Man. The ice in her tone is sharp; it cuts deeper than I’d like. ‘I’ll strike you a deal, man. Best of three, if I beat you best of three, will you talk to me? Please?’

May is quiet for a moment, her hands frozen mid-untying of cleats, her gaze trained on the crisscross of the white laces. ‘It’s been five damn years. You don’t get to come back and cut deals.’

She shucks off her cleats and replaces them with leather-strapped Birkenstock sandals over Nike socks, bringing herself to her feet.

‘Please,’ I press on. It has been five years. It’s been five years, and not once during those five years did I stop thinking about how I screwed things up, the way I left. I’ve sat with my regret, and now, it’s time to do something about it. ‘May, I need to talk to you.’

‘You need to.’ She drops her bag with a loud thud and turns back around to face me. Screw you, her face says, and for good reason, honestly. ‘Three,’ she says. ‘Miss one, and we’re done.’

The breath I’ve been holding finally leaves my lungs, but another sharp inhale immediately replaces it. Shit. ‘Okay,’ I reply slowly. ‘Okay.’

‘You asked for a scrimmage.’ May scoops up her crosse and picks her way down the stairs. I grab one of the demo crosses from the pile I’ve yet to put back in the shed. It feels foreign in my hands, and not just because it’s not my game stick. It’s unbalanced. My fingers twitch against the cool metal, my arms seizing up.

‘Yeah,’ I reply on a dry throat. Sure, I asked for it. I hadn’t expected her to agree.

‘You’re the most cockamamie “guest” we’ve ever had, you know that?’ May snaps as she takes her place beside me on the field. We’re about a third of the way up the field from the crease – a long, long shot. She holds out a hand without even meeting my eyes. ‘Need a ball.’

I toss one her way, worn as it is, and she catches it in the net of her stick, rotating her wrists to keep it there. She brushes a lock of jet-black hair from her face, the loose threads of her red evil-eye bracelet just skimming her cheek, and lines herself up, squinting to get the goal in her sights.

The way she flicks it is so quick, with such a deft movement of her arms, that I don’t actually register her stick moving until the ball hits the back of the net triumphantly, leaving the goalposts quivering. No cleats, aged equipment, nothing special except for raw talent.

‘You,’ says May.