‘Seemed like you had the same destination.’ Even Connor, normally raring to go and start smacking some cannons into the net, looks crestfallen. ‘Just different ways of getting there.’

I try not to let that bit screw its way into my head when we start warming up, stretches first, then laps around the massive practice field. It’s humongous, well-furnished, state-of-the-art, all the other jargon you could use to describe it. But it doesn’t have the same charm of that hack-job backyard field. A pang of something I initially don’t recognize cuts into my chest. Homesickness.

Coach puts us through the usual drills, passing, running, and then the one I’ve been dreading: taking shots. Rather than one of May’s sticks, this time it’s my own in my hands. Not the same one I went down with during last year’s crash-out, but it feels like it as the team lines up in single file for the fast-paced shot drill.

‘You miss it?’ Rod huffs as he runs from the goal, post-successful shot, to end up behind me, pulling the thoughts right from my brain.

I just nod through breaths that are quickly picking up at the mere thought of facing the net.

‘You miss her?’

The homesickness trickles back. Oklahoma will always be home. This trip back helped me realize that. The sort of homesick I feel, though, isn’t because of Oklahoma. It’s because of May.

I nod again.

‘Can’t believe you,’ grumbles Rod. Ahead of us, JJ calls out, ‘TOP RIGHT!’ and subsequently whips one right into the promised corner to cheers from the guys up front. Rod whoops before looking back at me. He rolls his eyes. ‘Neither you nor her.’

Now the only one in front of me, Drew, sprints, kicking up grass in his wake, before chucking his ball into the dead centre of the goal. I take a deep breath, putting Rod’s words aside, focusing on the task at hand.

Unfortunately, this time, as much as I force myself to forget what he’s said and lock in, I can agree with him. He’s right. We both messed up.

‘COLT!’ Coach calls, throwing the ball my way.

Clear your head. Just take the shot.

My stick goes up on instinct, the ball hitting perfectly in the head. I speed right towards the goal, no hesitation, no questions. Just feeling it. The pressure of the ball shifting when I cradle it and wind back for the shot just before my cleats hit the X on the ground. The shift of momentum when I bring the stick forward, and …

WHOOSH.

The shot soars into the upper left corner so hard that the frame of the goal vibrates, just like it had out in the backyard in Oklahoma.