Just as the opposing keeper cradled the ball, a dozen or so men with ugly faces and bad intentions suddenly charged onto the pitch.
“Clear out — this field’s been booked by Big Nate!” one of them barked.
“Who are you? We paid to reserve this place. You can’t just muscle in!” one of the women on the team shot back coldly.
A man swaggered up to her, pulled a wad of bills from his jacket, and threw it on the turf. “With this,” he sneered, “you all better leave — or don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
“Show some respect, punk. Where’s Nate? Get him here,” a very solidly built woman stepped forward, looking down at him like a mountain. The man went pale — she was huge and towered over him.
“You who? You can’t just call for Big Nate like that!” he blustered, trying to bluff his way out.
She did
