Throw Like a Girl

by Sarah Henning

  I know that look, but I also know we’ve got this.

  “They’re going to expect me to throw—new quarterback, showing off.” I glance to Jake. “So we run.”

  Jake’s face breaks into a wolf’s smile. “White Three?”

  It’s the perfect play for turbo Jake. “Exactly.”

  “Break!” My voice rings into the night and we face the golden line. Fifty-five, one of the linebackers who downed Grey, does all he can to force me to recognize the evil grin on his face.

  Suck it, fifty-five. You aren’t taking me out.

  “WHITE THREE! WHITE THREE! HUT-HUT!”

  Topps snaps the ball and I shoot back, Jake snagging the ball before my arm goes up and back. I bomb through the motion as number thirty-two turns the line, breaking into the open. A defender finally wises up and is on him, Jake’s arm propped out in the Heisman pose—

  A beefy arm slams into my sternum, the wind and thought knocked out of me as my body plunges to the turf.

  The shriek of a whistle; the whizz of a flag in my periphery.

  “Football isn’t for girls,” a rough voice informs me when I’m finally on the ground, face to the grass. Something, a hand, maybe, presses me deeper into the sod for good measure.

  I roll over, golden jersey stalking away, his number stuttering out in triplicate across my vision.

  Fifty-five. Fifty-five. Fifty-five.

  He did get me.

  Dammit.

  But as I rise to my knees, I realize he’s been punished—for both the late hit and unnecessary roughness.

  Meaning we gain another fifteen yards and a first down on the play.

  Topps lends a hand and I take it, using the solid anchor of two hundred fifty pounds to stand. My knee doesn’t hitch, and for that, I’m thankful. I take a step, and though the bruise is still there, it’s unbothered, the tight sleeve adding support. I don’t even have to pretend not to limp.

  “You okay, O-Rod?”

  I give him my best smile. “We just made it to the twenty-five. I’m great.”

  Topps doesn’t seem convinced, but isn’t stupid enough to harp on the fact that I’ve got a clod of turf lodged in the front of my helmet and a glorious green streak down the length of my number thirteen. I find my dad’s eyes in the stands yet again and he raises a fist.

  I can do this.

  The boys huddle back up and I confirm Shanks’s call from the sidelines.

  “Orange Nine.” Tate’s eyes flash. Our favorite. “Break!”

  I make sure number fifty-five gets a good look at the calm on my face. Just so he knows there’s no way in hell he’s affected me now, even if I’ll surely be aching tomorrow.

  “ORANGE NINE! ORANGE NINE! HUT-HUT!”

  The ball is gone a second later, Tate in the perfect position.

  He slams into the defender but holds fast, and the Jewell player goes down, allowing him to break loose. Tate dodges to the sideline and tightropes it all the way down before being shoved out at the one.

  A single yard at the end zone is the most difficult yard in football.

  But I’ve got Jake.

  We don’t even need a huddle.

  “WHITE NINETEEN! WHITE NINETEEN! HUT-HUT!”

  I twist my shoulders to expose the ball to Jake, who squeezes it into the three and two on his chest before vaulting over the line and somersaulting into the end zone.

  He stands and spikes it, arms out wide as Tate greets him in a chest bump.

  Tigers: back on top.

  The minutes tick down and we’ve still traded scores.

  But, incredibly, even that’s not good enough because we’re losing.

  On its last possession, Jewell Academy went for two, rather than the extra point. With precision and what I would say was a huge-ass amount of swagger, the golden guild coolly went up one.

  So, Jewell’s up 43–42 with exactly a minute left on the clock.

  Goddammit.

  Every bone in my body is weary as I cough down one last swig of Gatorade. My knee’s been much better than I hoped, but it aches more than the rest of me if I’m being honest. Lee and Shanks loom above my spot on the bleachers. I’m missing Grey, who’s still somewhere with the medic, and I’m wishing he were here, shoulder-knocking the jitters out of me.

  “Plenty of time, plenty of time,” Lee says, almost as a mantra. I force myself to look Coach in the eye, but all I can see is him addressing us during my first practice, sharing his hopes and dreams for us—for his final season.

  Lose this one and getting to state becomes nearly impossible. Not totally, but reality takes a detour into the Candy Land of statistics and scenarios.

  I have to win. I can’t be the gamble who led the offense in the two losses in Coach Lee’s final year. I can’t.

  “Rodinsky, you listening?” I nod and his voice drops twenty decibels, zeroing in on me. “Look, I know I give you a hard time. You’re not the second coming of Peyton Manning, but you’re not half-bad. Know that.” Sheesh, thanks. “Keep those feet moving and follow your instincts. You know better than those boys out there how to win.”

  I don’t know that I do, especially compared to “those boys” on the Jewell side, but something about Coach Lee’s voice makes me believe. Maybe because he’s never said anything so damn nice to me in regard to my football playing.

  Lee pats me on the helmet and peels off, visor pointed toward the ensuing kickoff.

  Shanks squats down in his place—his dark face looming level with my eyes.

  “No matter what happens here, you Orange Nine to Tate. Next White Nine to Jake. We’ll call it from there.”

  The drums begin, another kickoff imminent. My mind swims with images of that final-second loss to Central. I shake my head, ponytail a ratty ball of tangles. Those memories have no place in the now.

  Champions don’t dwell on past mistakes.

  Champions don’t dwell on things they can’t control.

  Champions only look forward, they never look back.

  I could go on all day with the pearls of wisdom Danielle stole from some book and then sprinkled throughout my sweat-stained childhood.

  “Liv!”

  My head whirls around to the sound of Grey’s voice. He’s walking as fast as possible, the medic behind him, yelling after him not to break into a run.

  But I can run to him. I get to my feet and sprint his way before stopping on a dime—not wanting to crash into him and do more damage.

  “You came back,” I say, thrilled.

  “As soon as they’d let me.” Grey wraps an arm around my shoulders as the crowd thunders in the background, cheering on our guys as they sprint the kickoff back down the field.

  The whistle blows. The ball down at our forty. A sixty-yard march in less than sixty seconds, coming up.

  “You’ve got this, Liv,” he says, squeezing me into his body.

  I’m programmed to nod, so I do. He doesn’t buy it.

  “No, look at me.” My eyes fly up from the middle distance to his. “You’ve got this. You will find a way to win. You will make it happen. Because you’re Liv Rodinsky and you’re absolute magic.”

  I just kiss him. Quick and hard.

  In goes the mouth guard. On goes the helmet.

  I start yelling the second I’m on the field, not wanting to waste any time with a huddle.

  “ORANGE NINE! ORANGE NINE!”

  I curl in behind Topps. “HUT-HUT!”

  I launch back five steps, spot Tate slightly off route and readjust, aiming to split his numbers. Some asshole in gold is tailing him, but I know Zach Tate’s got this and I release the ball as planned.

  Tate catches it and tucks the ball into his elbow as his cleats make contact with the turf, legs churning as he dodges left. The Jewell player goes down in his dust. A linebacker rushes over to help, tripping up Tate at the knees. But he’s made it to the Jewell forty-one—a nineteen-yard gain and a first down.

  We step up to the line, the seconds ticking toward
a half minute remaining. No huddle, just my voice and our collective muscle memory.

  “WHITE NINE! WHITE NINE! HUT-HUT!”

  The handoff to Jake isn’t the smoothest, both of us eager to do our jobs, the ball bobbling in his fingertips. But he’s Jake effing Rogers and he’s done this a million times. The ball is safe and sound in a fraction of a second and then number thirty-two is on the move.

  Jake loops out along the sideline and, as the second defender closes in, he smartly steps out of bounds—stopping the clock.

  Nineteen seconds and twenty-five yards remain.

  I look to Shanks, not missing our kicker warming up on the sidelines, ready for the winning field goal. I half expect the coaches to call in special teams right now, but they decide to give it one more try for a better position.

  White Fifteen. It’s a play he hasn’t called all night. Jewell definitely won’t know what hit them.

  I glance at Jake and he nods. Ready.

  Again, we rush the line, the Jewell defense clearly unsettled with our lack of huddle. Gotta use that to our advantage one last time.

  “WHITE FIFTEEN! WHITE FIFTEEN! HUT-HUT!”

  I take the ball and shoot back, Topps holding the pocket.

  But Jake’s run into trouble—number fifty-five glued to his back.

  Dammit.

  Still, in front of me, there’s an opening. A huge opening.

  For a split second, I consider dumping the ball to the sideline like I should to stop the clock again, but I know what’s best, what will end the game at this very moment. Coach is right, my instincts can win this game—even if they don’t involve my throwing arm.

  Tucking the ball, I plow through the parted bodies and into the open. I’m certain Grey’s voice rises above the crowd, the clash of bodies, my breath thundering in my ears.

  “Run, O-Rod!”

  My feet automatically coast left when I realize there’s a body at my side, but it’s Topps, who somehow shook his assignment and sprinted fast enough to block for me.

  The end zone looms ahead, the goalposts the whole of my vision. I can’t feel my knee—I can’t feel anything except the tight thrill of tunnel vision, single-mindedness the whole of my being.

  Another body zooms into my periphery—another flash of orange.

  “Liv! Go!”

  Jake.

  Now I’ve got guys on either side, protecting me. And Grey in my head, telling me I’ve got this.

  Five yards.

  Four yards.

  Three.

  Two.

  One.

  My cleats hit the end zone with three seconds to spare. Arms raised, I spike the ball and turn to the crowd, inhaling the thunder and love.

  “Ooooooo-ROOOOOODDDDD!” Topps hooks me under the shoulders and hoists me into the air, Jake in step with us. I spot Danielle in the crowd first, her hands in the air, screaming—Dad, Mom, Ryan, Heather, and Addie high-fiving. Jake’s wide grin is the next thing I see as Topps returns me safely to the turf, and we slap hands.

  Coach Lee lets the time run out, extra point unneeded. The refs don’t even seem pissed when the entire Tigers bench floods the field, the end zone and night ours. Grey shoves his way through the bodies to me, picking me up and twirling me like I’m freaking Ginger Rogers, not a sweaty girl in a jersey and pads. The moment my cleats hit solid ground, he pulls me into a deep kiss.

  And it might just be my imagination, but the crowd seems to get even louder.

  When we part, the band starts into the Northland fight song, our whole side swaying as one, homecoming spirit times a million.

  Jewell players hang their golden heads, the assistants already packing up because even champions—especially defending state champions—never dwell on a loss.

  Even when they get their asses handed to them by a girl.

  Epilogue

  IT’S THE BOTTOM OF THE SEVENTH. THE BASES LOADED. Two out.

  The crowd is still—orange and purple cleaved together in silence, all eyes pinned to the long-legged strut of the next batter.

  The player with the most hits in the state championship game—this year, and maybe ever.

  The player who has batted in every run the de facto home team has so far tonight.

  The player who is my best friend.

  Addie settles into her too-straight stance, always a praying mantis in cleats. From first base—my new, albeit strange home, the position the only one open on an already solid team—I’ve got a great view of the determination on her face. The set of her mouth is deadly, rigid. She’s led Windsor Prep all year with that grit and hauled the Eagles to the final game in May. To the championship against a team they split games with in the regular season—the revamped Northland Tigers.

  She’s the star player and she’s not planning to fail. A home run and she’d walk off a winner—beating us 6–5. Anything less and there would still be work to do. An out and it would be over, Windsor Prep a runner-up for the second year in a row.

  Cleats scratching, I bounce in the dirt, my knee not even complaining. Training with Napolitano in the weight room all fall and winter, making sure it healed properly, paid off. My eyes are on the Eagle next to me, Ava, who is ready to run the second Addie makes fair contact.

  From the mound, Kelly’s cat eyes check the bases, red ponytail whipping across her shoulders. Rodinsky at first—a replacement for the graduated Sanderson—Janecki at second, Cortez at third. All of us holding strong.

  The situation is so similar to last year that my heart starts to pound, bittersweet in the back of my throat.

  The same teams.

  The same polite cheering from my family and rowdy rumble from football-jersey-clad boys in orange.

  The same best friend up to bat, the bases loaded, the win in her hands as Addie stares down Kelly at the mound.

  But so much is different—not just my uniform. Not just my family’s custom shirts, displaying both purple and orange, split down the middle, a house’s interests divided. Not just the game, one better than last year.

  There’s been no smack talk on base tonight, only mutual respect and admiration. There’s not been a single slur. Not a single punch thrown.

  Addie’s prehit ritual over with, her hips sink slightly lower in the batter’s box. Kelly’s arm windmills through the motion, plant leg sliding under the force. The ball rockets through the bottom right corner of the strike zone, whizzing past Addie’s knees.

  Strike one.

  Addie stands and readjusts her gloves, Velcro cracking into the night. Danielle’s voice shoots out of the Eagles dugout as the team claps and hugs the rail. “Good look, McAndry. Good look. Wait for it. Wait for it.”

  Addie nods as Coach Kitt counters from the steps of the Tigers’ side. “Close it out, Cleary. Close. It. Out.”

  Behind her, in the stands, a line of boys with boulders for shoulders screams Kelly’s name. Jake, Topps, Brady, the receivers, and tight ends, all cupping their hands around their mouths—Cleary, Cleary, Cleary! All but the boy who shares the name, too divided in this situation to do much more than just stand there, not sure whom to root for. Like during football, like the rest of the softball season, Grey’s voice hits my ears harder than any of the others.

  “Lookin’ alive, O-Rod! Lookin’ good!”

  There’s his patented half smile in the sound, along with the confidence that comes with being a reigning state champion himself. He started every game of the postseason, his experience and talent catching the eyes of several schools. But he chose to go to KU—less than an hour’s drive away from home. Away from me.

  Of course, if he’s a state champ in football, so am I. And Addie knows that feeling well, having picked up her own trophy in volleyball. Yes, fall was good to us.

  But none of that matters on this field. In this moment. In this sport.

  Just like last year doesn’t matter.

  The slate’s wiped clean—for our teams. For me. All thanks to the least likely of sources. In the end, it wasn�
��t public compliments from my teammates, Grey’s good word, or my hours practicing in the batting cages that finally moved the chains on my softball dreams.

  It was Kelly.

  Kelly, waltzing into Kitt’s office just before Halloween, a story on her lips. A story of what she’d overheard walking from the mound to the dugout two seconds before Stacey was on the ground, blood spurting from her nose.

  Kitt called me in soon after and asked for all the answers I’d never offered up. The past skewed through a different lens in five minutes flat. I know it wouldn’t have been that easy if I’d told the tale on my own. Kelly’s confirmation provided exactly the verification I needed.

  Now, Kelly checks each base as all three runners—Ava, Rosemary, and Christy—inch off again, angling for the maximum possible advantage. Her arm windmills through in a blur, a perfect fastball, straight through the heart of the strike zone.

  It’s a dare.

  Hit me with your best shot.

  And Addie can’t resist.

  She swings hard, bat aimed at the fences, legs powering through. But the ball connects high on the shaft, clipping up and out, fair but losing steam quick.

  The runners take off and Kelly stutter-steps off the mound, positioning herself right under the ball as it descends straight in her glove.

  The third out.

  The orange side of the crowd erupts, cheers falling onto the diamond like snow as the outfield storms in, greeting Kelly and the rest of the infield in one hopping, cheering, index-finger-pointing huddle.

  We’ve won.

  I’ll join them in a second, but first I have to take care of some important business.

  We come at each other like magnets and we hug each other deeply. Addie’s heart drums against the EAGLES looping across her button-up.

  “You rocked it, McAndry.”

  She nods into my shoulder, besting my squeeze by a mile, always the strongest person I know. Behind her, I see Danielle in front of the dugout, greeting the Eagles as they stumble off the field, pulling them in for hugs before sending each girl to the postgame handshake line.