We stand for the anthem as the Mayfair girls shoot daggers at us with their eyes, and we shoot daggers right back, tightening ponytails and goggles to show them we’re all business. The Mayfair match was one of the only ones I had a decent performance at last year, and I plan on making sure that’s the case again. Hailing from near Austin, Texas, Mayfair is a team of spoiled daddy’s-money girls who’ve had quality gear and expensive energy drinks at every turn of the way. I find it never puts us at a disadvantage. If anything, it gives the Riders a competitive edge.

At the draw, I lock eyes with Marissa Raymond, Mayfair’s captain, the backs of our sticks’ heads against one another as the ref places the ball in between.

‘Get ready to apologize to your little boyfriend,’ she taunts through her mouthguard. ‘He’s gonna regret picking a Riders girl after this shitshow.’

‘Oh, and you could do better?’ I mumble. Shit talk, chirping, is a key component of lacrosse, men’s and women’s. We’d be nothing without it. It’s the most we can manage without whacking one another and taking a severe penalty.

Marissa’s a walking Barbie. Five foot nine, with a long blonde braid that has Mayfair navy ribbons woven into it, and big blue eyes that stare straight into your soul. Maybe she’s used to guys chasing her around at Mayfair, but I’m not sure what she expects out of us here. She turns Colt’s way, to where he’s got his arms crossed, all coachlike in his quarter zip and whistle. And she blows him a kiss, complete with a dirt-eating grin.

‘Trust me, honey,’ she whispers conspiratorially. ‘We’re taking this match. And I’ll be taking your boyfriend home, too.’

The ref blows the whistle.

I almost swipe her head off with my stick on the draw, because if she’s here to play, I’m going to prove I’m no less. I don’t know what surge of jealousy floods my body and I know Colt’s not my boyfriend, but I don’t care. There’s no way this chick is winning.

Mayfair tries hard to keep their promise, but we push back – hard.

By half-time, the scoreboard reads 4–4, and the atmosphere is tense. The girls are in knots but, regardless, they’re doing their best to hold the line. We block three attempts that get pretty close to scoring in the third quarter alone. Once the fourth quarter hits, we’re getting desperate, and the vibe on the field reflects it.

All it takes for tensions to boil over is Brianna intercepting the ball on a Mayfair drive to the goal with fifteen seconds left and a tie score. Suddenly, the Mayfair girl she blocked drops her stick, yelling a strangled ‘What the hell?’ at Brianna, charging straight towards her.