I feel a rag this morning—a dried up, crumpled, messy rag.

After the run home last night, with Theobald Caldwell and his minions hunting us down for the streets of Verowna, I didn't get much sleep. I was furious with Ben for letting himself being dragged into another fight with the Caldwell boys; I was mad at me, for believing he could truly keep out of troubles for one night; and I was totally rapt by the memory of my bright angel. I tossed myself in bed for a while, and then went running till dawn.

This is going to be an important day. If we can't find a decent replacement for Markus we'll not be able to end the season with the shitty subs we have at the moment. That's why Coach is having open tryouts in the middle of the season; he would not have accepted new members on the team had Markus not been injured.

The would-be recruits are already warming up, doing some laps around the court. They don't look so bad. Mostly junior students, but we have to take what we are given. It won't be easy filling up an attacker's place.

Coach blows his whistle in a rapid succession of shrill exhortations and they start clustering in the middle of the court. With concise and unnecessary brusque directions Coach points out which drills they're going to perform. Some first-string players are going to assist them while the rest of us stays on the bleachers and watches.

The whistle shrills once more and the game starts.

The first drill is simple; it consists in passing and receiving the ball repeatedly advancing toward the goal, then shoot, and possibly score.

I observe the boys taking their place in line and making a try. No one scores. Not even by mistake.

We're screwed, I think sadly.

Right when I'm standing up to go and avoid watching this desolating spectacle, the last of the boys shoots for the goal—and scores.

I watch him run a few more drills, and he's good. Very good actually. Tall, lean, but with powerful legs. The guy is fast and his movements are clean and accurate, his elegance worth of a professional player; he certainly doesn't lack either intention or practice. I am curious to see what he can do if confronted by an opponent.

Coach calls a break after twenty minutes and every one sits and takes some water. Everyone but the guy I've been keeping an eye on. He's jogging at a light pace around the empty court.

I wonder who this is.

My gaze crosses Coach's and I give him a nod.

"Now then." Coach waves at the boys, bringing them back on the court. "We're gonna try one-on-ones. Remember: no fouls against my players. Anyone hurting one of my boys can consider himself permanently banned from any team inside the borders of this state. Have I made myself clear?"

A chorus of assent raises from the boys, who look even more alert now.

"Balthazar, come here!"

Interesting, Coach wants to use our best defender to test the newbies.

"You," he calls to the skilled guy. "Go first since you've still plenty of energy."

The boy jogs to the middle of the court and stops in front of Balthazar, jerking his head to convey that he's ready to get started. The two of them wait for everyone else to clear the court and take position.

The aim of this drill is clear: gaining a way to the net against a defender guarding it. Creating a scoring opportunity is vital to an attacker, after all.

The confront lasts only a couple of minutes. The new boy has the ball, and manages to retain it in spite of Balthazar's attempts to check his stick, but can't escape his marking; then the boy drops his restraints and charges forward with changing speed, disorienting Balthazar—a most deceptive way to creatively get past the opponent. The boy goes in, steps on Balthazar's foot, and dodges pivoting with the stick cradled close to his chest in his left hand as he uses the other arm to keep Balthazar out of ball's reach. The maneuver is amazing.

This boy shows incredible stick skills and cleverness; no one has ever gotten past Balthazar's defense so easily. That move isn't acceptable, of course, but the boy is tenacious and passionate—his structural perfection matched only by his hostility.

The ball ends into the goal with a loud chorus of cheers.

Coach whistles, ears fuming in the chill April air.

"Hey, what did I say?" he yells at the boy, who mumbles some apology still dizzy from the performance.

Everyone else turns quiet again and the tryouts resume under the vigilant eye of Coach. I stay until the end, which isn't much later anyway. Ben seats next to me and is brimming with equal parts of excitement and curiosity.

"Rog, do you know that one?" he asks me jerking his head at the guy.

"Not at all."

Coach signals the end of the tests with a last shrill of his whistle and there's a general gathering around him as the team members and the other boys alike hang in small clusters on the court. Ben and I get closer as well, and I hear my cousin addressing the boy that will undoubtedly fill Markus' place.

"Hey, you were great out there! Balthazar's still sulking about his goof." Ben chuckles wickedly at Balthazar who has just joined us. "Seriously, I've never seen a guy move like that."

The boy releases what sounds like a nervous laugh. "Well," he says while removing his helmet. "Maybe it's because I'm not a guy."

I watch astounded, gaping as a waterfall of sweaty curls falls down the sides of a beautiful girl's face. 

 ۝   

  "A girl," blurts out the nasty-looking boy. "Wha—Coach! Can you tell us what the hell is she doing here?"

The coach walks over to us with a tell-tale smug expression. "What do you think, moron? She's applying for the vacated spot on the team."

"But—"

The other guy, Balthazar, looks amused by the speechlessness of his teammate.

"How?" the boy simply asks.

"It's simple, Ben. She wants to play, we have a spot to fill, ergo she gets a shot."

"She made a shot, actually," adds Balthazar with a knowing smirk toward me. "A damn good one."

I feel my cheeks blush suddenly and I hope it doesn't show on my already flushed and sweaty face.

"Well, slow down. I didn't say she passed." The coach glares at me. "I don't like that attitude girl. You'd better tone it down a notch and start following my rules when you step over my court."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry." I'm pretty sure my face has turned scarlet now.

"She's good—" starts Ben, but at Balthazar's raised eyebrows he amends, "More than good, ok! But, Coach, what of the rules? A girl cannot play on a men's team."

"No rule in our school's guidelines explicitly denies that—neither does the regional lacrosse rulebook."

I turn to my left to see who has spoken the last sentence with the same confidence of a judge stating a verdict. And I almost drop my helmet on the ground. A tall boy with mahogany skin and deep grey eyes pushes past Ben and comes to stop a few paces from me. I can see him perfectly well where he stands now, but there would be no mistaking those eyes, anyway.

My God, this is the mysterious guy from the party.

"That's it." The coach nods with satisfaction. "If our captain speaks so, then it must be right. No one knows the rules better than him."

Captain. He's the captain of the team.

But this means he is...

"I guess that as long as she plays according to the men's rules she can be on the team," the coach states.

"Yes, I propose we let her try," declares Rogan Montrose with his crisp voice.

Rogan Montrose. Heir to the Montrose's household. Sworn enemy of my brother.

My heart feels heavier than ever as the coach says, "Welcome into the Excelsiors."