I resisted laughing, for fear it would come out as a giggle.

Pete's Vagina
76. Bullet
Erin Halfelven

I juked right, then took two steps left, assessing their moves. I caught #31 on the wrong foot, faded him and ran through the hole he left when he turned the wrong way. I saw it was clear to the endzone, and I felt good about being able to outrun these guys.

Remembering what Coach had suggested, I put on some speed to open a gap, then throttled back to let them think they could catch me. You never look over your shoulder while you’re running, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see their safety angling toward me. I let him get within five paces and hit the gas again, crossing the goal line going away.

I felt good but resisted the impulse to celebrate, dropping the ball when the ref signaled touchdown. Then I stood with my head down, hands on my knees, like I was burnt out from running. The Wolves couldn’t see my grin.

We huddled before our try for the extra point, and most of the guys touched my helmet for luck. Upsteen rubbed his whole hand on my helmet and grinned. “I couldn’t catch you up, but you made it look good.”

I resisted laughing, for fear it would come out as a giggle. I’d been doing that a lot lately.

“Bullet, seventeen,” said Jake, and we all agreed with a grunt. A pass play to me? I didn’t expect that, so I felt sure the Wolfpack would be fooled. On the hike, I eeled through the gap my guard opened, and turned. Jake hit me with the pass right where I would have hated to be hit if I hadn’t been wearing chest protection. It still stung, but I had other problems; I had to hold onto the ball while forty-‘leven Wolves made a dogpile on me.

But there’s a limit to what they’re allowed to do. Someone’s hand illegally dug under my ribs, twisting my plastron under my jersey. That hurt too, and I used my helmet to batter a bit of breathing room before the ref’s whistle called off the doggies.

As Jake offered a hand to help me up he saw my grimace. “You all right?” he asked. He looked genuinely concerned—and well, he had called that play knowing the likely pile-on. But that’s football.

“I gotta go to the locker room for a minute,” I said, not wanting to explain on field that my chest was kind of in a bind.

Jake nodded—relieved, I guess, that I wasn’t laying any guilt on him. “We’ll be kicking off, and Coach is keeping you out of kickoffs today, so run tell him where you’re going and be back soonest.”

“Aye, aye, mon capitan,” I responded and trotted toward the sideline. I pointed toward the lockers, signaling my intent, but Coach stepped in my way.

As I reached him, his chin and eyebrows went up, asking the question for him.

“Wardrobe adjustment,” I said just as the crowd unexpectedly got quiet. I blushed, but it didn’t look like anyone except Coach and Lee had heard me.

“You okay?” they both asked at once.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Just the armored bra riding up a bit.” Coach winced, and Lee smirked at that description.

“You did good,” Coach added as I trotted around the near end of the bleachers. I glowed a little at that, always nice to be noticed.

At the locker room doors, I hesitated only a moment before going into the girls’ side. I had no business in the boys’ locker room outside of team meetings. The weirdness still lingered a bit.

The lights were all on, and I’d walked in as far as the team locker wall before I realized Coach Debbie had followed me in.

“Hey,” she called to me. “Everything okay?”

“Mostly,” I responded. “But my plastron got a little whomper-jawed on that last play.”

“Let’s see,” she demanded.

I already had my helmet off, but I had to put it down to lift up my jersey.

“Take it off,” she ordered, and I pulled the fabric off over my head, standing there in shoulder pads and opaque hard plastic bra. My model had shoulder straps and a wide belly band that closed in the back. It wasn’t designed to be comfortable.

“What size are you wearing?” she asked, tugging on the straps and the band.

“Eleven, medium,” I told her.

She scoffed. “That’s got to be too tight! You’re a bigger girl than that.”

“I’m really not,” I protested. “My bra size is just 32A.”

She seemed to boggle at that information. “You’re what? five-nine, 140 pounds, about?”

I nodded; that was about right for girl-me. Boy-me had been shorter and heavier.

“Take off the plastron,” she ordered.

“I have to take off the shoulder pads, too,” I pointed out. “And we’ve got a game going on out there.”

“Do it,” she ordered. “I’m going to find you some better-fitting equipment.” She headed toward the cabinets where such things were kept. “We don’t have shoulder pads on this side, but those are probably the right size.”

“Small,” I agreed. The joke is they come in three sizes, small, medium and gorilla.

I got naked to the waist, feeling a bit self-conscious, but no one was in there, just Coach Debbie.

She returned with a yellow measuring tape and quickly confirmed that I was not 32A. “More like 34C,” she said, frowning.

I rolled my eyes at her. “If you say so.”

She consulted a chart. “That would make your sport protector size a 12. Mine is a 14,” she mentioned.

For some reason, we both giggled. She handed me a towel. “Wipe yourself off,” she said while finding a box in the cabinet. “Then try this on.” She handed me the box. “It’s a different brand, not quite as stiff, so it should be more comfortable.”

After some adjustments, I had the plastron in place, snugly strapped in, and the shoulder pads back on, too.

“You look ridiculous,” she commented.

I frowned at her. “That’s not nice,” I protested, picking up my helmet.

“I just mean that shoulder pads look silly on a girl. And your hair sticks out of your helmet. Have you considered wearing it in a ponytail?”

“Mmf,” I sniffed as I pulled on my jersey and helmet. My hair did seem to have gotten longer in the last few weeks. A low ponytail might make it look more presentable. I paused before I pushed out the door. My reflection in the big mirror had caught my eye.

“Coach!” I objected. “This new protector…. It’s….” It made it more obvious that I had tits, but I didn’t want to say that.

“You ready to play?’ she asked, heading out the door and holding it open for me. I could see the scoreboard above her head. Seven to three. The Wolves had picked up a field goal, and from the sound of things, were getting ready to kick off.

I pushed past Debbie and saw Coach Wilson motioning to me to get over to him. The Lions were already lining up on the field to receive a kickoff.

Wilson met me halfway, pointing toward the field. “Tell the ref you’re going in for number 48,” he shouted.

I trotted happily toward the field, already imagining taking the kickoff and challenging the Wolfpack line to stop me.