A rough hand probing where no hand should be...

Pete's Vagina
77. Unnecessary Roughness
by Erin Halfelven

The Wolves kicked short, maybe figuring I was winded. I wasn’t. The ball hit the turf near the forty and bounced my way like I would loan it lunch money. I snatched it on the third hop and cut left, aiming to go down the sideline before their ends closed in.

They were faster this half—hounds on a fresh scent. I juked once, twice, then ran straight into #44, the one I’d heard them call Brick. The nickname made sense—he hit like one. I felt my teeth click together, and the air whooshed out of me.

More bodies piled on. I twisted, grunting, protecting the ball from being taken away from me. When the whistle finally came—a shrill mercy—I tried to breathe.

Someone’s weight rolled off my shoulder pads. Another knee grazed my ribs. Then I felt it again—that unwelcome, invasive pressure under my jersey. A rough hand probing where no hand should be.

The hand froze. Then jerked away like it had touched fire.

“Jesus,” somebody muttered. “That’s—”

The pile broke apart fast after that. I scrambled up on one elbow, panting, holding my ribs. They were all staring. Brick had his helmet pushed up, mouth open. “You really are a—” he started, then shut up, staring around himself like he feared being heard.

Coach Wilson was yelling from the sideline, asking if I was okay. The ref blew his whistle again, more impatient this time. I stood up, my head buzzing.

“I’m fine,” I called out, waving a hand toward Coach. My voice shook a little. I’d seldom been hit that hard, and the pile-on had been brutal. I walked toward where my guys were gathering, steady on my feet, shaking my arms and rolling my shoulders to rearrange the aches and pains.

But the Wolves didn’t line up. They huddled around their captain, and you could hear the muttering—half words, half growls. One of them looked my way, eyes narrowed.

I heard one phrase a little louder than others. “We don’t hit girls.”

That did it. I ripped off my helmet, hair sticking to my forehead. “Then maybe you should learn how!” I yelled at them. Stupid thing to say.

Silence. The whole field went still—even the cheerleaders and the crowd. You could’ve heard a dry leaf land.

Jake, bless him, looked ready to back me up, but the ref was already jogging over. “You all right, #17?” he asked, voice cautious, like he was stepping around a coiled snake.

“I’m fine,” I repeated. My heart was hammering, but I wasn’t about to let them see me shake. “Can we play football now?”

The Wolves’ coach came out to meet Wilson mid-field. They didn’t raise their voices, but you could read it in the gestures: this was about me. About what I was. Or wasn’t. Maybe they hadn’t known, maybe they hadn’t believed it. The little playlet we put on before the game should have made it plain.

Coach Wilson finally turned back toward me. His face was red—not angry, more like embarrassed on my behalf. “Pete,” he said, “take a knee for a minute.”

I did, because what else could I do? I knelt in the grass and let my helmet rest on the ground. Jake, Dave, Ups and some of the other guys stood or kneeled beside me. “Lions, Rah,” someone whispered.

The Wolves were backing toward their bench, helmets off, all of them watching me like I’d just grown horns. Their coach waved his clipboard once, a final gesture, and then pointed toward the locker rooms.

Wilson turned toward us and mouthed something. I read his lips. Forfeit. It took a moment to sink in. The Wolves were going to forfeit the game.

A murmur went through the bleachers. Half the crowd didn’t know why the game was over, and the other half demanded to know. I stood up slow. The ref talked to Coach, wrote something on his card, and that was that.

Lee stumped over from the sideline, cameras hanging off him, his brace creaking. “What the hell’s wrong with them?”

I shrugged, swallowing hard. “Guess they don’t like competition.”

“Bullshit,” said Jake. “They’re scared of you. We were beating them because of you.”

Maybe they were. But standing there in the middle of the field, with the sun low and gold and my stomach tight as a fist, I felt smaller than I ever had.

Coach called the team in for a short huddle. He didn’t make a speech. Just said, “The Wolves won’t play if Pete is on the field. I refused to scratch her, and the refs backed me up. We’ll take the W. Hit the showers.” Then, quietly, to me: “Good work out there, Pete. Don’t let ‘em get to you.”

He glanced over at where the media people and the politicians had gathered. “I’ll take care of dealing with those guys. Get off the field before they ambush you.”

I nodded, helmet under my arm, throat too thick to speak.

On the way to the locker rooms, the Wolves filed past us, some glancing my way. A few couldn’t meet my eyes. One—Brick again—muttered something that might’ve been “sorry.” I didn’t trust myself to answer.

Inside the tunnel, the air was cool and damp, smelling of sweat and disinfectant. Lee fell in beside me. “You really gonna let that slide?”

“Which part?”

“Them forfeiting. You shoulda made ‘em finish.”

I snorted. “And how would I do that? Drag ‘em back onto the field?”

He grinned crookedly. “Wouldn’t put it past you.” He stepped closer to give me a one-armed hug and a kiss on the forehead. The Lions around us roared. I stood on tiptoe to give him a peck on the cheek. Having a boyfriend is strange but nice.

Lee headed toward the van with his own equipment. He’d have to deal with his mom later, but Wilson was keeping that crowd away from us.

I paused in the hallway as my teammates filed past me into the boys’ locker room. Their mood was weird—half triumphant, half careful. The guys were talking loud on purpose to cover the quiet.

I went on into the girls’ side and sat on the bench, peeled off my jersey, and stared at the armor-plated bra like it belonged to somebody else.

Coach Debbie poked her head in, some of the cheerleaders behind her. “You good?”

“Define good,” I said.

She came in and shut the door behind her. “You made history today, kid.”

“Yeah. First girl to lose a game we won.”

She sighed. “You didn’t lose anything. They did.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

She crouched beside the bench. “Pete, people don’t change all at once. You scare them. That’s what happens when the world realizes its rules are wrong.”

I looked at her, trying to decide if that was supposed to make me feel better. “Maybe,” I said. “But I still just want to play football.”

She smiled—sad, proud, both at once. “That’s how it starts. Somebody wants something that others don’t want to let them have.”

Joanna came in and sat beside me with Megan on my other side. “Hey, Petey-Pete,” she said, grinning like always. “Next week’s the Eagles. You ready to scare some more boys?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m up for it.” I finished taking off my equipment and put my civvies on. I’d shower when I got back home. Megan and Joanna gave me soft hugs, and none of us sniffed back tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about. We’d won, hadn’t we?

*

Outside, the sun had finally dropped behind the hills, and the sky glowed orange like a last warning. Somewhere in town, I could already hear the gossip starting—the buzz of witnesses who had seen something they didn’t understand.

I took one last look back at the empty field. The chalk lines were still bright under the lights, white scars on brown earth. I saw Lee in the parking lot, putting his cameras away.

I glanced at the visitors’ bus, filling up with Werewolves. They’d said they didn’t hit girls. Fine.

From now on, I’d make sure no one could catch one either.