Getting Inside

by Serena Bell

  “Not if she plays smart. The coach at Winfrey is good. Very few player injuries there. They do a lot of fundraisers and the money goes into equipment.”

  But he makes a sound at the other end of the phone, impatient, scoffing, and a cynical part of me knows this fight isn’t about safety.

  Sure enough, he says, “It’ll ruin her social life. I want her to fit in with the other girls. A girl who plays football—where does she belong?”

  He doesn’t say, No boy will ever want to date her, but I hear it. The echo of my father’s warnings. I say, “With due respect, Mr. Keyes, if you’re lucky enough to love something and be as talented at it as Tish is, you don’t just walk away from it because it’s going to make your social life more difficult for a little while.”

  Or for the rest of your life. But I refrain from saying that. I don’t think it’s going to help my argument with Mr. Keyes.

  “There I disagree with you.” His tone is polite, if clipped. “The friends you make in high school last a lifetime. Football is a flash in the pan.”

  But it wouldn’t have to be. Not for Tish. It wasn’t for me. I played football straight through high school, with the boys. And I wasn’t just the place kicker, either, which is where a lot of girls get relegated. I played backup QB, running back, safety, and even linebacker. Then I played in college. Of course things got even more competitive then, and I didn’t get a lot of reps, which was when I started playing pro women’s.

  Like me, Tish isn’t contented to play flag football—the safe version of the game. She wants what most male football players want—the satisfaction of a good hit, the physicality of the real game.

  And if her dad took the time to ask her about it, and really listen, he’d probably get it, because he’s probably felt the same way about something in his life.

  But this man is not listening, not to his daughter, and not to me. “I didn’t work this hard and spend half her childhood overseas for this. I did it so she can be safe and happy. And there’s no way football’s gonna do that for her.”

  I know he’s sure he has her best interest at heart, but all I can think is, Poor Tish. When I said goodbye to her last week, she was over the moon about having her dad back from his deployment, but I’m betting she’s not so happy to have him home now. “Sir,” I begin, but he jumps in.

  “There’s nothing to discuss here. She’s my daughter. You stay out of this.”

  The fact is, at this distance and with my coaching workload, I won’t be able to interfere in Tish’s life. Or do much to help her out with her dad. At best, I could maybe tell her, Been there, done that. Hang in there, honey, and stand up for yourself. And the guy’s right. He’s her dad; I’m just her coach—ex-coach, actually. Not even her high school or college coach, just a volunteer who played a couple times a week with a motley crew of girls—some with talent, some I admitted to the team because I know they’d be getting in trouble somewhere without it.

  But I said I identify with Tish, right? With her stubborn streak, her trouble accepting authority. So I can’t let Mr. Keyes have the last word. Just can’t do it.

  “That’s right, sir. You’re the parent. So if you take football away from her, you’re the one who’ll have to live with breaking her heart.”

  There’s only silence at the other end, and when I look at my phone, it says the call’s been disconnected.

  I send Tish a text that says only, I’m sorry, and she sends me back one that says, tx for trying.

  Chapter 10

  Iona

  “Exploit that gap, Williams,” I say. For the third time. “It’s there. You’re not seeing it.”

  It’s Sunday. The crowd roars around us, the air is thick with anticipation, my own blood throbs in my veins. I’m back in a PFL stadium, and it’s game day.

  We’re down. The score is 24–21, them. It’s the fourth quarter. The offense once again failed to convert. It’s too long for a field goal, so the punting unit’s out and the defense is poised to take over. And Ty and I are here, having the same conversation again.

  Ty’s teeth are gritted. “I see it,” he says. “I can’t get there.”

  “You can.”

  I’ve always been stubborn. And I’ve rarely met anyone who can stare me down. But I have to use all my willpower not to drop my gaze when Ty homes in this time.

  “Is it Ohalu? I could put Diaz in.”

  I say it not because I’m really intending to do it but because I know it’s the one thing that’s guaranteed to get his head in the game. I know it’s not fair. I know it’s not right. But I also know he needs this win as much as I do. As much as this team does.

  I think he knows the game I’m playing. That heat in his eyes amps up, the fire I was looking for. “O isn’t the problem.”

  “Show me. Show me we don’t have a problem. You’re still hesitating in the read. Don’t hesitate. Go win this game.”

  There are other players in the linebacker corps, but Ty has been my problem all day long. From the moment he appeared at breakfast in his silvery-gray suit and that outrageous gold-collared shirt, he’s been making my job twice as difficult as it needs to be. No man should look that good in a suit, and no self-respecting coach should give a shit. I thought maybe that would be the worst it got, but it still had plenty of room to slide downhill. I still hadn’t seen him close up in full uniform.

  Full pads, for one. He was formidable enough in practice.

  The numbers. My eyes are just about level with the top of those numbers, which means that unless I work hard to raise my face, I’m staring straight into the same wall of Ty Williams that the quarterback will see bearing down on him.

  But I’m going to let my guard down here and tell you God’s honest truth. It’s those football pants.

  Underneath, Ty is one hundred percent solid muscle. He’s got the kind of ass you can only earn with hours of wrestling the kinds of obstacles no one encounters in real life. He has thighs like—

  I’d have to put my hands on them to be able to give you a better description. I will just say that they make my mouth water.

  I should be immune to football players by now. I’ve seen hundreds of them—both sexes—in every mode of dress (and undress), and for the most part I can safely say that I don’t bat an eyelash. They’re sweaty athletes doing their jobs.

  I wish I could put Ty Williams back in that box and slam the lid so hard he’d never pop back up again.

  But I can’t, so I tell him, “Win. This.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

  It’s the first time he’s called me that, and I’m not sure whether he’s showing respect or mocking me, but it doesn’t really matter, because it’s just been added to the list of things that are wrecking my concentration.

  When the defense trots out, the roar surrounds us. Grizzly Field is the loudest in the PFL. When the mob gets riled, crowd noise at Grizzly Field registers on the Richter scale. No joke. It’s a weapon all its own; the crowd has been responsible for some crazy number of opponents’ false starts.

  Carolina is using the exact offensive package I pointed out to Ty, and he and his teammates are lined up perfectly against it.

  My heart starts to pound. They’re going to do this. I can feel it in my bones, like a change in the weather.

  I talk to him in my head like I’m the coordinator and he has a headset on. Neither is true, and he can’t hear me, but I can’t help myself.

  Get your feet under you. Knees bent. Sit back. Wide base. Toes in.

  Get those fucking hands off your knees. It’s a bad habit of his that slows him down.

  As if he hears me, he drops his arms to his sides.

  I used to do the same thing to Tish, talk to her in my head during games, even though it was futile. I’ve always done it with players I’m particularly connected to.

  See it? See it?

  The snap comes and he moves so fast I don’t have time to form an opinion, let alone yell at him in my mind. He’s on Wayne,
tumbling him.

  The ball squirts out and my heart is pounding so hard, my whole body thinks I’m the one out there playing, trying, like Ty’s trying, to get after that ball.

  O materializes from the back corner of my consciousness, grabs the ball as it takes a bounce off the turf, and runs it into the end zone for the winning touchdown.

  O and Ty chest-bump each other on the field, then run back to the sidelines and are swamped by celebrating teammates. When things finally calm down, I have my moment.

  They are so fired up, you can see the adrenaline steaming off their skin. Getting close to them feels gorgeously dangerous, like being near a wild animal. I put two hands up and they high-five me hard enough to hurt. Feels great. I miss the butt-smacking I did as an indoor player, but something warns me that laying hands on Ty Williams’s butt in celebration will not improve my career.

  “That was beautiful,” I tell them.

  To O, I say, “That’s what I need to see from you.”

  He gives me a shy kind of sideways smile, totally incongruous on his bad old mug. I’m getting a feel for what Ty sees in him.

  “Wait,” I tell Ty as O peels off toward the locker room. I’m going to tell him he did a great job, that I’m proud of him, but before I can get a word in, he’s talking.

  “I fucking told you.”

  “I thought I fucking told you.”

  “I told you O and I were a kick-ass combo.”

  “And I told you to win this game.”

  We stare at each other for a minute. His bare skin gleams with sweat. Football players, like a lot of athletes, shave all their exposed skin so athletic tape won’t catch in their hair, and his looks perfectly smooth, polished, and oiled.

  And then at the same time, we both laugh, and something cuts loose in my chest, because he’s beautiful when he laughs, dazzling. And he’s laughing with me, which feels so goddamn good, and all I can think is:

  Oh, fuck.

  Chapter 11

  Ty

  Every pro football player watches a ton of film. It’s just part of the game. Monday, you watch film of the game and tear apart your own successes and failures. Tuesday, you watch it again and try to figure out how you’re going to repeat that stroke of brilliance every time and never do that stupid-ass bullshit again as long as you live. Wednesday, we move on to watching film of our upcoming opponent and film that shows us how other teams have dealt with them.

  Football players are so obsessed with film that they even film meetings in which they’re watching film. Dave Brogan used to sometimes turn off the recorder in the meeting room so he could ream us out in more colorful language, but most of the time, film is just recording 24/7, whenever anything football related is happening.

  Some guys get sick of all the film and can’t imagine watching another minute in their off-hours.

  And then there are guys like me. I watch film like teenage boys sneak porn.

  That’s what I’m doing—watching film, not sneaking porn—when Iona walks in on Monday morning. I’m watching clips of myself rushing and trying to figure out why it worked on Sunday and not the previous five Sundays.

  “Trying to figure out what you did?” she asks.

  I nod. After all, it was what I had been doing until she breached the doorway. Since then I’ve been trying to pretend I’m not watching the restrained bounce of her breasts under her T-shirt. Or thinking about what her plump lower lip would feel like between my teeth.

  She pulls up a chair and sits down beside me. I wish she hadn’t. She feels good there, in a distracting way. I’m having trouble focusing now on the screen, because once again all my senses are soaking up Coach Thomas.

  “You played like you wanted to win,” she says.

  “I always play like I want to win.”

  She shakes her head, curls jiggling.

  God, she can get me pissed off faster than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s like she has the direct button to rage.

  “What the fuck?” I say. “You think I go out there wanting to lose?”

  “No. But there’s a big difference between that and playing like you want to win. You know what I think?”

  “No. But I assume you’re going to tell me.”

  “I think you play for everyone except yourself. When it was Mack, you played for Mack. And the way I got you to win that game was to play for O. But if you want to play like a winner every time? You can’t be doing it for anyone else. You have to play for you.”

  She shuts up and lets me soak that in.

  I try to pretend she’s not there and run through a few clips. Malcolm Smith, Anthony Hitchens—sometimes you need to watch the greats to figure out what’s lacking in your own game.

  She sits beside me, quiet. Watching with me. Pointing out something occasionally—stance, where they’re looking, blocking and tackling technique—but mostly just watching. After a while, I don’t feel so angry anymore. I feel kind of peaceful, which is how I almost always feel watching film. But watching with her is different than watching by myself or with anyone else. It’s a nice feeling, almost like we’re sitting in someone’s living room watching a movie together. If we had popcorn and a blanket to pull over our feet, this would feel a lot like a date.

  I can’t remember the last time I went on a date. Went home with a jersey chaser, or let myself get picked up in a bar, fuck yeah. But went on a date?

  College?

  It was mostly parties and hookups there.

  High school, I think.

  “What’s it like?” I ask her suddenly. “Being the only woman?”

  She shrugs. “A little weird sometimes but mostly normal. I’ve been the only woman a lot. You get used to it. I like guy energy. Always have. I spent a lot of time with my younger brother growing up, and always had tons of guy friends, because those were who wanted to do the stuff I wanted to do. Climb trees, play wiffle ball, run races. And play football, of course.”

  “You play ever since you were little?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  “Do you remember the first time?”

  “Nope.”

  “Me neither.” She smiles. “But I feel like the heavens must have parted and a beam of light shone down or something. You know?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know we grew up not far from each other.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Newark, right?”

  He nods.

  “Maplewood.”

  Newark and Maplewood are a half hour from each other in New Jersey and approximately ten million miles apart, if you know what I mean. But I don’t say that, because you don’t meet that many people from Jersey in Seattle, and even if Coach Thomas probably grew up with a dad who commuted into Manhattan and a mom who worked one job at most and a house they owned and a car that ran more often than not, I’m not feeling like pushing her away right now.

  What I’m feeling like doing is staying right here, with the slight warmth of her body soaking into my skin even at a distance, watching film for as long as she’ll sit next to me.

  “I know,” she says. “It’s like saying Rainier Beach is near Queen Anne.”

  I smile, despite myself. “A little.”

  “We weren’t rich,” she says, a little defensively.

  “You weren’t poor,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “No. My dad’s a lawyer. First in his family to go to college. I’m the first on my mom’s side. Were you guys poor?”

  We were and then we weren’t and then we were and then we weren’t. I wish I’d just kept my mouth shut. The answer is a hell of a lot more complicated than dropping a point on some graph above or below the poverty line.

  I shrug. “We did okay.” And that’s the truth, if you look at me and Derek—

  Shit, I don’t want to think about Derek.

  She takes the hint and cues up more film, and I get my wish. We sit there for a long time, watching, and she doesn’t move to get up until Coach Th
rayne comes to find her for a meeting.

  Chapter 12

  Iona

  “We need a QB! Coach Osgood!”

  “Nah,” says Chris Osgood. “Not me. I saw what happened to Wayne on Sunday.”

  Friday’s a shorter practice day than Wednesday or Thursday. And by the middle of Friday afternoon, everyone’s ready to cut loose. Depending on the coaches, and how chill people are, a lot of fun stuff can happen on Fridays.

  Like what’s happening right now.

  We’re doing 7 on 7 drills on one of the outside fields, the sun is actually shining, and everyone’s in a terrific mood.

  We practice 7 on 7 all the time—without the offensive or defensive lines. But the organized drill we started an hour ago has slowly evolved—or devolved, really—into goofiness as players have gone home and coaches have stepped in to fill spots.

  I’m not the only young coach. There are a bunch of other coaches my age—all men, obviously—some of whom are former players, or college players, or high school players, or just guys who love football.

  All the quarterbacks have taken off, hence the call for Chris Osgood, the defensive line coach, to fill in.

  I don’t blame him for his refusal. He’s not one of the younger guys, and if my vision doesn’t deceive me, he’s not in top physical condition right now. And everyone knows that even in naked 7 on 7, which we’re playing, hitting happens. I imagine it’s more or less how elementary school boys play touch football.

  “Coach Thomas!”

  It’s O, of course.

  “No way!” I yell, but more because I like the thrill of the fight than because I really don’t want to. Aside from the fact that I love quarterbacking, my linebackers have busted their asses without complaint or attitude for a week and a half, and I owe them a reward.

  Plus, I know it’s overdue hazing, and I’d rather take it on the field than have it come out in the locker room.

  “Come on, Coach!”

  I desperately want to look over at Ty, but I’m fighting the urge with every ounce of my being. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.