I smack the top of her helmet. “You too. That play wouldn’t have worked without your blocking.”
Liz sets me on my feet, and we scoot off the field so the kicking team can get set up. Jax, the Dragons kicker, puts the extra point right through the uprights, and we lead, seven to nothing.
By halftime, the New York Hawks have tightened the score, though the Dragons still lead twenty-one to seventeen. I haven’t scored again, but Sabrina scampered into the end zone in the first quarter, and then Carrie got in on the scoring action, intercepting a Hawks pass and running it back for a pick-six just before halftime.
The team enters our locker room. Lavinia and Winslow Harrington spared no expense on our stadium, including our dressing area. The lockers and benches are dark wood, and each space has a full length photo of the player in her uniform. Recessed lighting spotlights the photos, making us look like movie stars in shoulder pads.
“I can’t believe how many fans are here,” Carrie says as we grab a sports drink from the cooler.
“I’m sure it helps that the men’s game was right before ours, and since our stadiums are next to each other, they could just walk over here,” I reply, popping the top and taking a long swig of the orange drink.
Carrie does the same as we make our way past the lockers and into what we call the strategy room, where two rows of black chairs form a semi-circle. Once we’re all seated, Coach Berry stands in the center, doling out praise and corrections in equal measure.
Then she gestures to the side of the room, and Lavinia, one of the team owners, steps forward, a smile on her dark-red lips.
“Ladies, good job out there. Now, I’m not going to be one of those owners who thinks she’s the coach.” We all chuckle because we’ve heard of owners of men's teams who are like that. “I’ll leave the coaching up to our very talented staff, but I just wanted to come in and say how proud I am of you. Your hard work from practices and workouts is showing in your play on the field.”
We all clap, and Lavinia’s caramel-skinned face drops for a second, staring at the floor. When she raises it, there’s a certain melancholy evident in her brown eyes.
“Football has always been my favorite sport. I grew up in a small town, like I know some of you did.” She catches my gaze and holds it there for a second, her lips curling up delicately at the corners. “There were no opportunities for girls to play football. It ‘wasn’t allowed,’” she says, making finger quotes around the last two words.
Someone—Liz, I think—yells, “Assholes,” and Lavinia laughs.
“Indeed. My brothers were allowed to play but not me. So at the ripe old age of eight, I chopped off most of my hair and informed my dad I was going to pretend to be a boy.” Chuckles sound around the room as our owner continues. “Things were going great until a teammate’s mom ratted me out to the little league commissioner. I apparently took her precious boy’s starting position as QB, and I was tossed out of the league.”
My teammates and I grumble in annoyance at the unfairness, and Lavinia straightens her purple blazer, tilting her chin up.
“I never got to play organized football again. Back in the olden days…” she says, giving us all a chagrined smile, “there were no women’s teams in college like there are now. Oh, there were a couple ladies that were allowed to be kickers, but no one even talked about a pro league that was only for females.”
We listen raptly as she walks in an arc, making eye contact with every player. I feel tears clogging my throat as I think about a little girl who just wanted to play the sport she loved, much like me.
“When Winslow and I heard rumblings about a women’s league, we immediately began working to bring a team to Houston.” Everyonenods their understanding, and Lavinia stops in the center of the half-circle again.
“You’re living the dream I wish I could have had, and I want you all to know how damn proud I am of you.” Her voice is husky with emotion, and she presses her lips together for a long moment as the room is silent around her. Then her lips twitch. “I also don’t want you to fuck it up while I’m trying to live vicariously through you, so get us a win tonight, ladies. Go Dragons!” She places a hand straight out in front of her, palm down.
We all stand and crowd around her, putting our hands in the center of the circle. When Zena counts, “One, two, three,” we all yell, “go Dragons!” in unison.
Lavinia’s emotional speech apparently lit us on fire because we came out in the second half and dominated. I ended up with two more touchdown passes, and I’m high on adrenaline and victory.
The final score is forty-two to seventeen, and the Houston Dragons chalk up the first win of the season. Fans begin pouring onto the field, and after a quick interview with a female sports reporter, I’m engulfed by my family. My mother never showed up for the game, but it stings just a little bit less when Juliette wraps me in a tight hug.
“Oh my god, Jordie. You were amazing. You all were.”
She swipes at her face, and I realize a tear has escaped down my face as well. “Thank you for being here,” I tell her, choking back a sob.
“Of course, silly. Where else would I be?”
I pose for pictures with each of my family members individually and then for a group shot before Reno ruffles my hair. “Okay, superstar. We’re going to head to the restaurant. You’ll meet us there?”
“As soon as I get showered and dressed,” I assure him.
They head back up into the stands, and I turn toward the tunnel before I hear a little voice call my name. “Jordie!”
Pivoting, I see a tiny cannonball of purple with curly, dark hair barreling toward me. “Hey, Reecie!” I say, scooping her up.
She wraps her pudgy arms around my neck and then pulls back, grinning at me and looking so much like her father. “Hi, best friend,” she says.
“Hi,best friend,” I reply with a laugh. “You look so cute in your Dragons jersey.”
