shot clinic?’

‘Well, if I did, I’d say we might have a good shot at turning the tide.’ I hand May her stick, and she purses her lips.

‘You think we can beat the best team in the South in the first round?’ Lexi’s voice pipes up. She crosses her arms, regarding me with disbelief.

I’m going to be totally honest. Lexi terrifies me. I clear my throat to avoid an unfortunate voice crack. ‘I do.’

And holy shit. The girl cracks a smile. ‘Then let’s get to it, Bradley.’

Chapter Thirty-Four

Hot Cowboy

May

With our day of reckoning against Alabama on our heels, the girls and I are well aware we should probably be living and breathing lacrosse for the next week, but we don’t have the luxury of big East Coast lax towns. Tables don’t stop filling up in the bar, the festivals don’t move themselves a week later, and the cattle don’t park themselves in one spot and hibernate till post-season’s over. Half the team applies for time off from their jobs and doesn’t get it. And those of us working on the farm still end up ankle-deep in muck on the evenings, balancing oncoming finals, lacrosse practice, and chores.

‘Bring ’em round, May!’ Tía Juana calls out to me from outside the fence, a cold sweet tea – salvation – in her hand.

I turn Rocky in response, and the livestock follow with a resigned lowing. ‘C’mon, now. Let’s go!’

‘¡Vamos, May!’ Tía claps a hand against her thigh. She’s ten times more efficient at this than I am. My harried pace – and Rocky’s leisurely one – aren’t quite on par. Now that my horse’s annual moment of speed is past, he’s got no reason to do anything beyond a casual trot.