by Nicole Baart
“Girls’ Football League,” Meg said, as if the question was downright ridiculous.
“You do realize that powderpuff—I mean, girls’ football—usually consists of one game, right? Junior girls versus senior girls in one flag football game. No real stakes—bragging rights only.”
Meg sighed. “Is there a handbook or something?”
“No.”
“Then we can do whatever we want.”
Throwing up her hands, Mrs. Casey laughed. “And what exactly do you want, my dear?”
Meg chose to ignore the slight condescension and said: “A weekly scrimmage, maybe two a week, with as many girls as we can convince to sign up.”
“Teams?”
“If there are enough girls, we’ll make two or three teams. Otherwise we’ll pick jerseys every game and switch it around.”
“Where will you play?”
“The football field.”
“The coaches will never allow it.”
“The soccer pitch?”
“The boys’ and girls’ teams are already fighting over it.”
Meg thought. “We could use the city soccer field. You know, the one right beside the baseball diamonds? They only use it for summer rec anyway.”
Mrs. Casey nodded. “It’s your job to call and get permission.”
“Okay. One last thing . . .” Meg paused, trying to slide a final question under the radar, but there was no way to soften her request. “Tackle?” she said quietly.
“Absolutely not. Touch or flags, and I mean it, Meg Painter.”
Meg’s football experiment exploded. She was the match that sparked the fire, but the flames spread more quickly than she had dared to hope or imagine. The unofficial Girls’ Football League collected the leftovers, the girls who hadn’t made the cut for the school soccer or basketball teams, or who weren’t cheerleader or dance squad types. Meg had to admit that she was surprised by some of the girls who did show. A few of them traded in heels for tennis shoes, and wore lipstick that got smeared as they sweated out their frustrations on the soccer pitch turned football field.
Within the first two weeks of rather disorganized play, there were at least forty young women gathered on the field after school twice a week. Games were scheduled for Tuesdays and Thursdays at four, just enough time to change clothes, grab a snack, and run a few warm-up laps. The rules were modified as they went along, and the girls customized the game according to their desires. No helmets, pads, or cleats. Only eight players per team allowed on the field. And as far as the girls were concerned, there was no such thing as a penalty for an ineligible receiver downfield, pass interference, or grounding the ball. The idea was to keep the game moving and the ball in play. They could even justify the occasional occurrence of unnecessary roughness.
Mrs. Casey’s “no tackle” rule lasted less than ten minutes into the inaugural game.
It was a mess at first, all aggression and estrogen and awkward ball handling. But Meg wasn’t about to let her pet project fall to pieces, so she made an executive decision one afternoon and told everyone to line up. She counted the girls off to threes, and the unofficial trio of the Girls’ Football League was formed. The teams took turns squaring off against each other, and captains emerged without too much fuss. Best of all, they picked ridiculous team names in mockery of the original powderpuff moniker. The Pigskin Barbies bought T-shirts in an alarming shade of electric fuchsia, the Broken Stilettos wore black, and Meg’s team, Riot Girls, donned a tie-dyed blaze of orange and red with the sleeves ripped off.
It was all an attempt at satire, a self-mocking flippancy that made them feel at once connected and competitive. In making fun of themselves, and each other, it gave them permission to laugh—and then to take each other down when they squared off on the field.
Meg loved every minute of it. Much to her surprise, she discovered that she had a mind for strategy, and could often see the field laid out before her like a chessboard. She instinctively knew which players were tired or distracted, and after she called an unprecedented blitz on the Pigskin Barbies’ quarterback, her team never questioned her judgment again. She had been granted the role as team captain by merit of the fact that she had formed the league, but when she started calling winning plays, she earned the title.
By the time the weather began to turn and the girls had to play in sweatshirts and stocking caps, the Girls’ Football League had acquired a certain notoriety in the community. They were mildly infamous, for Mrs. Casey dropped any school ties with the rogue association, and some parents decided to forbid their daughters to play. But no one ever got hurt beyond a sprained ankle or a twisted knee, though one freshman had to have a couple of stitches after she tripped over her own two feet and split her lip on her bottom teeth. There were enough unbiased bystanders to assure her parents it was a no-fault accident.
The GFL even began to draw a small crowd of spectators, and the more enthusiastic fans (mostly boyfriends of the players and girls who were too chicken to play) made signs in support of their favorite teams. Some even went so far as to invent ludicrous cheers. Meg’s favorite was a rousing chant of “Riot Girls” that ended in a triumphant, feral growl. It made her laugh, even though no one was cheering for her in particular.
Once, as she was sprinting off the field in the middle of a game, Meg’s gaze momentarily left the scuffle of players and did a quick scan of the small crowd that had gathered. She was stunned to find the outline of her father, standing with his arms crossed, at the very top of the berm around the city soccer pitch. She knew that he had to have left work early in order to catch her game, and a little trill of anxiety rushed through her. Was he angry? Would he make her quit? But when she locked eyes with her dad, he smiled wide and did jazz hands just for her benefit. She could almost hear him say it, “Jazz hands!” And though she should have been embarrassed by his little display, it pleased her more than any moment she had yet experienced in the GFL.
Greg Painter never did say anything to his daughter about the game that he witnessed, even though a pileup had left one girl fighting furious tears and another with shallow pools of blood in her scratched palms. Meg took his silence as acceptance, maybe even quiet approval, and she read pride in the lay of his hand on her back before she slipped into bed that night.
And though Meg loved her Tuesday and Thursday diversions with unadulterated joy, there were times when she wondered where it had all come from. It wasn’t in her nature to be overly self-analytical, but little whys seemed to float on the clouds of smoke that billowed from her football fire. Meg knew it was all more than the fallout from a History Channel documentary.
She could try to convince herself that she had always been a bit of a tomboy and that she had always loved football. Both true, but it was more than that. The league wasn’t merely a hobby, nor was it a feminist statement—although the GFL did exude a certain paralleled sense of strength and femininity—and Meg wasn’t the sort to fuss about gender issues too much anyway.
And yet, after a hard game, when she stood beneath a scalding spray of water in the shower, there were only two things that Meg thought of: how much her muscles ached, and why she did it—what drove her to run with the Riot Girls.
Jess, she thought more often than not. I do it because I’m furious with Jess. Or because I miss him. Or because I just plain don’t know what to do with him. Or without him.
Then, halfway through a game against the Broken Stilettos, when the snow was just beginning to fly in southwest Iowa, Meg was confronted by a second unexpected spectator at the soccer pitch, who turned all her theories about her own self-flagellation upside down.
The Broken Stilettos were up by a touchdown, and there was less than a minute left in the game. The Riot Girls’ quarterback had just been sacked, third down, and their only hope was a Hail Mary, a play the Catholic girls underscored with a heartfelt recitation of that prayer from across the line of scrimmage.
Meg was quite possibly the best wide receiver in th
e entire girls’ league: tall and lanky and fast, impeccably proportioned for the perfect last-minute play. But nothing was ever quite perfect in their legendary league. When the center snapped the football to their quarterback, Meg took off like lightning, weaving through black T-shirts as she worked her way to the sidelines and far down the field. She didn’t look over her shoulder; she didn’t pause to see what was happening behind her. She just ran. The plan was for her to come up at center field and turn for the pass. The truth was, none of the girls were good enough to pull off such an elaborate play, but they had nothing to lose.
When she was within ten yards of the goal line, Meg realized with a burst of adrenaline that she was alone. No one could keep up with her—her crazy play could actually work. She tried not to smile, but there was a grin on her face as she turned, and through the fifteen bodies crowding the field, she could just make out her quarterback. The girl still had the ball, and as Meg watched, she threw it. It wasn’t a terrible throw, but it was off to the right. Meg tried to gauge the distance as she ran to receive it. But as she lifted her fingers to pluck the ball out of the air, she felt a rush like wind around her. She skimmed the football with her fingertips, but instead of rising to meet it, she felt herself yanked down. And then the wind was knocked from her lungs as a snarl of bodies fell over her, elbows and knees and angles in all the wrong places.
The Black Stilettos screamed and congratulated each other on their first win against the Riot Girls, dancing victory jigs that rivaled the show-offs of the NFL. Meg was left on her back in the cold grass, hard chips of snow the size of pinpricks falling against her hot face and melting on her cheeks. She closed her eyes.
“You okay?”
Even though she wasn’t hurt, Meg fully expected her teammates to come and lift her off the ground. But the soft query was not from one of the girls. Her eyes flashed open.
“Dylan?”
He was standing over her, dressed in a thick, corduroy jacket with the collar turned up. His hands were bunched in his pockets, but when she said his name, he took them out and cupped them around his mouth to blow warmth into his palms. “Good game,” he said. The corner of his mouth was tweaked in amusement.
Meg grunted and rolled onto her hip, pushing herself up and swiping at the dead grass and leaves that sprinkled her back like confetti. “Thanks,” she said dryly, trying not to look at him. But as much as she didn’t want to admit it, as much as she wanted to just walk away and go lick her wounds with her trounced teammates, her heart beat an irregular rhythm with him so close. She caught sight of a couple of the Riot Girls making their way toward her, but she gave her head an almost imperceptible shake and they paused, confused. When she didn’t make any move toward them, they gave up and walked back to the sidelines and the rest of the team.
Though she couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, Meg both wanted and didn’t want to be alone with Dylan. She saw him all the time—in the halls of Sutton High, around town, at school events—but she usually avoided him as if they were strangers with no shared history at all. He seemed more than happy to do the same, and yet from time to time she’d look up and find his gaze on her. The way he watched her was unsettling, and even when she caught him in the act, he didn’t look away. Instead, he’d hold her eyes for a moment, then tilt the edge of his mouth in a half smile of profound amusement and wait until she broke the tenuous connection between them. Meg didn’t want to be so feeble, but she was always the first to turn away.
It infuriated her, although even as she resented him for teasing her, there was something in Dylan’s look that always left her wanting more. It was as if he had things to say, words that were poised on the tip of his tongue, and if Meg could only catch him at just the right moment, she could unlock all the secrets that hid behind the curve of his lips. She wanted to know. She was dying to know.
“You’ve got quite the racket going on here,” Dylan said, turning to survey the girls as they walked off the field.
“I’m not conning anyone,” Meg assured him, eyes flashing.
“These girls believe they’re actually accomplishing something,” he argued.
Meg exhaled hard through her nose. “They are. We are. We’re getting out a little aggression.”
“Girl power to you,” Dylan joked.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Hey.”
Something in his voice made her look up.
“I’m giving you a hard time. It actually looks like fun. You guys are brutal. I’d pit you against Sutton’s team if they didn’t all have a hundred pounds on you.” He laughed then, and it was such a genuine sound that Meg felt a smile tickle at her own mouth. For a split second she saw the GFL the way the rest of the world saw it: as an entertaining diversion. She was happy to make people smile. But then the moment faded as quickly as it had come and she was left feeling cold and tired, with the beginnings of a killer headache thrumming against the base of her skull.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said, turning to go. “I need a shower.”
She meant for her statement to be taken as a dismissal, but Dylan fell into step beside her.
“I’ll give you a ride home,” he said.
Meg faltered, shocked by his offer and more drained than she realized, but Dylan shot out a hand to steady her.
“You okay? There were a lot of girls on top of you.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? You stumbled there a little. Could be a concussion.”
“It’s not a concussion.”
Dylan winked at her. “Didn’t think so.”
She yanked her arm out of his grip and picked up the pace, but he kept up easily. The snow was falling harder now, the flakes growing in size as the precipitation made the transition from icy sleet to soft snow. It was just beginning to crown the grass, draping the brown blades with strands of white so clean and delicate, Meg almost hated to ruin it with her footprints.
“Slow down, tiger,” Dylan tugged on the back of her sweatshirt. “My truck is in the opposite direction.”
Meg watched the rest of the girls straggle toward the parking lot and raised a fist in solidarity at the few who were sneaking glances her way. When she could see their smiles across the field, she allowed Dylan to steer her away from the crowd and toward the pickup he must have parked on the gravel road behind the sports complex.
“This your first game?” she asked, trying to make conversation.
“Nope.”
She shot him a dark look. “I’ve never seen you here before.”
“I sit there,” he told her, pointing in the direction they were headed. The berm around the field rose higher at the south end, creating a gentle hill that ended in a row of live oaks that were easily as old as Sutton itself: linking arms, Meg and Dylan couldn’t encompass the girth of the massive trunks. “I’ve got a bird’s-eye view,” Dylan said.
“So you like to see but not be seen?”
“Something like that.”
They walked in silence the rest of the way, Meg painfully aware of the way their shoulders brushed from time to time, the familiarity, even after all these years, of his presence beside her. She wanted to close her eyes and take his hand so he could lead her to the truck. She wanted to feel the brief encounter, to be wholly in it as it happened instead of worrying about where to put her feet and when. In an effort to control the revealing nature of her uncensored thoughts, she folded her arms around her and kept her eyes fastened to the ground.
The falling snow had gathered into an early winter storm by the time they reached the truck, and Meg was trembling in her sweats. Dylan yanked open his door and ushered her inside, letting her slide across the bench seat so she didn’t have to run around the large vehicle. He didn’t look at her as he turned the ignition, but once the engine caught, he made no move to flip on his headlights or put the transmission in gear. Tinkering with the vents, he directed them at Meg and turned the heat on high.
“It’ll be warm in a sec,”
he informed her.
“Thanks.” Her voice seemed strange somehow, small and distant, and Meg held herself tighter to ward off the cold.
“Here”—Dylan started to unbutton his coat—“you don’t have a jacket. Take mine.”
For some reason the offer made Meg blush crimson. “No, no, I’m fine.”
But he shrugged it off and handed it to her anyway. When she wouldn’t take it, he draped it over her and tucked the collar in around her neck. “What?” he joked. “I have to force chivalry on you?”
She gave him a tight-lipped smile.
“You haven’t even had a chance to cool down. You could pull something that way.”
“Since when do you worry about me?”
An indecipherable look swept across his features. Dylan’s eyes were at once sad, angry, confused. Did she sense a trace of hurt? But he masked his emotions quickly and laughed. The sound was hollow in the cab of the truck. “No one needs to worry about you,” he agreed. “You can take care of yourself.”
Meg nodded, half wishing that he’d strap on his seat belt and drive away, and half wishing that the snow would fall endlessly and they’d be stuck on the deserted road on the very edge of Sutton. If not forever, at least long enough to work out whatever needed to be worked out between them.
Apparently Dylan was just as torn because he made no move to do what he’d promised, to drive her home.
They sat in the truck, watching the snow outside the window as it collected all around them. Any remnants of daylight were gone, and the storm had rendered the landscape utterly still and dark. To Meg, it felt like they were alone in the world. She knew there were things she should say, questions she should ask, but the longer they were quiet, the more the quiet made sense. She sat beside Dylan until she was warm enough to tilt his coat to one side. It slipped off her shoulder and she placed a warm hand on the seat beside her.
“You’re not wearing Jess’s ring.”
Meg looked down at her left hand as it rested on the ripped seat of Dylan’s truck. There wasn’t even a faint line where the ring had been. There was no evidence that she had worn it at all. She wanted to tell him that she took it off for football, only because they had instigated a “no jewelry” rule, but the air in the cab was charged and living. How could she talk when she couldn’t breathe? So she stared at her fingers, willing the answer to materialize between them, to make sudden and obvious sense, so that Dylan wouldn’t wonder at her inability to speak.
