Marissa touches his arm, bats her eyelashes, doing everything to bring his attention back to her. I’ve been trying real hard to give her the benefit of the doubt. This show isn’t helping.

Colt, bless him, doesn’t buy it. He fully turns and jogs towards me, arms outstretched. ‘You were phenomen—’

I literally crash right into his arms, full force, and it’s a miracle he’s still on his feet, but he apparently finds all this amusing, because he bursts out laughing. ‘What?’

‘She’s been chirpin’ at me all game,’ I say by way of explanation.

He snorts. ‘I saw that much.’

‘I appreciate you,’ I tell him.

‘Is that a lie?’

‘That is not a lie, Colt.’

He grins, but as he scans the crowd, his eyebrows furrow. Someone at the lower level of bleachers yells, ‘KISS HER, BRO!’, sending the Riders girls into a frenzy of giggles.

Colt’s cheeks go pink, and he coughs awkwardly. ‘Well. The moment we’ve been waiting for. Does this violate play number two? Minimal PDA? What’s minimal?’

I steel myself as I train my attention on him, on things I usually will myself not to notice. The sparkle of his eyes; the way his hair tickles my fingers, interlaced behind his neck, arms draped across his shoulders; the little scar in his eyebrow that I know is from a crosse to the face when we were younger; his nervous dimples and his perfect jawline. ‘I think we can consider this minimal.’

Nearly every muscle in my body tenses at the thought, but hey, this is what we signed up for, right? It’s true; celebratory kisses just clear the bar. We owe the audience one if we want them to keep showing up – and keep driving sponsors to Prosperity’s lacrosse programme. And maybe, just maybe, bring us a scout or two.

I put on a smile. It’s too easy. It should be a struggle, right? Why is it easy?

Behind us, I catch sight of Marissa and her team whispering, all hush-hush, with nasty looks our way.

Colt’s fingers gently tip my chin back towards him, and his voice is quiet enough that only I can hear when he says, ‘She’s not even an option next to you, Manmayi Velasco.’

My heart flutters against my chest, butterflies scrambling to escape my rib cage, and when our lips meet, the butterflies go absolutely feral. His words are like honey, sweet, all-consuming. When I close my eyes, I relish every single one of them. This is business, I know, but as easy as the smile was, this is easier. It’s so easy for me to fall into his affection, even all these years on. As his thumbs stroke my jaw, his strong hands moving to cup my cheeks, I can’t figure out whether that ease of falling is a good thing, or a terrible thing.