It would be just another one of Connor’s goofy childish gestures of affection (in his winding, chaotic way) if it weren’t for the fact that that sentiment cuts deeper than he intends.

‘But what if I’m not back for—’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Rod smiles his dad smile, the one that makes you feel like he’s just made you a part of the family. It’s a special talent, the mature schtick of his, considering he’s not too much older than the rest of us. ‘You’re always gonna be one of us. Don’t let JJ gaslight you. CJ and JJ will live to ride another day.’

JJ, all forlorn and dramatic, just pouts. I know I should feel bad, but his little kid expression is exceptionally entertaining.

Rod claps my shoulder. ‘You put in the work, man. Don’t forget that.’

I feel a sudden rush of gratitude for the dude. Maybe I led the team, but Rod was always – is going to be – the backbone. If I do have to sit out another season, and Coach has to choose a new captain, I personally couldn’t think of anyone better for the job.

‘Oh captain, my captain.’ Drew strikes a salute my way. ‘Take care of that knee, alright?’

‘You know I will.’ The mention of my knee immediately laces the air with tension, at least for me. It’s not on Drew – I should be past it all by now. The surgery, the brace, the exemptions, being off the field since it happened. I should be getting ready for next season, but instead, I feel like I’m still picking up the pieces.

I needed somewhere – anywhere – to lay low and figure things out, and the first place my mind went was OKC, where the coaches know me well, and I could pick up a legitimate gig without it looking like I’m just trying to disappear.

And where, maybe, I’d see May again.

Honestly, I should probably be facing this head on, not running and hiding at home. Though it’s been so long I’m not sure that I can even call it home any more.

We huddle the same way we had at playoffs that night, one more time. It’s a quieter moment; the kind of moment we don’t have a lot of in a sport as rowdy as lacrosse. It’s the kind of moment that hammers the gravity of what I’m doing into my brain, thudding away at a stubborn, bent nail. You’re always told that when you pick up the crosse, you make a promise to the sport: never walk away. And although I’m not walking away, it still feels like I’m breaking that promise.

Arriving home, the first thing I notice about Oklahoma is how worn everyone’s boots are.