Connie reached the ball first and her marker’s stick came out in front of her shins just before she managed to come to a halt. She soared forward, her legs caught up as she landed hard on the ground with a thud drowned out by the sudden roar of the crowd. Orla flew to her feet next to me and we both stood, waiting, as Connie’s head smacked against the grass. She let out a deep, guttural groan, far unlike any noise I had heard her make before, and I went to take a step forward before Orla’s hand clasped mine.

“O’Reilly—” her marker stuttered, leaning over her, “Oh God—I’m so sorry—”

“Give her a second,” Orla mumbled to me, her eyes on the pitch. I had a good mind to tear out of her grasp and race across to where Connie was lying but I held my breath and stood still. She slowly rolled onto her back and managed to lift herself up into a seating position just as Mr. Andrews and the referee reached her. One of the girls on the team, a third-year I recognized as Something O’Doherty, stormed up to Connie’s marker. Even from the sidelines there was no mistaking the aggression plastered across her beet-red face.

“Stupid dyke,” she snarled, shoving the girl a few steps back, “You could have killed her there!”

“It was an accident!” The breathless edge to her voice made me believe her. O’Doherty towered above her, and skilled as she might have been on the pitch she seemed to cower in that moment, small and timid. On the ground beneath them Connie groaned and made another feeble attempt at sitting up, clutching Mr. Andrews’ arm.

“Leave her alone. I tripped over her stick.”

“She tried to fucking—”

“Language, O’Doherty!” Mr. Andrews cut in as he helped haul Connie to her feet. O’Doherty continued to stare down the girl who stood to the side and who continued to look down with a nervous expression. I had no doubt that she hadn’t meant to hurt her. Something about their interactions throughout the game told me they respected each other, whoever she was. With Andrews’ assistance Connie hobbled off the pitch to tentative applause as another player jogged on to take her place.

“Stupid bitch,” Orla muttered next to me, nodding at O’Doherty. I barely paid her any heed, waiting until Connie was safely behind the line before racing over toward her. Mr. Andrews seated her in a camping chair someone’s mother had the bright idea to bring and was dabbing at her shins with a towel. He threw me a thin smile as I approached her from behind, my hand gripping onto her shoulder as I knelt down next to her and scanned over her face quickly, my insides doubling over when I saw the barely concealed pain in her eyes.

“Jesus, O’Reilly,” I said, because I wasn’t entirely sure what else to say. She threw me a rather dopey smile that didn’t suit her.