Chapter 14 Catherine #3
The Edgewood Prep lacrosse field is the kind of facility that smaller schools cite as proof the class system is alive and thriving.
Regulation turf. Stadium lighting for day games.
Bleachers with actual backs—not benches, seats—flanked by a press box with glass windows and a PA system that could handle minor-league baseball.
Wrought-iron fence with the Edgewood crest worked into the gates.
A hundred thousand dollars a year, and a solid chunk of it went to making sure the lacrosse field looks like it belongs on ESPN.
Penny and I walk through the gate and the stands are already half full.
Parents in Barbour jackets and quilted vests.
Students in forest green and gold—scarves, beanies, the occasional face paint.
The particular energy of a New England prep school on game day—controlled excitement, money in every direction, the understanding that this isn’t just sport, it’s a résumé line.
I scan the stands and find the Monaghans immediately.
Callum is in the third row, center—prime real estate.
Dark peacoat. Green and gold Edgewood scarf.
A foam finger tucked under his arm that demolishes whatever gravitas the peacoat was trying to achieve.
Saoirse is beside him in a cream cable-knit and jeans, her dark hair loose, looking like she stepped out of a catalogue for women who are effortlessly beautiful and deeply worried about their son’s ACL.
Saoirse sees me first. Her face lights up—warm, genuine, the expression of a woman who whispered something in my ear two hours ago that almost cracked the ice princess and is now pretending the world is normal because normal is what we need.
She waves. I wave back. Penny tugs my arm. “Is that—we’re sitting with them?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Problem? No. I’ve known these people since I was in diapers.
Saoirse used to braid my hair at barbecues while Callum flipped burgers and pretended he wasn’t burning them.
It’s just surreal sitting with them at the game now that their son’s got his tongue down my best friend’s throat on a semi-regular basis. ”
“Graphic.”
“Accurate.”
We climb the stands. Saoirse pulls me into a hug that lasts three seconds too long and says everything about this morning without a word. When she releases me, she holds my shoulders and studies my face with the particular attention of a mother checking a child’s vitals through body language.
“You okay?”
“I’m here.”
“That’s enough.” She turns to Penny and her expression shifts into the easy warmth of a woman greeting a kid she’s known since birth. “Penelope MacHale. Get over here.”
Penny hugs her without hesitation—the kind of hug you give someone who watched you grow up. “Hi, Saoirse. How’s the garden?”
“Dead. I killed the hydrangeas again. Your mother would be appalled.”
“Mom says you overwater.”
“Your mother is correct and I refuse to acknowledge it. Sit. There’s hot chocolate.”
Callum nods at me from behind his wife. “Catherine.”
The nod carries layers—acknowledgment, concern, the memory of a breakfast conversation about protection, and the particular solidarity of a man who is choosing to be okay with whatever his son is doing with this girl because the alternative is fighting a losing battle.
“Callum.”
His eyebrow raises. First-name basis accepted. Penny makes a noise. I elbow her.
We settle in. Penny on my left, Saoirse on my right.
The thermos circulates. October wind cuts across the field but the sun is breaking through, and in the stands surrounded by green and gold, I almost feel normal.
Almost feel like a girl at a lacrosse game in her boyfriend’s sweatshirt.
Not a girl who screamed at her mother ninety minutes ago and changed clothes in a Honda Civic.
The sweatshirt is getting looks. I feel them—students turning, phones tilting at picture-taking angles, the murmur of a school that’s been tracking the Kaiden-and-Cat situation like a reality show and is now processing MONAGHAN across the ice princess’s back.
A girl in the row ahead leans to her friend. Whispers. Her friend’s eyes go wide.
Let them. I’ve survived worse publicity than a boy’s name on my back.
The teams take the field for warm-ups and all five of them are immediately visible—not because of the jerseys or the numbers but because they move differently from everyone else.
Where other players jog through drills, the Elite Five operate like a unit that’s been calibrated over years of shared practice and shared damage.
Kaiden at attack—number 7, captain’s C on his chest, prowling the offensive zone with the predatory awareness of someone who processes the world through his muscles. Every motion economical. Every angle calculated. The brain of a captain running plays three moves ahead.
Iz at attack beside him—number 3, tall and loose-limbed, his stick work so fluid it looks choreographed. The two of them passing during warm-ups with the chemistry of players who’ve been reading each other’s movements since middle school.
Xander at midfield—number 11, compact and explosive, the kind of player who materializes in spaces he has no business being and vanishes before the defense adjusts. His footwork during ladders is mesmerizing—quick, precise, the athletic equivalent of a drummer keeping impossible time.
Danny at long-stick midfield—number 22, the defensive anchor. He moves with a quietness that translates perfectly to his position: controlled, patient, his body saying what his mouth doesn’t. “You’re not getting past me.” His ground-ball drills are surgical.
Ryan in goal—number 1, padded up, the cage around him like a throne.
He catches warm-up shots with a casualness that borders on contempt, flicking saves aside with his stick like he’s swatting flies.
I didn’t know Ryan played goal until right now, and it makes a strange kind of sense—the kid who sees everything, processes everything, stands at the center of the defense and directs traffic with the calm of someone who’s already hacked the opponent’s playbook. Which he probably has.
Penny leans toward me. “I remember when they were all in Little League together. Kaiden threw a tantrum because the coach put him at second base instead of pitcher. Iz cried when his mom forgot his Gatorade. And Xander—” She stops.
The name hits different than the others.
“X was always the fastest. Even at seven. He’d run the bases so fast the other kids would just stop and watch. ”
The way she says it—past tense, soft, like she’s touching something fragile—tells me everything I need to know about where Penny goes when she looks at Xander Anderson. Not to the boy at midfield. To the boy at seven. Running so fast the world stopped to watch.
She catches me looking and straightens. “Anyway. They’re all very talented and whatever. Let’s go, Stags!”
The whistle. Face-off. Kaiden wins it clean—the ball popping into Iz’s stick before Whitmore’s midfielders react. Iz cradles, dodges one, hits Xander at the X. X fires sidearm—low, hard, skipping off the turf into the bottom corner of the net.
Goal. Twelve seconds in.
The stands erupt. Saoirse grabs my arm. Callum raises the foam finger with the dignified enthusiasm of a man who will never live that purchase down. Penny jumps up.
“LET’S GOOOO!” Penny screams with a volume that has no business coming from a body that size. She catches Xander looking toward the stands after the assist and sits down very quickly. “I was cheering for the team. Not him specifically.”
“Of course.”
“Shut up.”
The game settles into Edgewood dominance.
Kaiden runs the offense like a conductor—distributing the ball with a vision that makes the complex look effortless.
His primary target is Iz, the two of them connected by a passing frequency that borders on telepathic.
Xander transitions the ball from defense to offense with a speed that makes Whitmore’s midfielders look like they’re moving through water.
Danny shuts down every clear attempt with the methodical patience of a person who has all day and knows it.
Ryan stops everything that gets through—one save so absurd that even the Whitmore parents clap.
Second goal: Kaiden carries from midfield, beats two defenders with a split dodge that makes the crowd gasp, feeds Iz at the crease. Iz catches, spins, buries it over the goalie’s shoulder. The assist is so precise it looks rehearsed.
Third goal: Danny’s ground ball starts the possession. Through Xander at the transition. To Kaiden at the top of the box—fake left, go right, a shot that hits the back of the net before the goalie’s stick moves. The thwack of the ball hitting mesh at full velocity echoes off the stadium walls.
Fourth: Xander solo. Carries from midfield, weaves through three defenders with a series of dodges that shouldn’t be physically possible, and fires a behind-the-back shot that has zero business going in and goes in anyway.
Fifth: Iz, unassisted. A fast break off a Ryan save—the outlet pass finding Iz in stride, nobody between him and the goal, and he finishes it with a casual overhand rip that looks almost bored.
5–0. End of the first half.
During the break, Kaiden jogs toward the bench.
His eyes find the stands. Find me. He doesn’t wave—Kaiden Monaghan doesn’t wave.
He blows me a kiss. Deliberate. Theatrical.
Hand to his mouth and extended toward me in a gesture so uncharacteristically sweet that half the stands turn to see who it’s aimed at.
I catch it. Because fuck it. I’m wearing his name and the school already knows and I’m done pretending.
Iz, jogging past, sees the exchange. Without breaking stride, he blows me a kiss too—exaggerated, both hands, the full Italian-chef gesture.