I find it pretty unserious that this is the same team that will, tomorrow, be required to top the number one in the Southern Conference. I guess it’s a good sign they’re loosening up, especially after Coach had them watching film all last night before heading out this morning on a seven a.m. flight. Which is why I’m shocked Jordan has the energy of a toddler today.

Loading into rooms is a chaotic process. The girls have to hustle to get their stuff down before grabbing snacks in a big banquet room that’s been set up for our team. It’s probably the best we’ve been treated on the road so far.

We are herded towards the press next, where the Riders do their usual rounds at the mic, May and Coach Dillon speaking on the sentiment leading up to the game. Press leads us right up to our time on Alabama University’s practice field, for a light run-through of some of our key strategies, and a blow-by-blow of the points I made sure to hit during our shot clinic a week back. Since the match will be played in the evening, something the team’s not used to, this is their last chance to get in the most realistic rehearsal possible.

Once we wrap up on the field, we grab a dinner more enormous than we could have imagined in the same banquet hall – they have steak – and disperse, everyone trying to settle their minds to get the best sleep possible. I know from experience it rarely works, no matter what you try. I’ve done melatonin, sprayed lavender on my pillow, turned on every available flavour of white noise to force myself to sleep in the past five-ish years. Something about the impending threat of a game just transcends all remedies.

I end up at the hotel pool, out in the back, with my feet dangling in the water. The heat hangs thick in the Birmingham air. It’s going to be a sweaty night game tomorrow, that’s for sure.

‘You know,’ May’s voice comes from behind me, ‘we’ve never beaten Alabama. Like, ever.’

‘Never?’

‘Mm-mm.’ She shakes her head, slipping her flip-flops off to my right and taking a seat. She lets her legs hang in the water with a contented sigh. ‘Not since the National Championship was organized in ’85.’

‘So y’all are feeling the nerves.’

‘A little bit, yeah.’ May chuckles nervously, and her dimples etch their way into her cheeks. A coil of hair falls from her messy bun, and she bats it away so it falls down the back of her neck. I could think of a couple ways to ease her nerves. Shut up, Colt. God. Not a good time. ‘You know what it’s like. Being captain.’

I shrug, nodding matter-of-factly. ‘A little bit.’

She lets out a laugh. ‘Mister Pro Lacrosse. Woodchucks.’

‘Stop it! They’re a noble mascot.’