Getting Inside

by Serena Bell

  But Monday, when the coaches made it sound like O was history—I just couldn’t face it. This team is my family, and O is—well, he’s way more of a brother than my real brother turned out to be.

  “You know how they say you’re either on a roll or you’re due?”

  O nods.

  “We’re due, and we’re taking what’s ours.”

  His posture straightens a little, and I mentally pat myself on the back.

  Just then, the doors at the back of the room open and the coaches come down the stairs and sit down behind the tables in front. The press is already here, in the front few rows, with their cameras, mics, recorders, tablets, and even a few pens and notebooks.

  Coach Thomas is at Coach Thrayne’s right hand. She’s wearing an orangey-red dress and stiletto heels. Her mouth is slick with gloss and her earrings are dangly silver disks. As if to say straight out, Fuck you all, I’m female, whether you like it or not.

  As soon as I lay eyes on her, I get this fierce, almost painful adrenaline rush.

  It’s just the aftereffect of going toe-to-toe with her over O’s job. That’s what I tell myself. Not about going toe-to-toe with her in a completely different way. Actually, there’s no toe-to-toe in the video siege firing through my brain. Every other conceivable position, though.

  This is exactly why women don’t belong in the PFL. Because all this shit in my head doesn’t belong in the PFL.

  It takes only a few minutes to make the announcement, and then the members of the press corps are shouting their stupid questions at her and Thrayne.

  “How has she been received by the players?”

  “She’s been incredibly well received. They’re eager to start working with her and to start incorporating the strengths she brings with her into their play.”

  The temptation to exchange glances with O almost kills me. But after what Coach told me about how I’m in the hot seat, if they catch me on film doing that, I’m toast for sure. Still, I think I can feel O not looking at me just as hard as I’m not looking at him.

  “Coach Thomas, how does it feel to be the first African-American woman and only the second woman overall to be a coach in the PFL?”

  “Feels great,” she says. “I’m happy to shatter that particular glass ceiling with my hard head.”

  Her voice is husky. Monday I was shocked by her. Tuesday I was angry at her. Today—let’s just say it was easier when I could be shocked or angry. Today I find myself admiring her, and I’m not sure how that’s going to work out for me.

  “Mr. Hughes.”

  That’s someone addressing our GM, Ted Hughes. I don’t like Hughes. He’s the one remnant of old school in the Grizzlies organization. He got called out in the media last year for racist comments. He denied they were, but—whatever.

  Hughes looks wary.

  “Coach Thomas wasn’t your choice.”

  “Is that a question?”

  That’s Hughes. Belligerent. There’s just no point getting that way with the press. It’s gonna come back to bite you in the butt.

  “You’ve been quoted in the past as saying that you think the idea of women in the PFL is problematic. Do you still feel that way?”

  “I have the utmost respect for Coach Thrayne and Coach Cross, and they both think Coach Thomas is the right choice for this position.”

  Interesting. And ouch.

  From the look on Coach Thomas’s face, the GM’s lack of enthusiasm is news.

  And maybe it’s just because Hughes is an asshole, but I feel a little bit sorry for her.

  When the press conference is over, we stay put for a team meeting. Thrayne, Cross, and Rex Hunt, the Grizzlies’ offensive coordinator, all speak, as does the special teams coach, Devon Corrier. I’ve got a warm place in my heart for special teams, even though it’s kind of a scrubby job. When Mack and I were first in Seattle, we were both special teams, until he moved to linebacker coach and took me with him.

  He might be the only person who’s ever done something like that for me, brought me along like that. The way a real big brother—not one like Derek—might. All those times Mack recruited me to where he was, and if he hadn’t, where would I be? I don’t like to think about it.

  When I disregarded Coach Thrayne’s warning and fought for O’s job, that’s what I was trying to do. Just what Mack would have done and Derek never did. Be a good big brother.

  Chapter 7

  Iona

  “So what was that about? Hughes in the press conference?” Julia asks as we push open the doors into the bubble that covers the practice field. A huge whoosh of air escapes, equalizing the pressure, and we’re assaulted by the rubber-plastic smell of artificial turf and the weird fluorescence of the field lighting. I’ve seen it before, but Julia looks around, a little dazed by the sight of a full-size football field, goalposts and all, trapped inside a balloon.

  Julia Kramer, a petite, fair-skinned redhead, is my little shadow for the next few weeks—or maybe longer. She’s a sports journalist, not too much older than I am, who’s written a ton about pro football and the Grizzlies in particular. She wants to write some articles about a day in the life of a female coach in the PFL, maybe a book if it’s interesting enough.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. “I guess he’s not my biggest fan.”

  Julia purses her lips. “Which doesn’t necessarily reflect badly on you. That guy’s a dick. Pardon my French and lack of objectivity.”

  “Pardoned on both counts,” I say. I really like Julia. If you have to spend weeks with the media up your butt, let it be someone like her. She’s smart and funny and not afraid to say exactly what she’s thinking.

  My phone buzzes, and I pull it out. It’s Tish, my stubborn familiar on the girls’ football team.

  my dad wants me 2 quit football any way u cld tlk 2 him?

  I go from zero to sixty, rage-wise, in under two seconds.

  This isn’t you, Iona, I remind myself. You’re not the thirteen-year-old in this scenario. It’s not your dad saying you can’t.

  “You okay?” Julia asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Just a thing. Back home.” I text back, quick, Of course I can talk to him. Give me a day or two.

  tx!!!!!­!!!!!­!!!!

  I love that the girl can’t use punctuation between sentences but will take the time to load up on exclamation points.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Julia presses.

  “Yeah. One of the girls I used to coach, her dad won’t let her try out for the boys’ tackle team. Which wouldn’t even be an issue if there were a women’s team, you know?”

  “I do know,” Julia says darkly.

  “Yeah, you must take some shit yourself as a female sportswriter.”

  “Not so much,” she says. “I think it’s oodles better the last few years. And overall? Here? I’m really damn impressed by how accepting everyone’s being.”

  “Or at least professional,” I agree.

  Pro sports are this country’s hardest core meritocracy, with the possible exception of the armed forces. If you make it this far, you must be good enough—it’s true of players, coaches, staff—male or female.

  And luckily, Hughes aside, the worst sexists are aging off, and the players are young, so most of them are used to the idea of women in positions of power. And a huge number of them grew up in single-parent households run by mothers, so the notion of a woman who calls the shots doesn’t faze them.

  Still, like I told the girls, before I earn their true respect, they have to see that I can make them better.

  That’s what counts in pro sports. That’s what’s going to make all these guys—players and coaches—sit up and take notice.

  Including Ty Williams.

  Julia and I trot over to the sidelines to join the rest of the staff. I snagged a minute after the press conference to change my clothes, and I’m dressed like everyone else, in a T-shirt and shorts. The air in here is dripping with testosterone. That’s what happens when you put fifty-th
ree alpha males, bulging with well-earned muscle mass, and their alpha male coaches, together under one quasi-roof.

  Even so, my eyes are drawn to the most beautiful specimen.

  Professional interest, my better intentions insist. I’m just watching him get in position behind the line and trying to make sure I like what I see.

  I do.

  It’s walkthrough time. After the press conference, there was a brief team meeting and then a much longer defensive meeting where the coordinator talked about what kinds of offense the Rush will bring on Sunday and how we’re going to counter it. Now it’s time for the players to prove they were listening.

  They walk through—jog through, really—all the first- and second-down plays for Sunday, and I watch until I see something I’m not happy with. Then I dart in and adjust, correct, advise. Eyes up, wrong foot, squarer stance, get those hands under the lineman’s armpits. Faster at the snap, shorter lead step, back straighter, shoulders down, chin up, wrong key, wrong gap, good, good, good, that’s it, that’s what I want to see you do Sunday.

  I’m right in there with the other position coaches, and I see the looks I get. A flicker of surprise, then admiration. From the players. From the other coaches.

  Except for Ty. Ty doesn’t acknowledge me at all. I mean, he takes the coaching; don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t let him get away with shaking me off. He does everything I ask. But he doesn’t look at me, grunt assent, or send a smile my way when he grudgingly concedes that my way works better than the way he was doing it. I might as well be the voice in his head for all the attention he gives me.

  That’s okay. I don’t need his permission, his recognition, or his approval.

  I just need him to put Mark Wayne on his back, over and over and over again.

  And if that’s what the voice in his head tells him to do, then I’m doing my job.

  Chapter 8

  Ty

  Fuck.

  This is what I was afraid of.

  I know that in the heat of live practice, I won’t be so aware of her, but right now, during walkthrough, it’s like she’s under my skin. Whether she’s shouting corrections or whispering them, her voice scrapes along my nerves. It raises hairs and puts other parts of me on high alert, parts that are supposed to shut up and let football get played.

  And when she touches?

  Because coaches touch. They push, they prod, they smack, they punch. They tweak and adjust.

  A hand patting the inside of my knee to spread my legs a little wider.

  A shove on my arm to direct me into the play.

  Her body behind mine as she shows me where she wants my elbows in the block. I can’t actually feel her body—just her hands, which shouldn’t be different from any male coach’s—but I feel her anyway. Heat. Energy. Like she takes up a lot more fucking space than she should.

  All I can do is pretend I don’t notice and don’t care. I’m a machine, not a man.

  This is why women shouldn’t fucking coach in the PFL.

  I wonder what would happen if I went to Coach Thrayne and told the truth.

  I can’t work with her because she turns me on.

  There are a million possibilities for how that could go down, but the most likely is that he’d say, I can pick up the phone right now and find three other guys who’d kill to be in your shoes, Ty Williams. So get the fuck over it.

  If I knew how, I would, believe me, Coach.

  Yeah. That conversation? So not gonna happen.

  I’m relieved when we finally break for the second defensive meeting.

  The relief lasts only until halfway through the meeting. That’s when Coach Cross shows us a particular clip of game film from Carolina’s second-to-last game.

  Coach Thomas gets up from her seat and walks around the table to squat next to me. “I want you to watch the B gap,” she says. “Watch what ninety-two does. He does that every time, and you can take advantage of his momentum.”

  I try. I try to watch the fucking B gap. I try to watch fucking ninety-two. But what really happens is that I feel the heat of her arm against mine, the slip of her skin as she shifts just slightly. Even staring at the screen like my eyes are glued there, out of the corner of my eye, I see those taunting spiral curls and flashes of brown where her skin is bare—her cheek, her neck, her throat, her arms. And I can smell her. Cinnamon and coconut, cutting through the lingering smells of rubber and sweat from practice.

  “You see?” she says.

  “Yeah.”

  She goes back to her seat and I finally draw a full breath. And I still smell her.

  After I’ve survived the meeting, we have live practice. The field’s split in half so everyone can get more time in with the plays. It’s a relief to break a sweat.

  But I’m slow. If I could see the film of me right now, I know I’d look like I looked in the film from last week’s game—like I’m moving through molasses. It’s the way I’ve looked in almost all the film since Mack died. But knowing and fixing are two different things.

  I cast a glance toward the coaches. She’s standing on the sideline with the other position coaches, but I pick her out right away. It’s like she’s lit up with something. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest, the way she does a lot. And she’s looking right back at me, eyebrows raised. Challenge.

  That look kick-starts an engine in me, a low, hard thrumming. It’s everywhere—every muscle flush with blood and vibrating at a hum. And suddenly it doesn’t matter whether what I want to do most is show her who’s in charge or tear the guy opposite me limb from limb. What matters is that surge of power.

  Theoretically, we’re not hitting. We’ll “thud” tomorrow, but right now we’re not even supposed to do that.

  Only there’s a lot of pent-up frustration in all of us by Wednesday afternoon, and it’s possible I’ve got more than my fair share. Whatever’s burning under my skin doesn’t want to be denied.

  Even though I couldn’t keep my attention where it was supposed to be when we were watching the film, I suddenly see what she was trying to tell me in the office, about the limitations of the Rush’s offense. The snap comes and my feet move and my hands come up and I’m opening that B gap window as wide as the world, and before I can put on the brakes, I put our scout squad QB on his back. Not hard, but—there he is.

  “Fuck you, Williams,” he says, and shoves me off him.

  As I get to my feet, I look over. I can’t help myself. I want to see her reaction.

  The blood’s still rushing through my veins, swelling me everywhere. My face is hot with it, and that’s not the only thing. I’m bursting with the satisfaction of a good play and a good hit, and the only thing that would make this better—

  There she is. Still looking straight back at me, gaze still as locked and level as before, but it’s different now. Not challenge. Something else I know but have half forgotten, something that’s surging back and forth between us like we share in it.

  Triumph.

  Chapter 9

  Iona

  When I get back to my apartment that night, the first thing I do is change into yoga pants and my comfiest T-shirt.

  Then I broil a chicken breast, mix up some curried chicken salad, and toss it over greens. Because the thing is, mid-season in the PFL, the coaching thing isn’t even like a marathon anymore. It’s more like one of those crazy runs, hundred, hundred fifty miles. If you don’t pace yourself, you’ll—well, you’ll literally kill yourself. If I start in with the frozen dinners—or yield to my strongest temptation, which is eating cookie dough ice cream for dinner at least three nights a week—I’ll be a wreck long before playoff season.

  While I eat, I indulge myself in my two favorite magazines: Sports Illustrated and…

  Yeah, People. So sue me.

  But even with all that gossip and glossy perfection staring out at me, I can’t get the look on Ty Williams’s face out of my head.

  Like something was rising up in him, something I’d called o
ut. Something he couldn’t quite control.

  Something good. Something fierce.

  And after the hit, too. The pleasure, the triumph, and something else.

  You and me. Right now.

  But no, right? I have to have misread that one. The football-player-proof panties short-circuited and sent faulty messaging to the brain.

  I turn back to Justin Bieber and Hillary Clinton. Life in the pages of People magazine, while a drama a minute, seems so much simpler than real life.

  When I’m done, I clean up and brace myself for the phone call I have to make, to Tish’s dad.

  Tish had texted me her dad’s cell number, and I dial it. He answers: “Keyes.”

  I’ve met her dad once. He’s got the same long lashes and slightly hangdog expression as his daughter. Because he’s been deployed almost the whole time I’ve been working with Tish, I’ve mainly interacted with her mom, a slight, quiet woman who doesn’t seem like she could possibly have given birth to her bruiser daughter. Pretty sure Tish got her stature and strength from her dad.

  Also her stubbornness.

  My stomach seizes, anticipating trouble.

  I greet him and remind him of who I am, but he cuts me off midway through my introduction. “Tish says you want her to try out for the boys’ high school team next year. She says you’ve been running contact drills with the girls and private coaching her for tackle.”

  I decide to play this one straight for now. No point in turning it into a battle before we’ve even gotten started. “Yes, sir,” I say. “Tish is an incredibly talented running back, and I think she has what it takes to get a spot on the high school team.”

  “Girls don’t play tackle football.”

  He says it so flatly, for a moment the fight goes straight out of me, and I’m suddenly thirteen years old and face-to-face with my own dad.

  I remind myself, again, that it’s not my dad and not my fight. I shake off my leftover feelings of helplessness and frustration. “Why not?”

  “She’s gonna get hurt.”

  That was more my mom’s rallying cry than my dad’s back in the day, but I met that argument more times than I can count.