Win the draw, rule the world.

Every time I stood inside the center circle of a lacrosse field, those words played on a loop inside my head. It was the only ritual that I performed in the decade that I'd played lacrosse, and it kept me motivated to achieve my desired outcome.

Inhaling the biting January air, I momentarily tightened my grip on my lacrosse stick as I concentrated on the ball wedged between the two pockets.

"Ready?" Macallan Blake asked, applying steady pressure with her stick.

"Always," I said.

Competitiveness launched us into action.

The ball soared upward, bright yellow against the darkening sky, and as gravity took control, I leaped off the ground. With the one hand positioned low on the shaft, I flicked my wrist and secured the ball in the head's pocket. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I swiftly lowered my stick into a protective cradle to prevent Macallan from checking me, and I took off in a sprint. When I crossed the restraining line, I slowed my pace and turned around with a smirk pulling at my lips.

"Are you satisfied now, Chandler?" Macallan called, still standing in the center circle. The harsh winter breeze tugged at her sleek blonde ponytail. "Losing five draw controls in a row is the most my ego can endure at the moment."

"I'm never satisfied," I retorted as I made my way back over to her. "Though I'm capable of compromising and calling it a day."

"Great because I'm freezing," she told me, nodding down at her white Nike turf shoes. "I can't feel my toes. Raynaud's Syndrome is a real bitch."

As I grimaced, I noticed for the first time that there wasn't a single scuff mark on her turfs. They had to be brand new.

"It's good that you're breaking those in early," I said, making a mental note to purchase a pair for the upcoming season. "Remember what happened to me during tryouts our freshman year?"

"How could I ever forget the bloodstains on your socks or that you wouldn't shut up about the scabs on your heels?" Macallan slid me a sly look. "Yet you still made varsity."

I dramatically tossed my ponytail over my shoulder. "As if stiff turfs would've been able to hold me back."

The Cannondale School was one of the most prestigious private schools in New England, guaranteeing that it was competitive both academically and athletically. So, if anyone other than Macallan had said that to me, I would assume that they envied my success and were being snarky, but she was one of my closest friends.

An icy breeze suddenly swept across the turf, stirring some of the freshly shoveled snow that outlined the perimeter, and I bit back a shiver. My wool-lined leggings and heavy sweatshirt were no match for winter in Massachusetts.

Macallan gave a short laugh, seemingly reading my mind. "I know you're cold too, Chan. Let's go."

I replied with a faint smirk and passed the ball over to her. She caught it with ease.

After collecting the spare balls from the goal and retrieving our team backpacks from the bleachers, we left the turf field behind. We strolled down the slick tree-lined walkway that led back to the athletic facility, and in the early evening light, the distant Boston skyline twinkled softly.

Despite tomorrow being the first day of Winter Term, Cannondale's campus was still relatively quiet. The majority of the campus was composed of Gothic architecture, brick sidewalks, and manicured greenery. In other words, Cannondale was the picture-perfect New England boarding school.

Warmth enveloped us the moment we stepped through the glass front doors of the athletic facility. Macallan exhaled a sigh of relief while I tugged off my gloves and shoved them into the mesh side-pocket of my backpack. Our turfs squeaked as we marched across the black marble floor of the lobby, passing trophy cases built into the walls that gleamed with gold hardware. Any first-time visitor would be impressed.

As we started up the stairs that led to the girls' locker room, Macallan gave a small gasp.

"Oh, I completely spaced on telling you this," she exclaimed, her eyes widening with excitement. "The Leadership Club emailed me earlier to ask if I could meet a transfer student for dinner at the dining hall."

"Wow, lucky you," I mused. Macallan jabbed me in the hip with the butt of her stick, my sarcasm clearly not lost on her.

"Her name is Gianna Lash. I already found her on Instagram, but her account is private with only three photos. She has almost 1000 followers, though."

"Did the email say anything about her?" I asked, mildly curious. While it wasn't rare for Cannondale to accept mid-year transfer students, it certainly wasn't commonplace either. There was definitely more to the story.

"Only that she's also a junior and hails from Long Island. Anyway, I'm her leadership mentor for the first week of term."

As we reached the top of the staircase, I shot her a deadpan look. "You're a glorified tour guide."

"Welcoming new kids to Cannondale is God's work," Macallan retorted with a flick of her wrist. "I'm doing everyone a favor by being nice."

"Just don't be too nice," I warned. "Or she will follow you around like a lost puppy for the rest of the term."

When we entered the locker room, the familiar scent of lavender and fresh linen tickled my nose. As we began passing alcoves of royal blue lockers, I spotted a familiar face standing outside the lacrosse team's designated room.

Delaney Xie was the captain of the girls' varsity lacrosse team, and she wore her embroidered Yale sweatshirt like an Olympic gold medal. She'd verbally committed to the university's women's lacrosse team during the fall of her junior year, but it wasn't official until she signed her National Letter of Intent last fall.

I knew Macallan saw her too because she perked up beside me.

"Delaney," Macallan called out as we approached, effortlessly bubbly. "Hey!"

Delaney glanced up from her phone at the sound of Macallan's voice, her olive skin seemingly glowing beneath the soft fluorescent lights. "Hey," she echoed warmly and smiled at the sight of our lacrosse sticks. "Were you both up at the turf?"

I nodded, flashing her a grin. "No rest for the wicked."

Delaney followed us into the team room, where I dropped down onto a bench to unknot my laces.

"Then maybe you can help me out with something," she said. Her calm yet commanding disposition made her the ideal captain. When she spoke, the team listened.

Macallan and I exchanged a glance.

"What's up?" Macallan asked, tucking her turfs into her locker. The white and teal Nike trainers she took out seemed equally new.

Delaney sighed. "The school is buying the boys' varsity lacrosse team Nike jackets to honor last season's conference championship title."

I sat up ramrod straight. "Jackets?"

I'd never spoken about an article of clothing with so much venom in my voice.

Our team was in the conference championship last season too. The only difference was that we took silver medals home instead of gold. However, we'd won in 2017, 2018, 2019, and had a better overall record than the boys for the last five years. Plus, girls lacrosse didn't wear pads, so when we got checked, we had the bruises to accessorize our medals.

But long story short, we'd never received fancy championship jackets.

Macallan sucked in a tight breath through her teeth. "That's ridiculous."

"I emailed Chris Vale, and he offered to meet me today," Delaney said, and glanced down at her Apple Watch. "I'm heading down to his office in fifteen minutes."

I failed to fight the urge to roll my eyes at the mention of Cannondale's athletic director. Chris Vale had the energy of a petulant father who jeered at the referees from the sidelines of a youth football game and strutted around campus as though he was a big whig on Wall Street. He'd graduated from Cannondale back in 2005 and always found a way to remind students that he'd once been the captain of the boys' varsity lacrosse team. As if that impressed the collective student body who thought 1450 on the SAT was a bad score.

"You both are welcome to join me if you're free," Delaney added, sounding subtly hopeful.

"I can't, sorry," Macallan replied with a tiny frown. "I'm meeting up with a transfer student at the dining hall tonight. I don't want to look like sporty trash, so I need to go wash up."

Macallan looked nothing like sporty trash. Even after exercising out in the cold for over an hour, her blonde ponytail was still pin-straight, and her dark winged-eyeliner remained unsmudged. She wore a white vest over her blue dry-fit long sleeve, reminding me of an athletic snow princess.

But that was Macallan, though. She was effortlessly chic regardless of the occasion.

"No worries." Delaney's brown eyes flicked over to me. "Chandler?"

I hesitated for a beat as I slipped on my own Nike trainers. I didn't foresee myself being Delaney's strongest ally in a potentially tense conversation with Vale. According to my mother, I radiated petty and passive-aggressive energy that prevented me from embracing my full potential.

"You're the Yale-bound captain," I told her. "Vale respects you and will hear you out."

"And you're an All-American who holds the school's record for most draw controls won in a season," Delaney fired back. "You have clout."

While flattery certainly wasn't the way to win me over, I appreciated her acknowledging my accomplishments. I also remembered that I didn't let my mother's opinions have a hold over me. Not anymore.

I finally offered Delaney a nod. "My clout and I are ready when you are."

The three of us exited the locker room through a different set of doors, emerging into a hallway lined on one side with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the empty field house one story below. Silence washed over us, heavy and almost unsettling. I inhaled slowly, feeling as though I was standing on the edge of a platform diving board, preparing to plunge into the deep end of the pool.

Before we reached the stairs, the double-doors on the opposite end of the field house slammed open, unleashing a small brigade of boys donned in black windbreakers and wielding lacrosse sticks. Their voices boomed in the large space, effortlessly rowdy. The golden light streaming through the windows sent their shadows dancing across the polished wood.

Leading the brigade was one of the team's two senior captains, Grayson Kirby. His sandy blond hair made him easily distinguishable as he casually twirled his lacrosse stick.

"The baseball team is objectively more attractive," Macallan observed, loosening the strings on her stick.

I scoffed. "Not that you're at all biased."

Macallan was dating Jameson Hill, the best pitcher on the baseball team and the student body president. They were one of those rare high school couples that everyone admired, even if they were the crème de la crème of Cannondale's social hierarchy.

"Your two-year anniversary is coming up soon, right?" Delaney asked.

"On Valentine's Day," Macallan confirmed, scrunching up her freckled nose. "I still hate Jameson a little bit for asking me to be his girlfriend with those candy hearts, but I'd rather have him be a total cheeseball than a too-cool-for-school bad boy."

"Well, total cheeseball or not, your boyfriend is my competition for Valedictorian," Delaney said as we descended the stairs to the field house.

Delaney said as we descended the stairs to the field house.

Unlike Delaney, Jameson had yet to decide where to go to college. The consensus of the student body was that he would head to the Ivy League, which I thought was rather inevitable. Macallan had told me that he thought his interview at Wharton in the fall went well, but she remained tight-lipped about where he'd received acceptances.

"There were two Valedictorians last year," I said, remembering the graduation ceremony. I'd only attended because my ex-boyfriend was a senior. "Also, Cannondale wouldn't want to risk giving the impression of  inequity, so they'll choose a guy and girl at the very least."

"Then you know who Jameson's direct competition is, right?" Macallan's strikingly blue eyes slid over to me as she smirked. "Trip McKenna."

I scoffed but felt heat prickle in my cheeks. "Not this again."

"Oh, come on, Chan," Macallan protested. "The two of you spent Kelsey's entire holiday party exchanging longing glances. I wanted nothing more than to shove you both under the mistletoe, but I don't condone peer pressure."

"Not the entire party," I defended and earned a laugh from Delaney. "Besides, Trip was wearing a Santa hat and that ridiculously tacky beard. I'm sure there are plenty of people with that kink, but I'm not one of them."

Macallan snorted like a baby elephant. "Whatever. Just know that I'm so looking forward to AP Gov tomorrow. Maybe you should save Trip a seat."

"That would be a challenge considering he gets to class ridiculously early."

"I love that you know that." Macallan yanked her vest's zipper up to the top. "Anyway, I've got to go. Good luck with Vale."

Rolling my eyes, I waved her off with a flick of my wrist.

"We'll keep you posted," Delaney promised.

Delaney and I were halfway across the field house when teenage boy testosterone struck.

"Hey, England, wait up!" Grayson hollered, breaking away from his teammates.

"God, what is it with boys and their affinity for referring to girls by their last name?" I asked as Grayson started over to us with undeniable swagger in his step.

Delaney shrugged. "It's probably one of the dumb ways that they try to act cool."

Huffing, I fortified myself for the encounter.

"You and Macallan were up at Mount Snow last week," Grayson stated, clearly having seen Macallan's Instagram since I hadn't posted anything in months. "I was there too. You should've texted."

"We don't do bunny-slopes," I said. I had no idea what Grayson's skiing capabilities were, but it didn't matter. Taking a shot at his ego was my intention.

Grayson scoffed, raking a hand through his hair. "Neither do I."

My gaze coasted over Grayson's shoulder to where some of his teammates watched us with detached interest. I recognized all of the upperclassmen, and the freshman essentially had neon red arrows pointing at them. They stood behind the returning varsity players, weighed down with too much gear to be their own and carried large buckets of white lacrosse balls.

"Why am I not surprised that you've already started hazing the freshman?" I asked. "Authoritarianism suits you."

Grayson smirked like most boys did when they thought I'd bestowed them with a compliment. "Hazing?" He cocked his head in the direction of the freshman. "It's not considered hazing if they volunteered."

"Out of the goodness of their hearts, I'm sure," Delaney chimed in and sent a stinging glare Grayson's way. "Unfortunately, we can't stay and chat. We've got a meeting with Vale."

While Delaney and Grayson ran in the same social circle within the senior class, they weren't friends. I knew this because that particular circle frequently overlapped with mine in the junior class.

"It's the way of the world, Delaney," Grayson drawled, holding up his lacrosse stick to rest across the back of his broad shoulders. "We were all freshmen once who would sell our souls to make varsity and have the seniors like us."

As gratifying as it would have been to tell Grayson that his assessment was wrong, I couldn't.

When I was a freshman, I'd known that I was good enough to earn a spot on varsity. I'd also known that I needed to prove myself off of the field as well. Before the season started, the seniors orchestrated a 'team bonding' event. Behind campus, there was a large pond that students took rowboats out on during the spring. The strict rules in place prevented accidents, but that didn't ensure that they remained unbroken.

The pond had yet to freeze over that February.

When we'd successfully snuck out through the thin woods to the pond at dawn, the seniors instructed the freshmen to jump off the edge of the dock in nothing but our sports bras and spandex. They'd framed it as voluntary, but we all understood the social cost of not participating. No one wanted to be labeled as the scared and baby freshman. Reputation was everything.

So we'd all jumped. The freezing water burned me more than any curling iron ever had. The worst part was that I knew I would do it again if they asked.

"Haven't you heard it's better to be respected than feared?" Delaney questioned as she turned away from Grayson, rolling her eyes, and resumed walking.

"They can respect McKenna and fear me," Grayson retorted. He pointed to the wall where one of the many banners proclaimed the boys' varsity lacrosse team's 2020 championship title. "We've got another championship to win."

"Then we'll let you get down to it," I said flatly. "Enjoy your toxic team bromance."

I tipped my chin up as I nailed Grayson with one last disapproving look before following my captain.

"Have fun sucking up to Vale," Grayson called out after us. A chorus of laughter followed his comment, his teammates stroking his Jupiter-sized ego.

Once we arrived in the short hallway with administrative offices, Delaney groaned. "I hate that Grayson is going to Princeton. He's smart, but not that smart."

"Grayson is just another privileged white boy with athletic ability receiving preferential treatment from the admission's office," I said.

Delaney hummed in agreement. "At least it makes sense that Trip is going to Duke. He'd have been accepted even if he wasn't a lacrosse superstar."

At the end of the hallway, I leaned against the wall next to Vale's office door and sighed. Muffled voices sounded from the other side. It seemed someone else had something to discuss with Vale before the term was officially underway.

The door to Vale's office cracked open.

"Duke doesn't know how lucky they are to lock down a recruit like you," came Vale's voice, proud and almost possessive.

"Thanks, Mr. Vale," replied the only Duke recruit at the Cannondale School.

My heart rate skyrocketed. I absentmindedly tugged at the thin golden chain around my neck, letting it fall over the gray neckline of my sweatshirt.

"Call me Chris," Vale insisted as the door opened further. "I've been telling you that for three years now."

Despite being a little caught off guard, I had a famous Hollywood producer for a mother, and she'd taught me a thing or two about acting.

I was still leaning against the wall when Trip McKenna stepped out of Vale's office. His tousled brown hair looked just as soft as when I'd run my fingers through it at the holiday party last month.

"So, did you miss me?" I asked.