It’s not looking great, though. We’ve tried every formation up to this point, and somehow, the Marauders’ defence is five steps ahead every time. Our enormous student section, which feels as though it’s breathing down my neck, is bleachers and bleachers deep with a sea of orange and white. Silver bead necklaces and sparkly black eye glitter as frat guys throw their hands up in dismay with every missed shot. An empty shooter bottle flies through the air and lands in the benches.

‘DUDE!’ a guy in orange and white striped bib overalls shouts from the front row, pointing right at me as he leans treacherously far over the rail, just in case I didn’t realize who he was trying to address. ‘GET YOUR GIRLFRIEND IN LINE!’

I get it. Everyone has the right to get pissed during a rough game. I’ve got pissed at my own team during a rough game. At that moment, though, it doesn’t matter that I’m just posing as May’s fake boyfriend, I’m up to the rail before I can register it. The flare of phone-camera flashes point straight at me as students let out calls of ‘ooh’ and ‘oh, shit’.

‘What’d you say?’ I brace my foot on the step up to the front row. This guy’s maybe two inches shorter than me and has the dumbest college-bro attempt at a cross between a fade haircut and flow I’ve ever seen. Is that supposed to be a mullet? What is that?

He has some nerve, because he gets further up in my face, lifts the beer in his right hand, and says, like I can’t hear him clear as day, ‘I said, YOUR GIRLFRIEND’S SHIT, bro!’

‘I might be three concussions deep into my career’ – I push myself up onto the ledge so I’m now a good foot above the guy – ‘but I can tell you that between you and my girlfriend, one of you’s a self-made Division One athlete, and one of you’s sittin’ on your ass shotgunning beers in the stands calling women “shit”. Find a fucking mirror and check yourself. Bro.’

The crowd in our immediate proximity hoots and shakes their phones in satisfaction, and before I grab a practice stick and check this dumbass myself, I hop down from the front row ledge and make my way back to the coach. For someone who’s supposed to discourage violence during games, she appears strangely satisfied, hiding a little smile of appreciation on her face.

‘Well, well,’ she says, ‘for a faux beau, you’re holding on tight.’

I feel my greatest enemy, the deceptive flush of red, make its way up my neck. ‘I’m just doing my due diligence.’