The last week of camp was the most grueling.
As if the early morning workouts, long practices, insufferable meetings, and endless hours watching tape weren’t bad enough, every single one of us was in battle mode, fighting for our positions.
This was it.
In one week, we’d know the depth chart, and we’d be preparing for our first game.
“Swings,” Coach Aarons said, barely taking his eyes off the clipboard in his hand before he was moving on to other areas of the Special Teams squad.
Bo Aarons was just as tough as our head coach, except unlike Coach Sanders, Coach Aarons had his sole focus on me. Well — me, and the rest of the players on special teams. He seemed to recognize the adversity I walked into being the only female on the team, but he never worked me any less than the guys.
I respected him for that.
I blew out a breath, legs already sore from working static drills on foot placement. The boys on offense and defense loved to give me shit anytime they could, always quick to point out that I didn’t work nearly as hard as they did now that we were into our more specialized practices. But none of them understood how much pressure fell on a kicker, how getting the right foot placement and having an immaculate leg swing were the difference between a game-winning field goal and a doink.
I shoved a black plug into the turf, backing away a few steps before I let out a slow exhale. Then, with a one-two skip, I swung my right leg up just like I would in a kick, as if that black plug was my teammate holding the ball in position after the snap.
“Good,” Coach said, and then he turned, and I knew without him saying it that he wanted me to keep at it.
The field was alive with energy, every corner of it covered with a subset of offense or defense or special teams running drills and executing plays. Between swings, I watched Holden Moore send a spiral halfway down the field right into a wide receiver’s hands, who took off in a full sprint toward the end zone.
Another swing, and my eyes trailed to where defense was down the field. The linemen pushed against sled dummies, while those hopeful for safety and cornerback positions were working on explosive shuffles and sprints, pivoting when the coach yelled out turn!
Sweat dripped, faces twisted in pain, and we shared our agony and fatigue as a team.
At least fall was creeping in, slowly but surely, that familiar chill lingering on the breeze as it wafted through the city. I longed for October when the leaves would change, and longed even more for the days when Gavin and I would drive up north to the Kanc with our parents, hiking along the rushing water and colorful foliage.
I was still working on leg swings when Coach Sanders blew his whistle loud and long, signaling us all to stop where we were and hustle to the middle of the field. We took a knee, and Coach’s eyes surfed the panting crowd, an unreadable expression on his severe face.
“Pressure,” he said, allowing that word to sink in before he said anything else. “That’s the one thing missing from these practices that you’ll feel in a game. Even when we scrimmage, you can’t fully understand what it will be like to have a crowd roaring — sometimes for you, sometimes against you. You won’t know what it feels like to have the opportunity to make a catch that saves a drive, or a block that brings up a kick instead of a touchdown, or an interception that changes the momentum.” His eyes found me then. “Or a kick that wins the game.”
I swallowed.
“So, in this last week, I’ll be pulling some of you up at the end of practice and putting as much pressure as I can artificially manage on you. You’ll be tired — just like you will be at the end of the game. But you still need to perform.” He adjusted the ballcap on his head. “Novo, we’re starting with you.”
All eyes snapped in my direction, and with those eyes came a spike in my heart rate.
I didn’t let it sink in, though. I immediately hopped up, shrugging on my helmet and waiting for direction, face stone-cold like I expected this challenge, like it wasn’t a challenge at all.
“Offense has driven down the field but couldn’t get in for a touchdown,” Coach said, painting the scenario. “QB1 spiked the last snap with three seconds on the clock. A thirty-eight-yard field goal will win the game. A miss will lose it.”
Without waiting for further instructions, I did the quick math and jogged off toward the twenty-eight-yard line, allowing ten yards from the goal line to goal posts, and seven yards behind the line of scrimmage where I would line up.
Soon after, other players vying for their spot on special teams followed.
“You got this,” Blake Russo said, clapping my shoulder before he got in position. Blake was also a quarterback, but served as a holder for kicks, and I had a feeling he’d be backup to Holden once the chart was released.
I nodded, ears ringing as the rest of the team lined up on the sideline.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Coach yelled at them. “She’s on the opposite team. You’re in the stands. This kick determines the game!”
On cue, all the guys started yelling, some of them cursing at me, some of them making jokes about my mom, some screaming out, “Don’t kick like a girl!” They beat their helmets on the metal benches, stomped their feet, and screamed as loud as they could.
I knew they were doing it because they were instructed to, but I couldn’t help feeling like some of them really enjoyed the permission to berate me.
Cameras lined the field, just like they had every day of camp. Some were small vloggers making depth chart predictions, some were from the local media, some from ESPN. And right now, I knew they were all focused on me — on the female kicker being tested for the first time in front of the entire team, and just one week out from Depth Chart Day.
I blew out a breath as I lined up with where the snap would be, backing up and angling myself for the run up. I wiggled my fingers at my sides, eyes locked on where Blake waited for the snap.
And then, a blissful quiet crept in.
Every molecule in my body tingled, blood buzzing, ears ringing from the noise of the team. But slowly, with a long exhale, that noise died down. My heart was steady in my chest, the next breath the only thing I heard. It was as if I was underwater, as if nothing else existed in the world except me and the ball.
The whistle blew.
The ball was snapped.
Blake caught it and lined up the laces to face away from me as our offensive line collided with the defense trying to block my kick. That sound of pads crunching from the impact was the last thing I heard before I reared back and kicked.
It was gold.
I knew it before I even watched it happen. I felt it in the way my foot connected, in the sting of the contact, in the full swing of my leg after the kick.
And as the ball sailed between the yellow posts, I had to fight down the urge to jump into the air and thrust my fist to the heavens.
Instead, I simply jogged off the field toward the sideline, indifferent to the cheers of approval from the team.
Coach almost smiled as I passed him.
“Good,” he said simply, and then he called up the other kickers for their own attempts.
My heart raced now that the kick was over, as if my body held it together until the moment it had permission to freak the fuck out. I peeled off my helmet, chugging water as I watched Shay Holmes, my biggest competition, miss his kick.
I tried not to be happy that he did.
“Nice kick, Mighty Mouse.”
I froze at the sound of his voice, gritting my teeth.
“Fuck off, Zeke.”
He laughed. “Just offering a compliment.”
I turned on him then, pausing only a moment at the sight of him drenched in sweat, his practice jersey clung to his muscles, a cocky grin plastered on his face.
“Mighty Mouse? Yeah. Such a compliment.”
“You can thank your brother for that one.”
I ignored him, focusing on the field as Coach called up his next victim. This time, he lined defense up on the field, giving the scenario for last chance to block a touchdown on third down and force a kick.
The sideline roared just like the fans would in a game, and I joined in, screaming at the top of my lungs until the ball was snapped. I couldn’t help but smile in victory when Holden’s throw was picked off by Clay Johnson, who promptly ran all the way down the field, dodging anyone who tried to tackle him in the process. He ran back with the ball above his head, and even Coach Sanders cracked a smile.
Clay was one of only a handful of players I would classify as a friend. He was a beast, six-foot-two inches and at least two-hundred pounds with the insane ability to explode off the line and move that massive body at speeds that just didn’t make sense. But he was also the goofiest sonofabitch I knew, constantly singing old songs from the sixties and razzing on any and everyone in the locker room.
I had no doubt he’d make chart.
Coach called out his next scenario, and players jogged out onto the field, all the while Zeke hung over my shoulder like a mosquito.
“Can you go somewhere else?” I wrinkled my nose. “You smell like a moldy foot.”
“Come on, Novo. You don’t have to pretend anymore. Just tell me you’re in love with me and have been since we were kids.”
He threw his arm around me, slicking my shoulder with his sweaty underarm and making me gag before I shoved him off me.
“Trust me, love is the last emotion I feel for you,” I seethed, though my cheeks burned with a traitorous heat that I prayed didn’t show as a flush.
“We’re going to be best friends by the end of this season,” he said, hanging his elbow on my shoulder. “Just wait.”
I sighed, giving up on trying to get away from him and deciding to focus on the field, instead.
After a few more drills, we were released for lunch, and Zeke jogged beside me all the way to the locker room. It was alive with laughter and music and loud voices teasing one another by the time we shoved through the doors, Zeke heading for the ice baths while I went straight for my locker.
“Nice kick, Novo,” Clay said when I slipped past him, elbowing me playfully. “You do that shit in a real game, and you’re going up on my shoulders.”
“I’ll make sure to prepare myself for that. Is the oxygen thinner up there?” I teased, shielding my squinting eyes with a hand as if I were staring up at the top of a mountain instead of the top of his head.
He gave me a goofy grin.
“Besides, it might be me who needs to carry you in celebration,” I combatted. “A pick six? You didn’t have to show out that much.”
“When it’s a week before Depth Chart Day? Yes, I did.”
“Touché.”
Kyle slid between us without warning, his phone shoved in my face first and then Clay’s.
“Ooooh, what’s this? Doest me smell romance in ze air?”
I rolled my eyes as Clay shoved Kyle back. “Go cook up drama for your show somewhere else, Robbins.”
“Seems like there’s plenty cooking right here.” He shoved his phone back in my face. “Novo, tell us — is Clay’s cock as big as his ego?”
I was two seconds away from knocking my fist back and socking Kyle in the nose Helga Pataki style when he was ripped backward by his t-shirt, and Zeke caught him just before his back slammed into the lockers. All he did was glare at him, that shirt still clenched in his fist, but Kyle shut up.
Zeke released him, and Kyle gave me a little wink before skipping off to annoy someone else.
“Ignore him,” Clay said. I knew he was talking about Kyle, but I had my laser beam gaze fixed on Zeke.
“Stop doing that,” I said, trying to keep my voice low and resist the urge to shove him into the lockers.
“Handling your light work?”
“Trying to save me,” I combatted through gritted teeth. “Or protect me or whatever it is you think you’re doing. You’re not my knight in shining armor, and I’m not a helpless little princess, okay? I can handle myself. If you just give me the fucking chance to.”
“He was being a disrespectful ass,” Zeke said, his eyes narrowing. “I didn’t realize you were the only one allowed to point that fact out and put him in his place.”
I stepped into him, my chest bumping his rib cage. His eyes slipped to where my modest cleavage was visible, one eyebrow arching at the sight, and that made me narrow my eyes even more.
“Every time you fight a battle for me, you make me look weaker.”
“You act like you’re so special. I’d snuff out Kyle’s annoying buzz for anyone on this team. I’m just being a friend.”
“You’re not my friend.”
The corner of Zeke’s mouth lifted as he looked down his nose at me. “Just your roommate?”
I realized then that this was exactly what he wanted — to get under my skin.
I cracked my neck, stepping back and turning to my locker long enough to rip my shirt overhead. I swore I felt those dark eyes searing my skin until I had a fresh tank top on, and then I grabbed my badge and water bottle and stomped off toward the cafeteria without another look in his direction.
I was so focused on calming my breaths that at first I didn’t notice it, the eyes that followed me through the locker room and down the hall. Slowly, they crept in on me, and I wondered if they’d all watched that scene unfold, if they were all placing bets on who I was fucking.
Typical.
But the more players I passed, the more those stares became smiles, and nods, and even a few mumbled affirmations that I couldn’t quite make out.
Once I had my food and sat down at one of the tables in the cafeteria, I recognized it.
Respect.
It radiated off every pair of eyes that found me. No, it wasn’t the whole team, but it was certainly more than I’d had before that point.
I was used to eating by myself, but Holden took the seat across from me as soon as I sat down, and the rest of the table filled quickly with players who hadn’t said more than a word to me all camp.
No one praised me. No one called attention to my kick. But there was an unspoken alliance there, like I was finally part of the team.
It felt like more of a victory than the kick itself.
