‘Oh, we’ll go far. You know we’ll do whatever it takes,’ promises Jordan. She grins menacingly as ever at unassuming Maddie, who’s still trying to get her cleats off. Jordan’s hazel eyes glisten with a burgeoning joke. ‘Not more than you will, though, Mad Dog. Did you have to kiss a frog today?’

Festival queen Miss Bellmare herself sticks up a middle finger Jordan’s way. ‘That was once.’

‘One more time than I’d have put up with,’ I snort, chucking my shoes into my duffel bag and slipping my feet into a pair of Birkenstock sandals.

Maddie waves my quip away with a French-tip-nailed hand. It’s common for the girls to balance plates the way we do on this team. Sure, the school’s paying some of us good money to play for them, but we don’t get the kind of scholarships that the men’s team does – even at the Division One level we compete. Putting ‘Lady’ before ‘Riders’ diminishes our monetary value just like it does our spectator count, but we still play. A lot of us do whatever it takes: classes, study, lax, and then work, whether that’s waitressing at Moonie’s, nabbing extra hours in research, or playing Queen on the weekends, if you’re Maddie. Pageantry gets you good sponsorships, and Magdalena ‘Mad Dog’ Marrone is bringing in a stipend, too. Her new crosse, metallic silver with orange and white netting, does all the talking for her.

She releases her blonde hair from its bun atop her head and slings her bag over her shoulder. ‘Peace, ladies. See you tomorrow.’

Maddie, first to leave, announces her departure as any good festival queen would, and Lexi is next, executing a flawless Irish exit. Most of us don’t mess around with Lexi outside of lax – she is terrifying – but in here, we have a grudging respect for the chick. She’s been the most reliable goalie in the conference since we were freshmen. She gets it done. Jordan and I head out soon after, scoping out our respective vehicles in the parking lot riddled with cracks and potholes.

Jordan nods thoughtfully as she saunters easily towards her sedan. ‘Seriously? I think this one’s the year.’

I have to hide my laugh, and even then, it still creeps out. ‘Girl, you said that last year. And the year before. And—’

Jordan pulls a lacrosse ball from her bag and chucks it at me over my truck. I narrowly duck a shiner to the forehead. ‘It’s called optimism, Miss Gloom and Doom. You should try it. What’s your mom been saying?’