Page 95 of Catch and Cradle

“COME ON! COME ON! COME ON!” I scream around my mouth guard as our defenders spring into action.

I’m like a caveman flooded with an overdose of testosterone as I stalk the field’s midline. As an attacker, I’m not allowed to go past it, so I focus on keeping my eyes trained to the ball, anticipating where it will go next so I can set myself up in the best position.

I catch sight of Becca doing the same thing. Her hair shines like a flame in the chilly afternoon sunlight. A cloud of condensation forms in front of her face every time she breathes out.

We don’t acknowledge each other, but we don’t need to. Our teamwork is fluid and flawless. We’re like one machine negotiating the field. The two goals we’ve scored this game came from Becca and I’s passes to each other. We’re in sync, linked together in a way I’m not even sure I understand.

It’s been three weeks since I walked into an empty locker room to find a note from Becca sitting on the bench. The whole thing still feels like a dream, like one of those moments you replay for the rest of your life and wonder, ‘Did that really happen?’

But it did happen. Becca did that for me. Becca did that for herself too, and that’s really what convinced me to give this another shot. She didn’t just say sorry; she realized we both needed her to make changes, and that’s what has made these past three weeks so incredible.

That’s what has me looking forward to an incredible future.

With her.

We haven’t had the girlfriend talk yet, but we’re definitely dating now—real dates to real places where we don’t have to look over our shoulders all the time and sneak back in the house when we go home. I won’t lie; a little sneaking around was fun and even sexy at times, but I think I’ve maxed out on sneak appeal for possibly the rest of my life.

And I have all the sexiness I could ever ask for. I really am going to have to start sneaking back into the house again if I spend any more nights with Becca this week. My friends are not subtle with all their jokes about how often I’ve been ‘banging the captain.’

I will admit that accidentally showing up to practice in a shirt with Becca’s name on the back instead of mine was asking for it.

I watch Becca jog a few feet up the field, her attention fixed on the action still happening down near our goalie, and even amidst all the tension of the game, I still feel my throat go dry as I watch the flex of her leg muscles.

I had those legs wrapped around my waist just two nights ago. I had them over my shoulders too.

I bite my lip and catch myself smirking. Becca and I have been very creative about ‘making up’ and ‘getting to know each other more.’

“HASTINGS! MOVE!”

CJ’s bellow from the sidelines makes me jump. I focus back on the game and find the action has started moving up the turf, way on the other side of the field from me.

“Fuckity fuck fuck!” I mumble around the plastic in my mouth as I sprint so fast my legs burn and a fresh layer of sweat coats my body.

I force my way into the chaos surrounding the Toronto player who has the ball. The defender who’s assigned to mark me springs into action, obscuring my view as she mirrors my every movement. I do my best to lose her, ducking and weaving around the action until a lightning-fast interception sends the ball whipping up to Bailey’s waiting basket.

A surge of adrenaline sears through my system, giving my fatiguing legs the boost they need to get up the field faster than anyone else.

Almost anyone else.

A shadow and flash of movement in my peripheral vision makes me turn my head even as I keep pounding up the turf at full speed. Becca is only a few steps behind me. She cuts away to my left as we approach the net, setting ourselves up to help Bailey.

I can feel the rush of an impending goal building and building like a drug pumping into my veins. We’re going to score. There can’t be more than a few minutes left. This could be the goal that wins us the championship for the first time in UNS history.

I can hear the crowd getting rowdier, but it’s muffled. All my senses are tuned into the game and hyper-focused on the ball.

I can see it all in my mind before it even happens. Bailey ducks around the girl blocking her, scanning the field for someone to pass to. I move closer. Her attention locks on me. The ball arcs through the air, avoiding all the sticks of the Toronto players diving for it to land with a thump in my basket.

I turn to the net, but the defender I thought I ditched appears out of nowhere, blocking my shot and nearly making me trip from the shock of her appearance. I catch my footing just in time for two midfielders to show up behind me, boxing me in.

I’m surrounded. There’s nowhere for the ball to go. The only gap I could make a pass through is closing, and I can’t see any of my teammates on the other side.

I glance over both my shoulders. I’m trapped. Both teams are closing in, but there’s no one to help me. They’re all in the wrong places.

“HOPE!”

Most people wouldn’t recognize the garbled shout as my name, but I’ve been playing lacrosse long enough to recognize full sentences spoken with a mouth guard in. I twist to look back at the only gap in the players so fast my neck twinges in protest.

I ignore the pain. Becca is right where I need her to be.