In the past it would have been annoying to Ayanna, but she was too much in the zone to care. Running, shooting, yelling, “I’m open,” pretending to shoot an arrow into the air after finally getting her hat trick. In a way, she was feeding off his dreadful intensity. Each outburst made her more focused, every time he tried to rattle her made her want to thank him. The game’s ninety minutes—even though she knew her whole body would be sore for a part of the next week—were the best she had felt in years. Positioning her body with the farthest-back defender, storing up the energy to break into a sprint whenever a midfielder set up a run for her, feeling the lengthening of her stride. When she used to run like this, Ayanna had imagined herself as a horse on a beach. But there was no need for whimsy here, there was more than enough pleasure in focusing on controlling her speed, controlling the ball, positioning her body to take accurate chances. This was an intelligence and understanding she had missed.

After, they went to the bar that only carded people at night and ordered pitchers of the cheapest beer. People’s friends started rolling in, and even though Jane was busy flirting with both her sweeper love interest and the bartender with two lip piercings and an impeccable cat eye wearing a they/them pin, Felix and Stephen showed up fairly quickly.

Ayanna attempted to avoid Felix, who was clearly trying to figure out what to say or do to make them comfortable with each other. I just want, she thought while doing a shot with all the offensive line, one day like this. No path, no sister, no death, no big conversations. She got into a spirited debate about Megan Rapinoe, into one about Liverpool versus United, into one about Coors versus Miller, into Austen versus Brontë, first as literature then as cage fight. Austen was voted as the winner even though Ayanna could not follow the logic. Brontë, moody with a pack of sisters and a love of drama, felt much scrappier to her.

A girl was telling Ayanna a long, dumb revenge plot. She was going to sleep with her ex-boyfriend’s father or older brother to teach him a lesson. Ayanna kept asking her, “What lesson are you teaching?” And the girl kept saying back, “If you don’t get it, you don’t get it.” Ayanna shrugged. Her left foot ached, right shoulder too. She paused to talk to Stephen, who handed her a shot.

“Should we cheers?” Ayanna asked.

“Let’s do something else,” Stephen said. He had a new haircut, she realized, hair long on top, short on the sides. “Let’s say something at the same time.”

“What do you mean, the word something?”

“Just any random thought, no questions.”

It felt dangerous to Ayanna, but she shrugged. This was college.