“Mom!” Heat floods my cheeks, and I turn away from the mirror, not needing to see the evidence of my total humiliation. Thank God my mom isn’t into FaceTime, because I’m pretty sureinvolvedis code forsexand while the only orgasms I’m having are courtesy of two AA batteries, one look at my face would tell her everything she needs to know about my lusty Reid-centric thoughts. “Are we going to have this conversation every time you call?” I ask, hoping to put an end to the subject once and for all.
I mean, honestly, we’ve been having the same “football players suck” conversation since I got my first period. And fine, maybe I ignored it to my detriment in high school, but message received and lesson learned. It’s time to move on.
She pauses, and I can easily imagine her pursing her lips on the other end of the line, running her reply through the filter I’m sorely lacking. “I won’t apologize for worrying about you,” she says, her words filled with that fierce tiger-mom pride that floods my heart with warmth. “You’re my baby and it’s my job to protect you. Trust me. They’re all the same. I don’t want to see you learn that lesson the hard way.”
Like she did.
I swallow, reminding myself why I agreed to do this in the first place. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything that would jeopardize my scholarship, which is why I’ve got to go. Practice is starting.”
She sighs. “All right. I don’t want to make you late. I’m sorry I can’t make it to the game tomorrow, but I’ll be listening on the radio at work. You’re going to do great.”
“Thanks, Mom.” She may not like that I’m playing football (probably hates it with the fire of a thousand suns), but I have zero doubt her confidence in me is sincere. She’s always been my biggest fan. “I love you.”
We say our goodbyes, and I make my way to the outdoor practice field where Coach Jackson is already waiting with the reporters. Five of them, to be exact. Which is two more than I expected. My belly flips, and for a minute I think the apple slices I ate on my way over might make a reappearance. Not exactly the kind of headline I want to make today.
“Miss Carter,” Coach Jackson says by way of greeting before swiftly introducing the reporters. Their names and affiliations are lost on me—my brain is stuck on a let’s-get-this-over-with-before-I-hurl loop—but I do learn two of them are photographers or videographers or whatever they’re called. So only three interviewers, as promised.
With the introductions complete, Coach Jackson suggests we start with the Q&A. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus. I’m not sure I could focus on kicking knowing they’re waiting to play twenty questions.
Just,no.
I suck in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass that lingers in the air, and let the sounds of practice wash over me. Sounds that have become as familiar to me as my own breathing over the last few weeks. The telltale crash of pads and helmets. The calling of plays. The grunts and cheers that follow a well-executed tackle. The sun is warm on my face and there’s no wind today. Perfect conditions for a kicker.
Perfect conditions for me.
I open my eyes and smile at the interviewers, letting them know I’m ready when they are and hoping they won’t see straight through me. There are no bleachers on the practice fields, so we dive into the interview where we stand, thirty yards from the end zone where Coach has set up the football and holder. There’s a mesh bag of extra balls off to the side, so I know he’s expecting me to make several kicks. Just like any other practice.
“Miss Carter, how does it feel to be the first woman to earn a football scholarship to a Division I school?” the first reporter asks. Her dark hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail and the look on her face is all business. I try to focus on the question, but she’s intimidating as hell. Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to the introductions, because who is this woman?
“Honestly?” I say, resisting the urge to bite my lip. “I try not to think about it most days. Out here, I’m just like any other player on the team. I have a job to do and nothing else matters. It’s just me, the ball, and the upright.” Besides, it’s not like I’m the first woman to ever land a college football scholarship, just the first at a D1 school.
Coach Jackson raises a brow, and I remember what Austin said about having the team at my back. I still don’t want to get close to them, but maybe there’s another way.
“Like I said,” I continue, pasting a bright smile on my face, “I try not to think about it and focus on the team, but I know I’m fortunate to have this opportunity. There are a lot of guys on the team with more experience than me, who are also deserving of scholarships, but everyone’s been really supportive. The team, the trainers, the coaching staff, they’ve all been very welcoming.” Except that asshat Langley. “And I’m honored to be playing for a program with such a distinguished history and wealth of talent.”
A smile pulls at the corner of Jackson’s mouth, and I know I’ve said the right thing. One down…
“Coach Collins has announced you’ll be starting tomorrow against Idaho,” the second reporter, a squat guy with broad shoulders, says. “You’ll be the first woman in history to clock actual game time in D1 football. How are you handling the pressure?”
Okay, then. No easy warm-up questions here. “I don’t let myself get caught up in hype. I’ve been an athlete all my life, so preparing for tomorrow’s game against Idaho is no different from any other week of training. I’ve been really focused on technique, distance, and accuracy.”
“You stated you’ve been an athlete all your life,” he says, cutting off theCollegianreporter before the guy can get a word out, “but you’ve never played football, isn’t that right? You were a soccer player before you tried out for Wildcat football?”
“That’s right,” I say, shifting my weight and keeping an eye fixed on Jackson in case he’s got more nonverbal cues for me. “I played soccer for sixteen years, most recently for the Lady Wildcats, before joining the football team as a placekicker.” I shrug. “The skill isn’t all that different from kicking a long ball in soccer. The same principles apply and my training regimen really isn’t all that different either, although there’s a lot less cardio involved.”
Jackson grins, and I find myself smiling back, a genuine reaction this time. Because, come on, look at me being all funny and charming.
“You stated that the team and coaching staff have been really supportive,” theCollegianreporter says, shoving his iPhone closer to ensure he gets a clear recording of my response, “but there are a lot of folks out there who question whether you’ve got what it take to compete in the Big Ten, arguably one of the toughest conferences in college football. What do you say to the detractors?”
Fuck you? Nope. Jackson would probably keel over. “Like I said, I don’t get caught up in the hype.” Truth. I don’t even know what they’re saying about me online because I don’t have time to worry about it with my crazy-ass schedule. “My focus is on the game and showing up for the team, but I guess I’d tell them not to count me out. The best kickers in the country have a field goal percentage north of eighty-eight percent and so do I.” I hold up a hand before he can argue. “I may not be game tested, but I like my odds.” I nod to the adjacent field where the rest of the team is still running plays. “These guys get me in range on game day, I’ll prove it.”
TheCollegianreporter nods, doing his best to look unimpressed—and failing. “Percentages can be misleading,” he says. “Most kickers can put up those kinds of stats inside the thirty. What’s your range like?”
I open my mouth to tell him I’m money from the forty-five, feeling pretty confident, but Jackson answers for me.
“Why doesn’t she just show you?” he says, gesturing to the spot in the center of the field where he’s set up the football and holder.
Why not indeed.
