And that if? It’s a biggie.
Stupid crazy-pants schedule.
My phone rings as I move to shut my locker, and I glance at the clock. I’ve got a few minutes before practice starts, so I grab my phone and swipe to accept the call.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie.” Her words are cheerful, buoyant even. Someone’s in a good mood. The thought brings a smile to my face. “How’s your day going?”
“Good.” Because all things being relative, it is a good day. Despite the fact that I’m about to go perform like a show pony for a bunch of reporters. “I’ve got practice in a few minutes, but I’m glad you called. You sound happy and…well rested,” I say, realizing that for the first time in ages her words aren’t tinged with fatigue.
Mom laughs, the sound carrying through the phone like the tinkling of a wind chime. “Well, that’s because the car’s running again, and I let my director know I’ll be cutting my hours back when the next schedule comes out.”
The light at the end of the tunnel.
Relief floods my veins, loosening the ever-present knot of worry in my chest. “Good. You always preach the value of self-care. It’s about time you indulge in a little.”
“I’ll certainly have plenty of free time.” She sounds excited by the prospect, reaffirming my decision to play football. I may be tired, but Mom’s been working her ass off, shouldering the financial burden of our little family for twenty-one years—alone. I can do it for one season. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll even take one of those Zumba classes that are all the rage at the community center.”
“Whoa, listen to you, wild woman,” I tease, a smile curving my lips. “Don’t get too carried away.”
We share a laugh, but her voice is wrought with concern when she speaks again. “Speaking of getting carried away, how’re things going with the team? You’re not getting involved with those boys, are you?”
“Mom!” Heat floods my cheeks, and I turn away from the mirror, not needing to see the evidence of my total humiliation. Thank God my mom isn’t into FaceTime, because I’m pretty sure involved is code for sex and while the only orgasms I’m having are courtesy of two AA batteries, one look at my face would tell her everything she needs to know about my lusty Reid-centric thoughts. “Are we going to have this conversation every time you call?” I ask, hoping to put an end to the subject once and for all.
I mean, honestly, we’ve been having the same “football players suck” conversation since I got my first period. And fine, maybe I ignored it to my detriment in high school, but message received and lesson learned. It’s time to move on.
She pauses, and I can easily imagine her pursing her lips on the other end of the line, running her reply through the filter I’m sorely lacking. “I won’t apologize for worrying about you,” she says, her words filled with that fierce tiger-mom pride that floods my heart with warmth. “You’re my baby and it’s my job to protect you. Trust me. They’re all the same. I don’t want to see you learn that lesson the hard way.”
Like she did.
I swallow, reminding myself why I agreed to do this in the first place. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything that would jeopardize my scholarship, which is why I’ve got to go. Practice is starting.”
She sighs. “All right. I don’t want to make you late. I’m sorry I can’t make it to the game tomorrow, but I’ll be listening on the radio at work. You’re going to do great.”
“Thanks, Mom.” She may not like that I’m playing football (probably hates it with the fire of a thousand suns), but I have zero doubt her confidence in me is sincere. She’s always been my biggest fan. “I love you.”
We say our goodbyes, and I make my way to the outdoor practice field where Coach Jackson is already waiting with the reporters. Five of them, to be exact. Which is two more than I expected. My belly flips, and for a minute I think the apple slices I ate on my way over might make a reappearance. Not exactly the kind of headline I want to make today.
“Miss Carter,” Coach Jackson says by way of greeting before swiftly introducing the reporters. Their names and affiliations are lost on me—my brain is stuck on a let’s-get-this-over-with-before-I-hurl loop—but I do learn two of them are photographers or videographers or whatever they’re called. So only three interviewers, as promised.
With the introductions complete, Coach Jackson suggests we start with the Q&A. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus. I’m not sure I could focus on kicking knowing they’re waiting to play twenty questions.
Just, no.
I suck in a deep breath, inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass that lingers in the air, and let the sounds of practice wash over me. Sounds that have become as familiar to me as my own breathing over the last few weeks. The telltale crash of pads and helmets. The calling of plays. The grunts and cheers that follow a well-executed tackle. The sun is warm on my face and there’s no wind today. Perfect conditions for a kicker.
Perfect conditions for me.
I open my eyes and smile at the interviewers, letting them know I’m ready when they are and hoping they won’t see straight through me. There are no bleachers on the practice fields, so we dive into the interview where we stand, thirty yards from the end zone where Coach has set up the football and
