Coach Dillon hums her assent, and we turn back to the game, where the girls are picking up the pace double-time. Shouts of plays sound as May takes the draw – and with the whistle, pushes her stick up in a bid for the ball. She wins out over the girl opposite her from Mattison, and Coach and I whoop.

‘LET’S GO!’ I shout. ‘GOOD HUSTLE!’

May gets the ball over to Maddie at the first shout of ‘GOT BALL’ from the defender guarding her. Maddie darts around another defender and passes the ball clean back to May. From there, it’s May Magic that’ll take us the rest of the way.

She dashes towards the goal on impossibly light feet. Coach clutches my shoulder, eyes wild, clipboard extended, and we lean forward in anticipation as a unit. This is it, this is it. It won’t get us up, but it’ll tie us, and pressure is pressure.

‘COME ON, MAY!’ I shout.

She lunges forward to take the shot, and the ball soars. Our eyes follow it, until a defender dashes up towards May and, before we know it, the defender’s crosse has made a sloppy arc, at the end of which her stick nails May square in the back of the head.

I’ve seen way too many of these in men’s games, but the danger here is that women don’t have helmets. If you take a hit, it’s straight to the skull, and when May goes down, clutching her head, the medics move instinctively.

‘CRAP!’ I hear someone yell from behind me, and I’m not gonna lie, I feel much the same way. My heart thunders like it wants to pop right out of my chest. I lunge forward and Coach, who’d been frozen mid-hype, recovers her composure, tugging on my arm with a shake of her head. ‘WHAT THE HELL?’ she shouts, the most she can do in this situation. ‘COME ON, REF!’

The referee subsequently shows a very appropriate red card, but my eyes are still on May. She’s not getting up, and I can’t see much through the crowd of medics, but whatever is happening doesn’t look good.

Right in front of me, I watch as the entire scene morphs into something I recognize far too well. Surrounding May are a group of guys in blue jerseys and shiny helmets, and in agony on the ground is me. Calling out her name in vain. In tears.

My hands go clammy. No way can I just watch this happen. If my heart was thundering before, it feels like it’s about to burst now.

‘Can’t we go check on her?’ I’m practically pleading with the coach, who looks as helpless as I feel.

‘Colt – you’re not the head coach. They could eject you for the next couple of games …’