I just want to play football.

Pete's Vagina
82. Off the Bench
by Erin Halfelven

It wasn’t actually that late when I reached my room, so I had enough light that I could just throw myself at the bed, trying to go boneless and relax. I’d been aware that Jordan had followed me down the hall, and sure enough, she came into my room and hit the upper switch for the overhead light.

Unless I’m studying, I usually use the lower switch that only turns on a small lamp on a corner table. I pulled my arm up to shade my eyes from the glare. What dimness the room had was gone. “Damnit,” I said.

“Why are you mad at me?” she asked.

“I’m not,” I said. “But you followed me in, so you have to put up with my mood.”

She turned my desk chair around and sat on that, but I stayed where I was, looking at her sideways from under my armpit. There was a boob partly in the way, but I ignored it.

“I think they’re freaking out,” she observed, indicating she meant our parents with a gesture of her chin.

Molly appeared in the doorway, looked from one of us to the other, then slowly backed out, pulling the door closed behind her. Jordan and I both laughed; our little sister apparently thought we were going to get too serious for her eleven-year-old sensibilities.

I rolled over on my back to better see Jordan, and she and I looked at one another again. Fourteen looks different in November than it does in August. She’d grown another inch or so, but then, so had I. Her red hair was longer than my black hair, but otherwise, we looked much alike in the face.

She was curvier than most high school freshmen, but basically slender. I knew she ran cross country for the school, but I hadn’t managed to go to any of her meets this year—too busy with football.

Jordan rolled her eyes. “Mom called Aunt Claire.”

I made a noise. Claire was Mom’s sister and the family gossip. Now everyone was going to know everything.

Jordan lifted her chin and looked at me as if she had something to say, that she didn’t think I’d like. She folded her arms. “You’re going to be on TV,” she said.

“Some people think so,” I said, guarding my own opinion.

She frowned. “You’re not excited about that?” she asked.

“Big whoop. I don’t want to be on TV for…for being a girl. I just want to play football.”

She nodded, but I didn’t think she really understood. “Joanna nominated you to be Homecoming Queen.”

I made a face because my stomach had turned to ice.

“You’re going to win,” she said. “It would be Joanna or maybe Megan, but now you’ll win, because the cheerleaders and the team are going to make it happen.”

I pulled a pillow over my face. “I refuse,” I mumbled.

“Gayle,” she said, “You can’t. No one’s going to let you, and besides…my big sister is no quitter.”

That hurt. I removed the pillow and glared at her. Neither of us owned dimples, but she made a cute face that almost required them.

“Don’t laugh,” I warned her.

She squeezed out a giggle, but I let it pass.

“You’re not as much of a tomboy as you always want to pretend you are,” she said. “You let people call you Gayle now. When’s the last time you insisted someone call you Hunter?”

My middle name had been in common family use up until that party back at the start of October. God, that was just four weeks ago! I’d woken up on Saturday morning…. I didn’t want to think about it. “They still call me Pete at school,” I said.

She grinned. “And they call me Little Pete.”

I had to smile at that. She looked proud of the nickname.

“You have to get through this and still be you,” she said.

I tilted my head. Was I still me? In spite of what had happened, yeah, I still knew who I was. And all this trouble with teams forfeiting to avoid playing me, and TV wanting interviews, and Mom wanting to buy me a dress…. “I’m still me,” I said.

She nodded. “And you’re still brave…brave enough to wear a dress on national television.”

“National?” I yiped.

She nodded. “The networks are almost sure to pick up your story from the local feed. And you know, we haven’t heard from the CBS affiliate yet. I think they’re going to want an interview too—and maybe the delay is while they figure out if they can get you on their national morning show.” She paused. “They shoot that one in New York.”

When had I stood up? I sat back down on the bed.

“The thing to do is manage this stuff,” she said. “Give them your demands before they make plans or get Mom and Dad to agree to things.”

I nodded. It made sense. “Play offense,” I said. “It’s what I do.”

She laughed. “That’s what I’m going to do, too. I’m going to be Number 17 next year, playing football.”

This again. I scowled at her. “Jordan,” I said calmly. “You know I could stop you? A word from me to Coach, and he’d never let you on the team.”

She has more freckles than I do, but when it looks like you could count them, it means her skin has gone white, and she’s angry. Just that quick…so this is what she had come into my room for.

“You’re graduating,” she pointed out. “Someone has to take your place…wear the number!”

“I’m three or four inches taller than you and at least 30 pounds heavier. And the guys I play against are that much bigger than me, or more.” I stopped, knowing I’d never talk her out of it. I ought to know how stubborn works. “I’ll make you a deal,” I said.

“What kind of deal?”

I stood up and motioned her to do the same. We faced off there between the bed and the desk. “Can you get past me?” I asked, taking a pose like a linebacker. “Me on defense, you need to get past me.”

I lunged at her, and she squealed, making pushing motions at me with her hands. I realized I was wearing my game face. “Hey!” I said. “It’s me, but if you want to play, there’s lots more worse than me on the field.”

She took a breath.

“When they hit you, tackle you to the ground, it hurts.”

“I know,” she said.

“No, you don’t,” I said. “Wrap your right hand around your left wrist.” She just stared at me. I showed her what I meant. My fingers still overlapped, and so did hers. “This is something Megan’s aunt showed me. That overlap means we’ve got light bones.”

She blinked, staring at me.

“Breakable bones,” I said. “So if you’re going to play, if I let you play—you’re going to have to do what I did last year.”

Her freckles had faded, so she was past just being stubborn. She was listening.

“You need to put on that thirty pounds of muscle. Weight training, endurance training, training in how to get hit. You understand me?”

She nodded, smiling a bit.

“No joking,” I said sternly. “I don’t want you to get hurt. If I don’t think you can do it, I’ll blackball your skinny red ass.”

She laughed, but she knew I was serious. We hugged then, like sisters do.