Stepping back onto the grass from the back entrance, I’m optimistic that the energy will be different between May and me, that yesterday’s interaction was just a fluke. The team jogs onto the field to do their laps, Coach Dillon calling out instructions. I must have been lying to myself, though, because – as May runs past me – her eyes gloss over me with that same anger, plus a hint of surprise. I don’t think she’s going to enjoy what comes after warm-up.

The coach rounds the team up after exercises, in a huddle that she ushers me into. I feel like an outsider looking in on a ritual I’m not supposed to be watching when she makes room for me.

‘Lady Riders, we’re going to be joined by a guest this semester,’ she announces. ‘Taking a break from playing, we have CJ Bradley from Prosperity itself hosting our team’s shot clinics. He’ll be helping us out with some of those tricky goals we struggled with last year, sanding some of our rougher edges, so to speak.’

‘Call me Colt,’ I offer. I sweep my line of sight around the entire team, but my gaze lands on May. Her slack jaw doesn’t mirror the same shock as the rest of the players. If I were to take a guess, I’d say it was verging on horrified. ‘I sustained a nasty knee injury this past year, so I’m still a little shaky on the field, but I hope some of the pointers I have to offer can be of value to you all. It’s really an honour to be back in Prosperity.’

The team is receptive. They help me out throughout our first shot-on-goal clinic, where we run drills, practise speeding up shots, and more over the course of an hour. I give them the technique, and they put it into play. After I’ve done my time, Coach Dillon takes over, having them pass, scrimmage, drill some more. By the end of practice, every member of the team is more than keen on grabbing their things and hauling their ass off the field. But for my own selfish purposes, I still need answers.

Dillon heads for her office, and I make a beeline for May, where she sits on the bleachers, legs draped over the row beneath hers as she unlaces her cleats. ‘May – Manmayi!’ I shout after her.

Her eyes flit upward, narrowed and reluctant to meet mine. ‘What?’ she grumbles.

‘Can we talk?’ I ask from ground level. I look up to regard her as properly as I can. ‘Just a little?’

The dull brown of her irises doesn’t look amused. ‘Give me one reason why we should.’

I sigh, tugging on my whistle. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I should have—’

‘Don’t be sorry.’ Her voice is deadpan, cold. ‘Don’t be sorry, Colt.’