“Morning!” Savannah Robbe, a fellow defender, skips over to me and Reyna, who plays striker.
Savannah is younger, recently out of college, and grew up in Southern California. Cheerful. And currently sporting a sun-kissed glow since she spent the offseason in her home state.
Reyna and I, born and raised New Englanders, are pale and cranky.
We both manage greetings, bookended by yawns, which draw a knowing smile out of Savannah.
“New assistant coach is here!” she announces, her chipper tone undaunted by our low energy and the brisk wind.
Coach Willis announced her pregnancy at the end of last season. The team has known for months that someone else would be stepping into her assistant coach role for at least part of this season.
Selfishly, I’m irritated about a replacement. This season is going to be difficult enough. A change in staff is an unwelcome start. Temporary assistant coach for a women’s team isn’t a position many qualified candidates are scrambling to apply for.
“Know anything about her?” Reyna asks warily, likely thinking the same thing.
“Nothing,” Savannah replies. “Except Coach Taylor saidhewas here.”
Reyna and I exchange a quick, displeased glance.
“Great,” I state flatly. “More men coaching women, in addition to all the men coaching men.”
There are twenty teams in the women’s league. Three have female head coaches. Coach Taylor is one of them. And she’s the only one with an all-female support staff. Or, shewasthe only one with an all-female support staff.
Walking into the lobby of the Siege’s brand-new facility improves my sour mood some.
I lost count of the number of times I’ve entered this building a long time ago. But it still feels special. It still hits me, every time, that I’m a professional athlete, playing for the city I grew up in. No matter how disappointing parts of my career have been, that’s an accomplishment I can be proud of.
I resolve to enjoy it.
I default to defense off the field too. I’m always preparing to climb the next challenge rather than appreciating the flat section. Not that there’s anything easy about competing at soccer’s highest level, but it’s simpler than the rest of my life has been lately.
Savannah and Reyna chat about a new television show as we walk down the hallway, passing a couple of administrative offices and the team nutrition area—a fancy term for cafeteria. The Siege is the second-newest expansion team in the league. Keeping with Boston’s dominant sports dynasty, this facility was a multimillion-dollar project. It boasts an indoor field, two weight gyms, a playroom for children of players and staff, a sauna, plus our current destination—a video room that’s essentially a mini movie theater. In addition to film sessions spent reviewing game footage, it’s where our longer or more formal team meetings take place.
“Hey, Caldy!” Mallory calls out as she approaches from the opposite direction. She’s holding two half-eaten granola bars, one in each hand.
I’ve learned that any attempts to dissuade my teammates from shortening my last name are taken as an encouragement, so I just say, “Morning, Mallory.”
Her smile expands as she reaches us. She greets Savannah and Reyna, then falls in step next to me.
“Late night clubbing?” Mallory teases as a massive yawn overtakes my face.
If someone were handing out team superlatives, I’d win Most Likely to Bail on Going Out.
“Exactly,” I deadpan as we enter the video room.
At twenty-seven, I’m not the oldest or the most experienced player on the team. But my entire career, even as a rookie, I’ve been known as reliable and responsible. In elementary school, I organized the team snack schedule. In high school, my teammates would tell their parents they were sleeping over at my house, then sneak out to parties. I’ve been berated for being “too serious” before, but my teammates on the Siege seem to have accepted it. A few have told me they admire me for it, as if my predisposition to color inside life’s lines was a conscious choice. That sounds better than being afraid to take many risks.
We’re not the first players to arrive for the meeting, but there’s no sign of Coach Taylor or any other Siege staff yet.
I exchange small talk and smiles with a few other teammates before settling into a seat in the back row.
The wall facing the screen is covered with floor-to-ceiling posters. I’m featured on the largest one, located directly in the center. Sitting as close to it as possible means I won’t turn to talk to a teammate and accidentally lock eyes with a giant version of myself. I’m not sure why I was selected as the main feature, but I would have turned it down if I’d been consulted.
I’m one of two Massachusetts-born players on the team and the only one who grew up in a Boston suburb. Tasha is from Sheffield. It’s surreal, playing for my hometown team. But it means I’m never sure how much of the attention on me is assigned rather than earned. Whether the girls who attend games, wearing my jersey, chose it because I’m their favorite player or because I went to a neighboring high school and am the most obvious example of a path they’d like to take themselves.
“Seriously, you good?” Reyna asks after I yawn again, nudging my knee with hers.
She’s on my left; Mallory and Savannah took seats to my right.
