Page 1 of Making It Burn
Prologue
Mason- High School Lacrosse Championships
The field looked like a stage before the curtain rose—painted lines glowing under the stadium lights, grass shaved to uniform obedience, the whole thing humming with the kind of expectation that made my skin buzz.The stands were already full: dads in fleece vests, mothers in pearls and school colors, younger siblings waving poster-board signs that said things like GO COUGARS!and PRICE IS RIGHT!It seemed like every camera phone in Richmond was aimed at us.
It was the last lacrosse game of my senior year and the state championships—the one I’d been running toward since ninth grade.
I rolled my shoulders, stick cradled against my hip, and tried to breathe past the tight knot in my chest.The air had that early-spring bite—cool enough you could see your breath if you exhaled hard, warm enough that sweat would sting your eyes by halftime.Perfect weather for a war.
Across the midfield stripe, St.Christopher’s Saints jogged through their warmups in unison.Every movement clean, drilled, and annoyingly perfect.And at the center of them, like a black hole sucking all the light and oxygen: Beau Hollis Thatcher.
Perfect fucking Beau.
He wore his helmet pushed up on his head like a crown and grinned at something a teammate said, the curve of his mouth so effortless I wanted to punch it flat.Beau had the kind of face that made teachers forgive late homework and security guards wave him through any line.
He’d had everything handed to him on a platinum platter since the delivery room.Old Richmond money.The right zip codes.The right last name.Meanwhile, I’d had to earn every scrap—every captain’s badge, every starting slot, every nod of respect—like it was rations in a famine.
And he knew it.That was the worst part.Beau looked at me like I was a problem to be solved, an equation he’d ace if he just showed up.Every game we played against each other was a battle of wills, and today was the last time I’d have to see the asshole’s perfect face.I planned to make it memorable.For him.
“Price!”Coach Rice’s voice snapped like a flag.“Bring it in!”
Our huddle tightened around him, the sour-sweet reek of sweat and fresh-cut grass filling my nose.Coach had a square, oak-carved face that made freshmen stand up straighter and seniors run faster.He didn’t yell because he didn’t need to.
“This is it, gentlemen,” he said, scanning us one by one.“You earned every inch of this field.You kept your mouths shut and your legs moving all season long, and I’ll be damned if anyone in navy and gold takes it from you tonight.”
A ripple of breath moved through the circle—quiet, and hungry.
“They’re good,” Coach said, jerking his chin toward the Saints.“But you’re better.They’re pretty.You’re mean.The Saints have been reading their own press clippings for the entire season while you’ve been building calluses.You want this trophy more.Let them feel that.”
He looked at me last.
“Mason,” he said, voice dropping half an inch.“They lean on one player.We lean on a team.But your boys feed off your pulse.Keep it steady.Attack like you practiced—smart, not flashy.We finish every ride.We finish every check, and we finish first.The entire locker room is depending on you.”
My throat tightened, but it wasn’t fear.It was a pressure valve I’d been slowly screwing down all week.“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”His mouth twitched like a suppressed smile.“Now go take what’s yours.”
We broke.Helmets slammed down, gloves tightened.The ref’s whistle cut the air.The Saints drifted toward the line like they owned the place; the Cougars took the turf like we were collecting a debt.
I took my spot at attack, stick light in my hands, and found Beau.He’d shoved his helmet down now, face behind the mask, the black eye cage slicing that smug mouth into measured angles.He rolled his neck, and for half a heartbeat his gaze slid across the field and stopped on me, like he’d been searching and finally found what he was looking for.
He lifted his chin in greeting.
I sneered.
The faceoff snapped like a mousetrap.Our middie clamped down, fought like a raccoon in a trash can, and scooped the ball free.It squirted backward, and we were on it—bodies slicing upfield.Sticks clicked like bones, and the coaches barked from the sidelines.
I caught the first pass on the wing and felt the ball settle into the pocket.A defender slid toward me—big kid, quick feet, already sweating.I sold him a stutter-step and moved past, not greedy, just enough to draw the second man, and dumped it to our X attack behind the cage.We ran the motion we’d run a thousand times under halogen bulbs and rain and heat that made your lungs taste like pennies.
Catch, carry, lean.
Beau shadowed the lane on the far side, jaw tight, watching the pieces of our offense move like he was memorizing them.It would have been flattering if I didn’t hate his fucking face.
The first shot pinged off the post—sharp, metallic, a noise you felt in your teeth.A groan rolled through our section; their side cheered like they’d actually done something.The ball ricocheted high.We chased it down and saved it.
The Saints got the first goal off transition—a quick stick on the crease, clean and cruel.Their bench erupted, and Beau pumped a fist, his eyes cutting to me like he needed to make sure I’d seen it.
I saw it.I also saw him forget to hide the little flinch when our defender laid a legal bruise on his ribs two possessions later.
