"Starters down the line for the Excelsiors: Captain Rogan Montrose, Aaron Lewis, Benjamine Montrose, Dante Ramos..." The announcer's voice gets lost in the blustering of hooting people from the bleachers of the Jackals as the roaster is called.

This is my first game.

I take in the foreign field and public, the purple and bright orange streamers decking the bleachers, and I feel the blood run cold in my veins. An away game is not ideal to start the season.

The mayhem around me is muffled by the padding inside my helmet but I can still discern the words of the students yelling in unison with the enthusiastic notes of the Southwark Public School band. Our only supporters are the Venuses, making some drills of theirs on the outer court, but their choruses are washed out.

"Why are there so few of our schoolmates?" Hiram asks as he gets ready to step on the court.

"Don't you know?" Balthazar gives him a dark look through the metal bars of the helmet's face mask. "Theobald and Preston Caldwell are throwing a huge party tonight, open bar for everyone—Montrose students included."

They exchange a silent curse and turn toward the opposite side of the court, where the Jackals are starting first their twenty minutes of warm-up drills.

This is so Preston, I think angrily.

When I saw him in that diner, I truly panicked for the first time in my life. Only when my imbroglio was about to be exposed did I realize what I had done. I got a taste of what it'll be when the moment comes to reveal my lies, and it was scarier than I'd thought—but I won't back down. Not now. Not ever.

Surely not because of a poor cheer.

"Are you ok?" Rogan has come to stand by my side.

"Sure, perfect. After all, it's you going out there, not me."

He smiles at me and clacks his stick with mine, wishing himself good luck.

Both teams are eventually through with the warming-up and the game can start. I watch from the bench as my teammates file onto the court, proud and confident in their saffron away uniforms, raising their sticks in salute when their names are called. I stare at the burgundy number ten printed on Rogan's back, and close my fingers tightly around the taped shaft of my crosse, palms hitching with eagerness.

The two captains get in face-off position on the opposite sides of the midfield line. The other guy is massive, even compared to the tall figure of Rogan, but he doesn't look impressed by the size of his opponent. It's all very fast: Rogan gains the ball with a swift move and sends it flying towards the wing area, where Aaron is already aiming his crosse to scoop it from the air. Then they run together for the goal.

There's a strange mood, I can sense it. The attackmen are wary and the midfielders stick to their spots near the line without trying to advance; defense is closing around the home goal. I know the Jackals are a valid team, but we need to create a shooting chance and this is not the way. In the first four minutes the opposing teams take their respective measures, playing carefully. At one point, I notice something off happening among the players and the game becomes more aggressive. Jackals score first. We're not even through the first quarter when the referee whistles and stops the game.

Aaron got a rough body-check from a Jackal defender while trying to shoot and now is on the ground; he waves his hand at Coach.

"Manfred!" he snarls, back turned on us.

The boy simply stands and walks forward to replace his teammate. Unfortunately, the referee doesn't call a foul, declaring the body-check legal, and Aaron joins the rest of us on the bench with a disappointed expression.

The game resumes immediately with a score of 3-1 for the Jackals, who keep pushing forward against the strenuous defense of the Excelsiors: Balthazar, Hiram and Vincent are doing a great job marking their opponents, helped by the midfielders Ben and Dante, but we are a man short, playing eight against nine, and the Jackals' attack is relentless.

Manfred has been on the team longer than me, but he looks jittery, too much even for a sub who rarely plays in official games. The Jackals are trying anything to weigh him down, I see them snickering and haunting him with jibes; but they're careful around the referee as to not get a penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct. Manfred tries to react and finally manages to surpass their defense line with a split dodge, aiming at the goal. He swings his stick with a powerful motion and... the stick slips from his hands and ends into the net with the ball still in it.

The crowd roars with laughter and the Jackals join right after recovering from the surprise. Rogan jogs to Manfred, trying to cheer him up, as the referee declares the point void. The captain goes back to his place then, passing by the bulky number one of the other team, and exchanges a few words with him. They don't look friendly at all.

"Who is that?" I ask Aaron, sitting next to me on the bench.

"You mean the Mountain, captain Thomas D'Angelo."

Yes, that name suits him.

"He's strong and skilled, great combination in my opinion, but that's not what makes him dangerous," continues Aaron. "He's got a third eye, or something like that. Outsmarting him is difficult even for Rogan."

That's what has been happening, that's why the others are playing it safe. This Thomas D'Angelo is able to predict their schemes, so they're trying to do damage control.

"Coach, it's just a sprained ankle. I think I can go back," says Aaron, realizing the difficulties of the team.

Just then, Manfred accidentally drops his crosse while trying to scoop up a loose ball from the ground and D'Angelo, already running toward him, doesn't even slow down and kicks the crosse, preventing the other player from retrieving it. D'Angelo flicks the ball into open space and picks it up. He scores the sixth point for the Jackals a few seconds later.

I look expectantly at the referee, waiting for a foul to be called, but it doesn't happen since the stick was not in possession and the momentum of the Jackal player can justify his action as accidental.

We can't lose this way.

Coach curses under his breath and then signals a substitution. "Get out there!" He stabs a finger at me.

"What?"

"Did you not hear me? On the field—now!"

My hands fumble mechanically with the chin strap of my helmet as I rake my gaze along the court, past the Jackals and the bleachers full of strangers, and glance up at sky, focusing on the glare of stadium lights to distract myself from the mad heartbeat that echoes in my ears like a ball bouncing off a wall.

I make sure my equipment is alright, I breathe, then breath again, and step onto the soft grass of the court.