And I would be.
“I’m giving this all to you straight, Paige, because I believe you can handle it,” I said, folding my hands on the table. “You want to know what else I believe?”
Paige didn’t respond.
“I believe you will be better than a lot of boys on the teams you play on, and I believe you will excel in football. I think you will learn some of life’s biggest lessons from it, and that it will become a part of you — a permanent part of you, one you’ll never be able to erase. I think you’ll breathe it in like it’s the only oxygen that keeps your lungs working, and I think that no matter what challenges you face, you’ll overcome them.”
I leaned closer, leveling my eyes with hers.
“And more than anything, I believe you can have a happy and amazing life playing football. I believe you could play in high school, and college, and — truly — maybe even in a professional league. Now, I don’t know what that would look like — not yet — but I believe just by your passion alone that it could happen. And if it doesn’t work out that way?” I shrugged, smiling as I tapped her nose. “I know for a fact that you’d make a damn good coach.”
Paige giggled at that, but as soon as her smile had appeared, it slipped away again. “Why can’t girls play football professionally?”
Sydney and I exchanged glances, and she wiped her hand on her apron before walking over to her daughter. She bent down, swept her hair out of her face, and looked her in the eyes. “There are many reasons, Paigey. Some argue that women would get hurt, and it’s a very valid argument. As you know from watching, there’s a lot of danger with concussions and other life-altering injuries — whether you’re a girl or a boy.” Sydney sighed, glancing at me before she addressed her daughter again. “But, there are no rules that say a woman can’t play in the NFL.”
“Really?” Paige lit up.
“Really,” I chimed in. “And, there are already many women working for the NFL as coaches, advisors, agents, trainers — like your mom — and more. There are a lot of ways to make a life in football.”
We both watched her as she digested it all, and I resisted the urge to say more. It was a lot to throw on a nine-year-old. Hell, most kids her age had no idea what they wanted to do with their lives, and even if they thought they knew, they were likely to change their mind down the road.
But, I knew that look in Paige’s eyes when she talked about football. It was the same one I’d seen reflected in my own growing up.
This wasn’t just a phase for her.
It was everything.
After a long while, Paige looked at her mom, and then at me, and with determination in her eyes, she nodded. “I know it’s going to be hard, and I know the boys are going to be tough on me, but I don’t care.” Her little hand balled into a fist on the table. “I want to play football.”
I smiled, glancing at Sydney who looked over her shoulder at me with a mixture of pride and anxiety. I nodded slightly, locking my gaze on hers with a silent promise that I would help Paige, and that I would take care of her. And Sydney nodded back, as if she understood.
As if she trusted me unreservedly.
For reasons I couldn’t grasp, I wanted to hold onto her gaze, to memorize the trust in her eyes and analyze the depth of it.
But, I tore my eyes away and looked at her daughter, who was watching me without so much as a single ounce of hesitation or concern for what she’d just decided.
“Okay, then,” I said, standing. “Let’s play.”
Paige was just as tough as her mother.
She was also just as talented.
We spent every hour of sunlight in Sydney’s backyard with a football, breaking only to eat lunch and to run in for bathroom breaks. From the moment we stepped foot on the grass and Paige showed me how she learned to line up her fingers on the laces of the ball and throw a perfect spiral, I knew I hadn’t been wrong in my assumptions about her.
Football was ingrained in that little girl. It was already a part of who she was, and I knew without a doubt it would be a part of who she’d become, too.
Regardless of that belief, I didn’t go easy on her.
We ran drills just like the ones I knew she’d run in football camp. I pushed her to her limits, testing her in everything from agility and speed to stamina and strength. When I asked what her top three desired playing positions were, she answered with quarterback, wide receiver, and kicker.
Three very different positions with very different sets of challenges.
Still, I gave her a crash introduction course in each, running throwing drills and catching drills and making her kick over and over until she started to complain that her foot was sore.
Sydney worked in her garden, did yoga on the porch, read over her notes in her training binder on our players, and read a thriller I recognized from Logan’s bookshelf — all while keeping a close eye on us. When the sun began to make its descent, casting Paige’s brown curls in a golden light, Sydney finally called it.
“Alright, you two,” she said, standing as she slipped a bookmark between the pages of her book to hold her place. “I think that’s enough for today.”
I expected Paige to whine and beg for more time, but she put her hands on her knees, panting for a long moment before she stood and smiled at me victoriously.
“How’d I do, Coach?” she asked, squinting against the setting sun.
I ruffled her hair, the roots of it damp with sweat. “Killed it.”
“Can we do this again?” she asked with wide eyes.
I glanced at Sydney, who worried her lip a little before nodding.
“Of course,” I answered Paige, holding out my hand for a high five. “But you better work on these drills by yourself, too. Don’t wait for me to get you going.”
“I will! I promise!”
Sydney joined us from the porch, resting her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Alright, Paigey. Go get washed up for dinner.”
“Are you staying for dinner, too?” Paige asked me, folding her hands together. “Oh! And maybe to watch the Vols game, too?”
“Paige…” Sydney warned.
“Oh, Mama, please,” Paige said again, turning her begging eyes to her mother.
Sydney pulled on one of Paige’s curls, letting it bounce back into place before she spoke. “Jordan has been with us all day, sweetie. I’m sure he wants to get home.”
“I don’t mind.”
The words came out too quickly, too honestly, and Sydney’s eyes locked on mine as Paige tugged on her overalls.
“See? He wants to. Pleeeeeeease.” She folded her hands together again and bounced, eyes hopeful and bottom lip protruded.
Sydney watched me for a moment longer, a question in her eyes I couldn’t decipher before she addressed her daughter again with a sigh. “You’re too cute for your own good.”
“Yes!” Paige said, knowing without an affirmative answer that she’d won. She bounded off into the house without another look. “I’ll shower fast and put the game on!”
She was gone before I could answer, and I chuckled, sliding my hands into my pockets. “I’m sorry about that,” I said to Sydney, a little embarrassed. “I should have pulled you aside to ask you if you wanted company before I agreed like that.”
“No, it’s okay,” she said just as quickly as I had, and I smiled at the sight of a blush on her cheeks. “I don’t get the chance to cook for guests very often. I like it.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded.
For a long while, we stood there, toe to toe, in her backyard as the sun lit up the sky with vibrant pinks and violets, her eyes on mine and mine watching her, in return.
“Need some help in the kitchen?” I finally offered.
At that, she gave a short laugh out of her nose. “I’d love that,” she said, but one brow quirked high as she let her eyes roam down the length of me. “But you need a shower first, too.”
“What? Am I a little sweaty?” I asked, inching toward her.
> Sydney’s smile flattened, her eyes wide before they narrowed in warning. “Jordan… don’t you dare.”
“Oh, come on,” I teased, reaching out for her before she could escape. She squeaked and writhed in my grasp as I crushed her in a hug. “See? I’m perfectly dry!”
“Ewww,” she dragged out, swatting at me in laughter until I let her go. She shook her head, shoving me toward the door. “Shower. Now. Before I change my mind and kick you out.”
I was still thinking about the way she felt in my arms, about her eyes, and her smile, and about the way that smile filled her entire face that afternoon as I washed away the day in her shower. I had to wash with her shower gel, which smelled like her, and dry with a towel that did, too.
And it was when I had my nose in that towel, when I took a deep inhale and soaked in her scent, that I realized what I was doing.
My eyes shot open, and I saw myself reflected in the foggy mirror in her bathroom.
What the hell are you doing?
You shouldn’t stay for dinner.
You shouldn’t have been that close to Sydney.
You should leave.
Now.
I knew why I wanted to stay for dinner, regardless of whether I was ready to admit it to myself or not. It was because I didn’t want to leave Sydney at Home. It was because I’d had a glimpse inside her life, and now I wanted to know more.
I wanted to know everything.
It was because I liked the way she felt in my arms, and the way she smelled, and that she had a garden and that she did yoga on her back porch.
It was because I found her beautiful, in every way possible, and I wanted to be with her for as long as I could be.
My expression hardened at my reflection in the mirror. Everything about the man staring back at me screamed question after question, warning after warning, accusation after accusation. It was a dangerous line I was tiptoeing on. There didn’t need to be a written rule for me to know that there were lines between me and Sydney that couldn’t be crossed — not with me as head coach and her as the athletic trainer.
But who said it had to be more than a friendship?
I could stay for dinner. I could get to know Sydney, admire her beauty and loveliness without acting on it.
I wasn’t doing anything wrong.
I searched the eyes I’d searched my entire life for a long moment, something between shame and stubborn denial washing over me the longer I did.
But before it could permeate my skin, I ripped my gaze away.
I finished drying quickly, ignoring the voice inside me that always warned me when I was on the precipice of doing something stupid. I told myself I wasn’t breaking any rules, that I had no intentions other than to be helpful and polite. I told myself I was a welcome guest, that Sydney and I worked together and could be friends, that I was here to help Paige.
Surely, that was okay.
I repeated my excuses over and over as I dressed in a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt I always kept in my car just in case — namely for when I went to Mom’s straight after practice or a game and showered there.
Then, I threw my towel in Sydney’s dirty hamper and joined her in the kitchen, ready to help.
I didn’t look at my reflection again.
Sydney
It was nine-oh-eight when I popped the cork on a bottle of red wine, and I sighed out loud at the sound of it, filling my glass a little past the line of what was ladylike before I held up the bottle with my eyes on my guest.
“Wine?” I asked.
Paige was finally in bed, conked out cold after what was likely the most exciting day she’d had in her young life. She was still talking animatedly about football and how her day with Jordan had gone when I’d tucked her in, and I’d listened to her intently, even as she spoke through her yawns. When I’d paused at her door to tell her I loved her before turning out the light, she’d taken the opportunity to melt my heart.
“This was the best day ever, Mom,” she’d said before she closed her eyes and rolled over. “Thank you.”
I couldn’t help the smile that little girl brought out in me with that statement, nor could I disagree with her that it had been a good day.
But, I was still exhausted — physically and mentally — and my anxiety had worked my nerves to the point of being nearly shredded.
Mama needed a drink.
Jordan smirked at my offer, leaning his elbows on the counter from where he stood on the other side of it. He still looked freshly showered even a couple hours later, his hair slightly damp, skin clean, the faint scent of my bodywash wafting off him. I flushed a little bit at the thought of him naked in my shower, but turned my attention back to the bottle in my hand and away from my boss’s nudity.
“Any chance you have something a little stronger?” he asked.
I gave him an incredulous look before I set the bottle of wine down and pressed up onto my tiptoes to reach into the cabinet above my sink, retrieving a bottle of Scooter Whiskey.
In this town, everyone had a bottle somewhere in their house.
Jordan’s smile climbed at the sight. “That’s more like it. Now,” he said, rounding the counter to join me in the kitchen. “What are the chances you’ve got an orange, some cherries, some—”
“Simple syrup and some bitters?” I chuckled, retrieving two glass tumblers from the cabinet next. I shoved the cork back into the bottle of wine I’d just opened as best I could. “I knew I liked you for a reason. Two old fashioneds coming right up.”
His mouth dropped. “I was totally kidding. You really have everything to make one?”
“It’s one of my dad’s favorite drinks, too,” I explained with a shrug. “I don’t know when I started doing it, but I always have the ingredients on hand — just in case.”
Jordan watched me silently as I made our drinks, and when the final garnish of the cherries were dropped into the glasses, I handed one to him and held the other up in a toast.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I said with a sigh. “But, to football.”
“To football,” Jordan echoed, holding up his own glass. “And to you — may God give you the strength to keep up with that little girl in there.”
“And send me a few angels to help, too.”
We clinked our glasses together with soft laughter, each of us making our own noises of appreciation after the first sip.
A moment of silence fell between us after that, and I kept my eyes on my glass, but could feel Jordan watching me.
“You really are a great mom, you know,” he said. “I should know. I have a great mom, too.”
I smiled. “I’m just trying to keep my head above water.”
“Do you feel a little better about her playing football after today?”
“No,” I answered quickly and honestly on a laugh. My eyes found his, then. “I mean, I guess I feel marginally better, because I know she has you to help, and I feel like she at least understands what she’s getting into. But… I don’t think she’ll really understand until she’s in it. You know?”
Jordan nodded.
“I mean… I don’t have to explain this to you. But, it’s already going to be tough for her in ways that aren’t fair or reasonable. She has hair that doesn’t straighten and skin that’s too dark to be white but too light to be black.” I swallowed, picking at what was left of the polish Paige had painted on my nails. “In this town, and sadly, in a lot of towns, that’s something that will create hurdles for her.”
Jordan let out a long exhale, his eyebrows pinched together as he chewed on what I’d said. “I understand what you’re saying. Trust me, I grew up in an all-white family in practically an all-white town. I get it.” He stood a little straighter, tilting his head before his eyes found mine. “But, she will persevere through any challenges she faces. And I do mean any of them. I know that just after spending one afternoon with her, and I’d wager you know it, too.”
Warmth spread through my chest
like a spring on a summer day. “I will never understand how she got so tough.”
Jordan scoffed. “That one’s easy. You’re her mother.” We shared a smile. “So, since we’re on the topic, what exactly is your nationality?”
I chuckled, because it was a question I got with everyone’s eyes when they first saw me. They didn’t understand the color of my skin or the shape of my eyes and most of all, how they existed in the same human.
I nodded to the dining room table behind Jordan, where we both took a seat before I answered. “Well, my mother is Filipino,” I started. “My father is a Neopolitan ice cream cone, as he always liked to put it. His father is African American, his mother is a Caucasian woman from many different descendants.” I shrugged. “So, I’m somewhere between all of that. What about you?”
Jordan was smiling as he listened, but the curve faded when I asked him to tell me his background. He scratched his neck, looking out the sliding glass door at the dark backyard. “I wish I knew.”
A long, quiet moment stretched between us, and I glanced at where his hands rested on the table — one wrapped around his drink, the other beside it with nothing to hold. I debated reaching out to let him know I was there, but thought better of it, standing to make my way over to the Bluetooth speaker in my living room, instead. I put on a mellow playlist before rejoining him at the table.
“How old were you when the Beckers adopted you?”
“I was a baby,” he answered quickly, and I noted the way his shoulders relaxed now that the conversation was on the family he’d been with all his life instead of the one that created him. “I don’t remember anything before I was with them. Honestly, I didn’t really understand that I wasn’t truly their son — not until we went to the lake for the first time.”
I tilted my head, confused.
“I was five. It was the summer before kindergarten. I don’t remember a lot, but I do remember that Noah was only a baby, one or so, and we went out to the lake with Mom and Dad. I was swimming with some other kids, and one of them pushed me into the water and was making fun of me. He asked me where my parents were so I could run and cry to them, and I pointed to where Mom and Dad were on the shore with Noah, and the kids all laughed. They said, ‘That can’t be your parents. They’re white!’”
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