Page 12 of Save Me

We’ve worked our arses off to get where we are now. And every time I look into the determined faces of my team before a match, I feel the same pride.

Like I do now.

But there’s another emotion mixed in there today. Something so dark and painful that for the first time ever, I find it hard to pull the shoulder pads over my head.

This is the first game of my last year at the school.

After this season, I’m done. Lacrosse will have been nothing more than part of a slow, gruesome countdown that I can’t stop. However hard I try.

“You all right?” Wren asks, bumping me with his shoulder.

I shove the thought back down. We’re not at that point yet—I’ve got a whole year to do whatever I want. My grin is only half fake as I turn to him. “We’ll show those Eastview wankers.”

“McCormack is mine,” Alistair chimes in, as if he’d been waiting for his cue. “I’ve got a score to settle with him.”

“Alistair,” Kesh says from my left. He rubs his nose, where it was broken last year. “Drop it, OK.” His tone and the expressive way he looks at Alistair tell me this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation.

But the only reply he gets is “No.”

Last time we played them, McCormack—whose first name Isadly share—waited for Kesh to take his helmet off and then intentionally whacked him in the face with his stick. The memory of the shock as Kesh was knocked to the ground is very vivid. The blood spraying from his nose onto his top. The moment when he lay there, unconscious.

McCormack was suspended for the next three matches, but the memory of Kesh’s battered face brings the rage to a boil again—and Alistair clearly feels the same, as he’s still staring Kesh down.

“Just don’t do anything stupid,” Kesh says, pulling on his blue shirt. Then he ties his hair back in a low, messy man-bun and shuts his locker.

“You know what he’s like,” mutters Wren, leaning on the locker, a wry grin on his face.

“I don’t care if I’m out for the rest of the season. McCormack’s going to pay.” Alistair claps Kesh on the shoulder. “Be grateful I’m there to fight for you and your honor.”

Before he can pull his hand away, Kesh grabs it and holds it there. He glances over his shoulder. “I mean it.”

Alistair narrows his amber-colored eyes to slits. “So do I.”

The two of them stare at each other a moment, and if the mood was tense earlier, now you could cut the air with a knife.

“Save your aggro for the game,” I say, in a voice that makes it clear I’m speaking as their captain, not their friend. Two pairs of angry eyes are fixed on me, and I clap my hands before anyone can reply.

The team gathers in the center of the room. As I walk, I pull on my shirt with the number seventeen. It’s so familiar, it’s like the fabric is part of me. The dark feeling tries to force its way up again, but I fight it down with all my strength and focus instead on Mr.Freeman, our coach, who is now walking over to us from his office. He’s a tall, rangy man, with such long limbs you’d take him for a distance runner or an athlete. He pulls his blue cap over his hair, which has thinned and lightened over the years, straightens the peak, and puts his arms around me and Cyril, his co-captains.

He gazes around the room. “This might be your first season, or your last. Our aim is to win the title,” he growls. “Anything else is failure. So get out there and beat the bastards.”

The coach is a man of few words, but he doesn’t need them. Those few sentences are enough to rouse up a rumble of agreement.

“We have to make this the best season Maxton Hall has ever seen,” I add, a touch louder than the coach. “OK?”

The lads roar again, but it’s not enough for Cyril. He holds his hand to his ear. “OK?”

This time, the yell is so loud, my ears ring—which was the desired effect.

Then we pull on our helmets and grab our sticks. As I walk out of the changing room and down the narrow tunnel, it feels like I’m underwater—the sounds from outside are muffled, like there’s pressure on my ears. I hold tighter to my stick and lead my team out onto the field.

The stands are packed. Everyone cheers as we run out onto the field; the cheerleaders are dancing. Music blares from the loudspeakers, setting the ground shaking beneath my feet. Fresh air floods my lungs, and I feel more alive than I have for weeks.

The subs and coach head for the side of the field, while we walk out into the center and position ourselves opposite the other team, who all look just as motivated as us.

“This is going to be a great game,” Cyril mutters beside me, which is just what I was thinking.

As we wait for the referee, I let my eyes roam over the stands. From here, about the only person I can make out is Lydia, who always sits right at the top with her friends, acting like she couldn’t care less about the entire performance. I glance over to the edge of the field and check out the other team’s subs, then their coach, who is wandering over to say hello to Freeman.

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