I had never worn my lacrosse uniform with the understanding that I wouldn't step foot into the game. Even when I was fighting my way into the starting line-up during my freshman year, I prepared to play in each game. To be a competitor. To be Chandler England, #22, one of the best draw specialists in high school lacrosse.

But that wasn't the case on Saturday morning. At least not in the sense that I would take to the field in the championship game against Silvermine Academy. Instead, I put on my uniform and my knee brace. I was still one of the best draw specialists in high school lacrosse, but I wouldn't be playing in the game.

We wore our blue Away jerseys as the Cannondale School was the No. 2 seed, and Silvermine Academy had elected to wear their whites, which was most certainly an ego thing.

They'd also elected to claim the shady side of the stadium tuff. That was arguably a strategic thing. Their goalie wouldn't be looking into the sun during the first half, and looking into the sun was something that Macallan had on her mind.

"So do you just force yourself to look into the sun when you take the draw?" Macallan asked me as she laced up her turf shoes on our sunbathed bench.

"Do you?" I eyed her from over the rims of my Ray-Bans, but offered a soft smile. "You've taken the draw before, Mac. You know what you're doing."

"I know, I know." Macallan pulled tight on her laces before standing up, holding her lacrosse stick in her right hand. She took a breath, looking ready to say something else when Delaney started to rally the team.

"Time for our final warm-up lap, ladies!" Delaney called out, and turned her eyes on the underclassmen. "Neat rows of two, just like every other game this season."

I met Macallan's gaze and jerked my head in the direction of our teammates, as if to say go on.

She exhaled in a big whoosh. "I'll see you out there."

A scratchy tightness hit the back of my throat as I watched Macallan join my teammates for their well-coordinated lap around the field. Even though I'd watched them practice over the course of the last week, watching them warm-up a game—for a championship— was different.

But thankfully, I'd stopped throwing my brace at the wall, accepting that it wasn't something I should take my anger out on. If anything, the brace served as a reminder that I would recover, and I knew in my bones that I'd come back stronger than ever.

A forgiving breeze suddenly swept across the turf, tugging wisps of hair into my face. I'd neglected to tie it into a ponytail. Between my uniform, knee brace, and windswept hair, I was channeling injured athlete chic on the sidelines.

And just in time, too. The Silvermine team was finishing their warm-up lap, and would pass the Cannondale bench on the way back to their own.

I kept a straight face as the eyes of almost every player turned my way, but I only cared about one of them.

Marissa Humphry's impressive height and auburn braid made her easy to spot. She jogged near the front of the line and was on the out-facing side that ran two across, just like my team's line.

When Marissa's eyes met mine, I waved.

It was an uncharacteristically cordial gesture, one I extended because I appreciated her texting me after the news of my injury sent shockwaves through our league.

I hadn't expected her to text me, especially given our history, so the fact that she did anyway meant something to me. Something that warranted me waving to her like we were neighbors who secretly competed against each other to have the best front lawn.

I didn't think anything other than a wave was warranted, but Marissa apparently did.

She abruptly veered off from the line and jogged over to me.

Just as I was about to demand what she was doing when she hugged me. It was a blink-and-you'll-miss-it kind of hug, but it was still a two-armed gesture that conveyed some level of respect.

Stunned, I'd barely set one hand on Marissa's back when she released me and jabbed my shoulder.

"You'll be back next season, and we're going to do this again. We're not done here, England, okay?"

I gave a breathless sort of laugh. "Okay."

"Good." Marissa nodded sharply and jogged off without so much as a backward glance.

Shaking my head, I turned back to the bench to collect my lacrosse stick. Coach Mayer had asked me to take a few shots on Delaney in the cage while the rest of the team did shuttles.

As I did, I located my parents settling into the bleachers, which spanned the space behind the sidelines. My lips lifted into a soft smile. It almost felt normal to see them there, to see them show up for me together. They sat with Macallan and Kelsey's parents. Mr. Jackman had brought his megaphone, and the Blakes had made glittery signs for Macallan.

I was turning away from the bleachers when I saw him in my periphery, like some sort of radiant comet.

Trip McKenna walked beside Jameson on the track that separated the field from the bleachers. His game wasn't until this evening, and most of his team already sat in the near corner of the bleachers alongside other factions of the Cannondale student body.

I couldn't have been staring for longer than a few seconds, but that was enough time for Trip to feel the weight of my gaze, and look my way.

All at once, my mind teleported me back to the night of the Winter Formal. I'd stood out in the biting February air with Grayson Kirby but had my attention whisked away from him by Trip's arrival. He'd worn white Vans and a suit in the darkest shade of navy.

When our eyes had collided through the crowd, I remembered how Trip's expression had betrayed nothing. He'd mastered the art of acting casually feigning indifference, even then. I also remembered the deep horribleness in realizing the only thing worse than having Trip ignore me was being on the receiving end of that casual indifference.

That realization burned inside of me now as Trip held my gaze. I knew his face like the back of my hand, and yet his expression was a perfect stranger. It was almost like he didn't even know me and every inch of my body.

Suddenly consumed by some kind of grief-stricken adrenaline, I lurched forward. "Trip," I called out.

I hadn't spoken to him since last Tuesday, hadn't said his name. It felt like coming up for air.

Trip hesitated, and seemed to take in the sight of me closing the distance between us from the other side of the chain-link fence that separated the turf from the track. Then he turned to say something to Jameson, before peeling off to make his way over to me.

"Hi," I greeted, adjusting my sunglasses to sit on the crown of my head. I wanted to see him clearly.

"Hi," Trip echoed with a hint of apprehension. The sun caught in his brown eyes in just a way to highlight the flecks of gold.

I opened my mouth to say something, but faltered and promptly shut it. I didn't quite know what to say to Trip, or even if I had the right to say something after having told him to let me go.

Trip cleared his throat, and rested his hands on the chain-linked fence. The silver rings he always wore glinted in the sunlight. "Who's starting on the draw?"

The familiarity of his voice tamed my nerves. "Macallan," I answered.

"She'll do great," Trip said, his grin faint.

"Of course she will."

The scoreboard buzzed, indicating the start of the final 30 minutes of warm-up. Both teams would then return to their benches for the standard stick checks led by the referees and prepare for the formal announcement of the starting lineups. My name wouldn't be announced, obviously.

"Chandler, I..." Trip's throat rippled, and he tugged at the neckline of his Duke t-shirt. "Are you coming to our game later?"

I was in fact going to the boys' lacrosse championship game with my friends—Gianna included—but I hesitated to answer. I hesitated, but not because it was a tricky question that I couldn't respond to. I hesitated because I could read between the lines.

Trip wasn't asking about his game, not really.

Knowing we'd left our best days behind us, I tentatively rested my hand on top of one of his. I suspected the feeling of his rings against the palm of my hand would linger like an invisible tattoo.

"I'll always root for you, Trip."

I knew this wasn't a straightforward answer, and for a second I wasn't sure if it was one Trip would accept. But then his lips turned up in a faint smile as he exhaled a sigh, and 

I knew he understood.

That was all I could ask for.

✘ ✘ ✘

"Blue Wave on three!" Delaney called out in our team huddle, fierce focus dazzling in her eyes. "1-2-3!"

"Blue wave!"

Coach Mayer patted Delaney's shoulder as huddle disbanded. This was her final game as captain of the girls' varsity lacrosse team at the Cannondale School.

While the rest of the starters took to the field, I noticed that Macallan was hesitating. It was almost like she still wasn't quite sure she belonged. She'd heard her name announced in the starting line-up for midfield, and yet she didn't seem convinced.

Aware that I didn't have much time, I stepped up beside her. "Madam President."

Macallan's blonde braid flicked over her shoulder as she turned to me, her blue eyes bright behind her mask. "It should be you out there, Chan."

"I never ran for public office," I quipped, then turned serious. She needed to hear this, and she needed to believe it. "You belong out there, Macallan. You always belonged out there."

Everything that had happened since we'd returned to Cannondale in January seemed to have prepared Macallan for this game. For her to stand at the center of the draw circle, and do what she was always capable of doing.

Confidence finally punctuated her smile. "Any last words of wisdom?"

I smiled as I set my hands on Macallan's shoulders.

"Win the draw, rule the world."

THE END