Chapter 32: Ours

The opener was best of three.

The first game took thirty-one minutes.

Sutton played her mage from the back, careful and a little slow.

She called her own fights.

Some of them were bad.

One of them, at twenty minutes, was good enough that the senior swore under his breath behind us.

"She baited you," he said. "Callie. She baited you with her support."

"I know."

"That's your move."

"I know. I'm going to talk to her about it."

We won anyway.

The second game was cleaner.

The sophomore, back in lane, went seven and one and kept flexing her wrist at the camera between fights.

The freshman took both headphones off between games and said, "Good game so far," to the whole stage, then put them back on.

Beck was always already where I needed him.

At twenty-four minutes I said, "Wait for it."

"Waiting."

I hooked their carry.

He landed in the same second.

That was the game.

The screen said MARLOW STATE WINS 2-0.

The front row came up out of their seats.

Betsy, in her purple hat, threw orange slices into the air, which a staff member had specifically asked her not to do.

The grandpa stood up and clapped, slow and loud, the way he had in November.

My mom didn't clap.

She put both hands over her mouth and stood there.

On stage, the two teams lined up to shake hands, the way they do in every league match.

Sutton was last in her line.

I was last in mine.

We got to each other in the middle.

"Your hook's still annoying," she said.

"Your bait at twenty minutes was good."

She blinked.

"It was?"

"My coach swore."

She almost smiled.

Then she held out her hand, and I shook it, and she held on a second longer than she had to.

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