Mr. Puller gave me a cheerful, “Attagirl!”

Pete's Vagina
92. Gameface
by Erin Halfelven

The producer, a man named Link Puller, called my name, and my insides turned to ice. He sort of materialized beside me, hiding there in the curtains. A tall man with a bald head, he loomed over me. “You’re scared,” he said. “But Guy and Sheila are good interviewers; they’ll make it easy for you.”

He didn’t tell me to just go out and be myself—which was good, since I didn’t always feel completely sure of who I was anyway. Thinking of it that way made me smile, and Mr. Puller gave me a cheerful, “Attagirl!” just as Guy Turner called my name from the stage.

“Miss Gayle Peterson, number seventeen of the Friendly Lions!” He and Sheila Walsh were both on their feet, looking toward me. No help for it, but I kind of wished I had someone to block for me. Out I went, helmet held by the faceguard, but otherwise completely suited up for a game.

Turner was one of the station’s regular sports announcers, and had once played minor league baseball—reaching as high as AA El Paso as a pitcher—and just missed his cup of coffee with the Angels when he got injured. He qualified as a familiar stranger, since I’d seen him on TV five or six times a week all the way back to junior high. He was even taller than Puller, and he beamed at me with his almost too-perfect teeth, holding out a hand.

Sheila Walsh had started as a weather girl and worked up to being co-anchor of the local morning news. Her spot on Sun-Day was pretty new. She was about my height and coming toward me with both arms out, open wide.

Cripes, was she going to hug me? I hugged back carefully.

“The pads are real, aren’t they, Gayle?”

“Yeah,” I agreed, turning to shake Guy’s hand and hoping he didn’t want a hug, too.

He didn’t. He just laughed and led me toward the chair Teddy Todd had indicated would be mine.

Sitting down, I almost dropped my helmet and put it in my lap to avoid setting it on the floor. I looked around, trying not to stare. Todd and Puller were off to the side, out of the shot. The cameraman stood behind his big, blocky camera. Behind him, I could see the booth where two men worked, handling sound and feeds, surrounded by video monitors.

“Look at you,” said Sheila.

“She’s beautiful,” added Guy.

I felt myself smile a wobbly smile.

Guy smiled back. “I find it hard to believe that someone who looks like you plays football,” he said.

I nodded, hoping my head didn’t fall off my neck. “I do,” I said. “And I think we’re going to State this year. Maybe all the way.”

Sheila clapped her hands.

“No offense, Gayle, but you’re so slender! You’re a halfback? What do you weigh?” Guy asked.

Sheila reached over and punched him in the ribs. “You don’t ask a girl that kind of thing!”

He laughed. “But you do ask a football player that. What? One-twenty-five?” He guessed.

“Closer to one-forty,” I said.

“That’s pretty light for a running back, even in high school.”

I managed not to glare at him. “I’m stronger than I look.” This was a bit of a sore spot for me. Back in September, I remembered bench pressing as much as 195, but since October 2, I lifted more like 135, almost my own weight. Better than most boys who weren’t in weight training, but….

He consulted a card on his desk. “It says here that you’re the leader in rushing yardage and touchdowns for all high school halfbacks in northern Arizona.”

“I’ve got good blockers,” I said.

That made him grin. “I’ve seen the film Lee Frick, a classmate of yours, shot. But it’s hard to believe.”

Sheila put in, “I’m guessing you’re the prettiest halfback in the whole state.”

I shook my head, frowning at her. “The league doesn’t keep stats on that.”

They both laughed. I didn’t smile.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

I nodded.

“What does he think about you playing football?” Guy put in.

“He’s the one who shot the film you saw.”

That put his shoulders back for a moment.

I grinned at him, the way I grinned at opposing linebackers.

“I still find it hard to believe…” he began.

I didn’t want to know what he didn’t believe. “You want to arm wrestle?”

“I—what?”

“Do it, Guy,” said Sheila. “I want to see her kick your…butt!”

“No, I don’t think so.”

I sank another dart. “You’re a southpaw. You could probably beat me left-handed,” I conceded. “But my right arm against your weak side…” I grinned. “I’d take that bet.”

“I—what? No, no.”

Sheila made clucking noises.

I stood up and dragged my chair closer to his desk, putting my helmet on the other unused chair beside me. “C’mon,” I said. “My granddad back in Tulsa taught me a trick.” That was true, but I seldom tried the grip he taught me against someone obviously taller and stronger than me.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” I said, all bravado and trying to pitch my voice down a bit. Damn magic or whatever turned me into a soprano. I sat down and put my elbow on his desk, my arm up in challenge position.

Sheila cackled like she’d laid an egg, and Guy glared at her.

“One go,” I said. “You’d probably beat me two-out-of three.” And because he might catch on to what I was going to do. The stronger person is the usual winner in arm wrestling. But Granddad’s tricky grip would steal some of his power, and the key is to not start by pushing but to pull up on the opponent’s hand to start with. It gives you an instant of leverage before they catch on.

“I don’t think—” Guy began, but Sheila laid another egg, and he reluctantly put his elbow down. I grabbed his hand before he could back out.

“Look at the size of your hand!” I said as I put my much smaller hand in his. “You could probably crush my fingers.”

“I—no…” he began.

“Count of three. Put your game face on,” I said.

He grinned a little goofily.

I glared at him, summoning up the anger I’d felt at the Werewolves for refusing to play against me. “One!” I said.

He tensed a bit but didn’t really tighten his grip much.

“You really did pitch professionally,” I commented. “How long?”

“Two—” he began, meaning to say, “two seasons.”

“Three!” I snarled, pulling his hand up and toward me, rolling his knuckles back, then slamming his whole arm sideways and down. The back of his hand hit the desk before he finished saying, “…seasons.”

“And that,” I said, “is how you rush for 147 yards per game average. Never be where they think you are, or doing what they think you’re going to do.”

Even the cameraman was laughing.