When the summer practices end, I'm still standing, much to the chagrin of the coaches and most of the players. Some of them tolerate me now, like a pesky younger sister. Little nods hello, and Jackson raises his chin at me on occasion. Ramirez is more difficult to read. Every morning I show up for practice, he grins and says, "Ah, el toro vuelve otra vez para más castigo."
"Huh?" I grunt at him.
"Oh, es nada. Hola, chica."
The next day it's the same story: "El toro vuelve otra vez para más castigo."
"Ramirez, what the hell are you trying to tell me? I don't speak Spanish."
He smiles again and nods at me.
After the third morning he says it, I decide to look it up, you know, to make sure it isn't something pornographic. It translates into something like this: "The bull returns again for further punishment." I don't know if he was referring to me or himself, but I'm pretty sure it was me. He's comparing me to livestock. And stupid livestock at that. But by the third week, I decide that he means it as a compliment.
The other players aren't as complimentary. I have several nicknames, including Butch Bitch, Bull Dyke, and Vagitarian. Mostly these little gems come from Carson's toadies: Chris Nolan, Jason Baker, Randy Nance, and Ryan Lundy. The entire O-line.
The defense as whole ignores me, except for Lucas McCallister and his twin brother Matthew, who play defensive ends. They're fraternal twins, like me and Pax. Lucas is lanky and always has a smile on his face, while his brother is all serious and all muscle. After the day I juked Lucas in practice to score a touchdown on kick return, I think I earned their respect. Sometimes they talk and joke around with me, but mostly when nobody else is looking. Lucas has this high-pitched giggle that's infectious. It's the type of laugh you can hear across a football field and always makes me smile. He's kind of a hot mess, but I like him.
Ben Ross and Jake Tate, the gentle giants on the defensive line, are nice enough. If you consider nice not calling me names to my face or talking shit about me behind my back.
The linebackers are another story. They're just plain scary. Legion of boom.
Big guys with furrowed brows. Remember Marshall Payne? He's still never said a word to me, but I'm pretty sure I annoy the hell out of him. I'm like a fly buzzing around, distracting him from the business of doom and destruction.
But none of them are intimidating enough for me to quit showing up. Now, I've made it to the first scrimmage against Westbury, and I've waited a long time for this day. Ever since I started playing football at age nine. The day has finally come.
I'm about to play under the Friday night lights.
Well, probably not playing. Warming a bench. Still, I'm pretty freaking excited.
When the Star-Spangled Banner blares over the PA system, chills run up my body.
Looking around the stadium, I can't believe it. Even though it's only a scrimmage, everyone in the whole damn town is in the stands. I don't think there's much else to do here on a Friday night other than hang out at the Dairy Queen or go fishing on the lake.
My mom and dad aren't here. I'm not surprised about my mom, because the last time she went to a football game was to watch my brother play, so I get it that she doesn't want to relive those memories.
But... my dad. That's another story. I really thought he'd come. I really did.
My sister made the varsity cheerleading squad, despite her crappy memory and lack of rhythm. Apparently, they need someone small and acrobatic for the top of their pyramid. I thought Emma's debut might get my parents to go to show up. At least to keep one eye trained on the sky and one on the sidelines where their slightly less perky child would be stationed for the duration of the game.
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RUNNING BACK
Teen FictionI have a lot of secrets. Trying out for my new school's football team disguised as a boy is only the beginning. As much as I hate to admit it, I'm developing a disturbing crush on a teammate. But that's not my worst secret. Nobody here knows I ha...
