I’m sandwiched between Juliette on my right and Xander on my left. “I hope you get picked by Houston so we can be in the same city,” Xan whispers. That’s where he’s going to med school.
“Me too,” I whisper back nervously, my gaze going to the television. The volume is muted, but I can tell they haven’t started yet because a panel of commentators are still on the screen. I see a video of me in my red college uniform, catching a pass and sprinting to the end zone for a touchdown.
Words at the bottom of the screen read: JORDAN MCNAMARA - PROJECTED AS WNFL TOP FIVE DRAFT PICK.
Top five… I can’t believe this is my life. Though I’m dying to be number one. And not because of my ego. Houston has the number one pick today, and it’s only a few hours from Pine Tree Falls, so my family would be able to come to my home games if I got drafted by them.
And okay, if I’m being completely honest, it might be a teeny bit about my ego. I’m competitive at my core, and being number one would be a huge feather in my helmet.
But the nerves begin to seep in. What if I don’t go top five? What if I’m not even a first-round pick? I’m fast, hard-working, andperformed well in front of the scouts, but that doesn’t stop my brain from working overtime.
By the time my agent, Carly Hanson, leans over the back of the couch and whispers, “They’re saying it will be about five more minutes,” I’m convinced I’m not going to be chosen by any team. I’ll be left on the cutting room floor, and my dreams of playing professional football will be over.
Then I’ll have to move back to Pine Tree Falls and learn to ask, “Do you want fries with that?” a hundred times a day. Or perhaps Goober needs an associate for his unofficial ridesharing service, Guber.
“Breathe, honey. Whatever you’re thinking right now, stop it,” Juliette says in a voice so low only I can hear. Reflexively, I clench her hand. My big sister is the absolute best. She’s my biggest supporter, and I know I can go to her with anything.
Well, except for one thing, but I don’t have time to think about that right now.
“How you feeling, Jordie?” Juliette’s husband, Reno, asks from an adjacent armchair.
“I’m good,” I lie because I’m internally freaking out, knowing my entire future is about to be decided in the next few minutes.
The screen on the television changes to a view of a stage with an enormous neon WNFL logo on the back wall. A podium sits in the center, and the commissioner of our new league steps behind it. Today Belinda Benedict is dressed in a red power suit with a small WNFL pin on the lapel.
Dad unmutes the TV, and a hush falls around the living room. Reno’s mom took the kids into the other room earlier, probably so they don’t witness their aunt dying an agonizing death in the middle of the living room. That would probably be traumatic for the toddlers.
I finally manage to tune back in to the television to hear the commissioner say, “And to make the first pick in the inaugural draft of the WNFL, the owners of the Houston Dragons, Lavinia and Winslow Harrington.”
A handsome couple takes the stage, Lavinia with caramel skin and a blunt salt-and-pepper bob that brushes the edge of her jaw and her husband looking exactly how you’d expect a man named Winslow tolook… like a rich old dude. He would probably be considered a silver fox if not for his paunchy midsection.
The Harringtons have more money than God, but today they’re dressed in purple and silver Dragons jerseys and matching track pants.
“Why do the rich folks get to wear football jerseys and I have to wear a damn dress?” I mutter quietly enough for only Juliette and Xander to hear. Jules snorts and squeezes my right hand while Xander takes the left one.
I sense Dad and Pops behind me, each of them with a hand on my shoulders as the Harringtons step up to the microphone. I feel supported, though that doesn’t stop the overwhelming urge to puke.
Winslow speaks first. “With the first pick in the WNFL draft, the Houston Dragons select…”
The pause lasts approximately forty years. My heart has migrated so high into my throat, if I cough right now, I’m convinced it will fly out of my mouth and across the room. My hands are holding my brother’s and sister’s so tightly, they’ll probably need physical therapy if they ever want to use them again.
Lavinia leans into the microphone, her russet-colored lips parting. The ESPN cameras in our living room are focused on me like lasers as I stare at the TV screen. My face hurts from fake smiling for their benefit. I see Lavinia's lips move, but it takes a second before the words register.
“Jordan McNamara, senior out of…”
The rest of her statement is lost in a sea of screaming as I squinch my eyes closed and tilt my head back, sending up a silent prayer of thanks. And suddenly my smile is no longer fake.
I am the very first woman ever to be drafted into the WNFL. That is fucking crazy. And I’m only going a few short hours away to Houston.
My eyes open, and on the TV, they’re showing a live feed of me right here in this living room. And then it disappears from my view as I’m engulfed by my family and the hugging begins.
Juliette holds me for a long time before turning me over to Xander. Then Dad and Pops take their turns, both with tears in their eyes. My sister-in-law, Holly, practically bursts my eardrums with her squeal, butthankfully Reno is a lot more subdued, whispering a quiet, “Proud of you, kiddo,” in my ear.
Bubba patiently waits his turn, and after hugging me, he hands me a gift bag. My smile almost breaks my face when I pull out a purple Dragons jersey with my name and number, eighty-eight, already printed on it.
“Do you have, like, a bunch of these hidden somewhere for every team?” I ask, holding up the jersey and posing with Bubba for the cameras.
“Nope, I knew you were going first. This is the only one I had made,” he says with a smirk. As I slip the jersey on over my dress, Bubba reaches into the bag and produces a matching ball cap.
