‘We,’ I start, ‘are the only Southern Conference team to ever play a championship. The only team. If we take this game, we’ll be the only Southern Conference team to touch a championship trophy, men or women. The only ones to ever hold that title.’

‘And the only team led by a woman of colour to win a championship,’ Jordan adds, nodding my way. ‘We’re here because we have a point to make.’

I purse my lips. In all the chaos, I forget what it means for me to be here – what it means for so many women in this sport. ‘Exactly. And I don’t give a shit if we lose, we’re not leaving until we make that point.’

A silence fills the locker room as each and every one of us, including me, sit with those words.

‘Riders on me,’ Jordan sticks a hand out, moving to the middle of the room. ‘Riders on three. Come on, y’all. Come on.’

Every girl puts her hand in, and I count us down once we’re all shoulder to shoulder.

‘One, two, three, RIDERS!’

We storm back out double time, taking position up and down the field. I prepare for another draw against the same girl. Do I go risky, or play it safe and stick to her right-side tactic this time? The position of the ball gives me no cues.

I blow a hair from my face, letting the blood rushing behind my ears be the only sound guiding my hand.

When the whistle goes off, I choose primal. I choose to let nothing but instinct tell me what to do, and suddenly, the ball’s arcing over my head one moment, and in the net of my crosse the next. I cradle it back to a safe space on the field, from where I can plot my next move.

‘Move right!’ I call out to Jordan. I chew on the inside of my cheek as I jog towards the right of the field. Playing it down the right is my best shot at an opening. AT’s been weak that side all game. Right?

‘PLAY LEFT, MAY!’

There’s no way.

I can’t be distracted now. I can’t falter when the ball’s in my hands. This is all in my head. I’m under duress, the game approaching its end; I’m hearing things.

I spare the briefest glance at the sideline.

Beside Coach Dillon stands CJ Bradley, a hand on Coach’s shoulder, on the verge of crouching, leaning forward with a muscular arm pointing at the opposite side of the field. Those stormy eyes are wide, his hair pushed back under a backward cap. He fully turns to gesture to the left, and I catch a glimpse of the back of his T-shirt. VELASCO #13. My jersey.

‘LEFT!’ he repeats, waving towards their side. ‘PLAY LEFT!’