During last week’s practice, Colt took us through manoeuvres used by the men’s MLL players to get the ball through a particularly keen defence – a level up from what we’re used to. After watching footage from the last match, it’s clear there’s no way to beat a team this solid by dancing around them. The only way out, he said, would be through. And it wouldn’t be pretty.

We take it literally. Evading penalty carefully, we plough through the defence to get our balls through, playing more aggressively than we’ve ever played before. At one point, Jordan swings her stick so fiercely I think she could probably cut wood with it if she tried. And at the end of the game, tight on numbers, Maddie makes one last Mad Dog goal: our now signature no-look twizzler, smacking the back of ’Bama’s net like we have rent to pay.

The first time in history.

‘OH MY GOD,’ screams Jordan when the horn blows and the scoreboard blinks. By two goals, we’ve beaten them, and earned a spot in the second round.

All of us, even the girls on the bench, storm the field, jumping all over each other at the midline, yelling and wailing and crying. Somewhere between Jordan’s arm and Lexi’s ass, I manage a mangled sob of, ‘I’M SO PROUD OF YOU GUYS,’ and the girls sob in return. This isn’t the end of our season – by no means the end of my journey. If I decide to leave lacrosse after this senior season, I don’t intend on leaving quietly.

Come Sunday, back from game-day chaos, Colt and I swing by the drive-through diner to grab burgers, against all potential dietary regimen costs. We dig into greasy heaven in the back of his truck, sitting on a pile of ridiculous chevron-striped blankets as we share a basket of fries and a pack of my favorite Busch Light Peach. We’re parked up in the middle of the field a good mile outside of the new and improved Eagle Rock sign. It’s so clear out here I can trace each and every constellation my parents taught me. I start with Orion, dragging an imaginary line across the three stars in his belt.

‘Now,’ I ask Colt around a fry, ‘where in the hell did you get that shirt? They don’t make May Velasco merch, I’ll have you know.’

‘I, uh …’ He laughs nervously, putting down his burger to regard me with complete attention. ‘I know that. I, um, I stole my sister’s Cricut machine.’

‘Huh. You did all of that for …’

‘Well, uh, for you. Obviously.’

For me. Damn it. No one but CJ Bradley could say something so cheesy and yet send a shiver from my head to my toes.