“I’m only here ‘cause it’s a home game,” Orla muttered next to me as we sat down on a patch of grass, for what must have been the tenth time that day, “And ‘cause I’ve nothing else to do.”

We watched them warm up, Connie barking out commands above their coach Mr. Andrews, before the referee whistled and they jogged out into position. I watched her scan along the sidelines until she saw us and waved, her smile bright even dozens of meters away. She was always happiest on the pitch. It was something I observed very quickly. Connie excelled at the highest intensity and it brought out something from within her that never made an appearance anywhere else. Orla and I cheered together, both of us laughing, before the ball was thrown in and the game rushed to a start.

It was rough right from the very first whistle—I knew fuck all about sport but I’d seen enough games to know when the shouldering and the jostling is something of note—and the score stayed drawn at zero for only a brief minute before Molly scored, winning Michael’s the first point. “She’s pretty good,” I admitted, which was something I would only admit to Orla. Connie hated to be reminded that our mutual best friend was actually a superb scorer and an enormous asset to the team. Molly existed in Connie’s shadow, both on the pitch and off, and everyone knew it.

“This is stupid,” she replied. “Why can’t they just pick up the ball?”

I wondered to myself if I would bother coming out to these games if not for Connie. My eyes remained trained on her even when the ball was on the other side of the pitch. Her marker was much the same build as she was, skinny and lithe, and stayed on Connie’s heels the entire time. As they ran their shoulders bumped together, their sticks hovering just in front of the other’s legs. She strode gracefully from side to side, maneuvering around the other players as if she was simply beyond them or they beneath her. Everything she did just screamed of perfection.

Orla nudged me in the arm, smiling. “Are you here to watch the match, or to watch Connie?”

“I’m—I—the match! Obviously.”

Her marker scored to scattered, reluctant applause even from her own teammates but managed to earn her a clap on the back from Connie, and I fought back the sudden jolt of envy that shot through me. The goalkeeper hit the ball back out and three players raced forward to brawl for contact before one of the opposition managed a shaky pass down the middle of the pitch which had been left empty with Connie and her marker lingering in the defensive half. In an instant, they both surged forward together and charged down the field neck and neck, a desperate race for the loose ball that came to a stop at the halfway line. Instinctively, almost involuntarily, I found myself standing to my feet, ready for the blow even before it came.