And so goes the first half. Charleston is on top form, bolstered by their home field, not to mention the cameras. Usually, the crowd are the only ones who get to watch it all go down. This time, the entire game is being broadcast live. Every failed pass, every time Charleston’s attackers break our line: all of it is being preserved for all eternity.

After a badly needed half-time reset, our run back onto the field is met with, predictably, jeers from the Charleston fans, but by the exit to the tunnel, Colt stands, hands on knees, practically screaming encouragement over the sound of the crowd to make sure we hear him.

My heart wrenches when I reach him, because I know the last thing I should be thinking about right now is the impending end to the months I’ve had with him. But he takes all that away when he stops me, taking my hand and pulling me to him. Wide-eyed, I don’t protest.

He takes my face in his hands, moves his hands to the back of my neck when he presses his forehead to mine. ‘Make sure they’ve got hell to pay, May,’ he says, every word clear as day.

A surge of strength floods my limbs when he lets me go. I run all the way out onto the field, to the beat of thundering marching band drums and opposing team chants.

I can feel it coming from our team before the whistle even blows. The same energy we had in Alabama. The onset of aggression, the sort that’s about to dominate the second half.

With moments remaining in the fourth quarter, when I take the draw, I snatch the ball. I don’t pass, this time. I choose the riskier route, but the one where I see payoff. I run it through the defence, chancing a couple of yellow cards the way I nearly smack a girl out of my way, but once I’m out, I connect with Jordan on attack, and the goal is immediate.

As soon as the ball hits the back of the net, we run to each other, and Jordan leaps on me like a kid trying to get a good view at Disney World, all her anger from the beginning of the game totally dissipated. I laugh and hold her up as she lifts her stick, roaring, ‘LET’S GO! LET’S GO, SOUTH CAROLINA!’

With just one point over Charleston, the final buzzer blows, and it’s insanity.

‘RIDERS ON ME!’ I scream over the unhappy Charleston fans, practically fighting back tears when my girls run over, covering their faces, their mouths, choking back sobs of joy. ‘RIDERS ON THREE!’

Instead of hands in, we link arms, our heads bumping one another, our cries blending together in symphony as we crash to our knees.

‘May,’ Lexi, the ever-stoic, frightening goalie sniffs, slugging my shoulder. ‘Couldn’t have done it without you, squid.’