Page 8 of Every Move You Make

Team Meeting

Robyn

Eight weeks later

I’m thrumming with good energy as I walk into the USA Valor training facility for our team meeting. It’s been about a month since everyone has seen each other. Women’s professional rugby isn’t set up like other professional sports in the U.S. Our games are scattered throughout the year, and sometimes we go through small periods of time between matches, like we just did. But with summer on its way, we have to get ready for three upcoming games.

Coach usually calls us all together the week before practices start to get us mentally prepared and discuss our team strategy for the season. The USA Valor picked me up four years ago. Before that, I briefly played for Minneapolis’ Women’s Premier League Rugby. And before that, I was playing in college.

A lot of my old teammates warned me not to put all my eggs in one basket when it came to making rugby a profession, but my parents had the opposite approach. They’re both former Olympians. My father, Chris, was a soccer player, and my mother, Diedra, was a synchronized swimmer. They actually met at the Olympic games in Atlanta, and I was the result of that meeting, if you catch my drift.

“Birdie!” my teammate Serwaa cries out as she sprints toward me and launches herself into my arms. My nickname might be Birdie, but she’s the one flying into me. My hands instinctively find her waist, and I lift her in the air for that signatureDirty Dancingpose.

“Hey, girl,” I smile. “Missed you.”

Serwaa carefully comes down, but then latches onto my back for a piggyback ride, and dozens of small braids flap over my shoulder. “Missed you, too.”

“How was your trip to Denver?” I ask.

She sounds wistful when she says, “Amazing.”

“Did you ask her yet?” Serwaa has been in a long-distance relationship with her girlfriend Dani for five grueling months, and she was supposed to ask Dani to move in with her.

“I was too nervous.”

“Baaaabe,” I drawl.

“I know.”

Carefully, I drop her down as we approach the conference room. “She literally got your name tattooed on her under-boob. Arguably, the hottest part of the boob.”

“How would you know?”

“I might be straight, but I appreciate the female form.”

“The sooner you stop lying to yourself, the better,” she teases.

“You all just want me to join the club.”

“Duh. Think of all the pussy you’d be drowning in if our fans found out.”

I think of all the comments I get on a regular basis from my social accounts and snort. “More for you.”

Serwaa opens the door, and most of the team is already here with ten minutes to spare. I give a few of them bear hugs before spotting a new player and making my way over to her.

Stretching out my hand, I give her a smile. “Hi. I’m RobynCassidy. Team captain. Hooker.”

“Hi,” she replies. She’s a couple inches shorter than me, about five-eight, with bright blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She’s in casual team apparel like the rest of us, but she’s wearing what looks like a tennis skirt. I like her already. “Hannah.”

“Welcome to the team, Skirt.” She smiles softly at my nickname for her. “This is Khaos,” I say, gesturing for them to shake hands.

“She/They. Scrum-half.” Khaos is a peppy, bizarre little human with short red hair and ivory skin. Her pregame ritual consists of sipping a Five Hour Energy shot while praying the rosary, immediately followed by screaming the lyrics toCall Me Maybe.

I introduce Skirt to the rest of the team and save my bestie for last.

“Serwaa Yeboah,” she says, extending her hand. “Winger.” Serwaa is Black, and she has her usual thin, waist-length braids falling behind her back. And, as always, her nails are perfectly painted. When Serwaa finishes playing a game, she looks more or less the same as when she started. Me on the other hand? Even with tight braids on game day, my flyaways take charge and I’m a blotchy mess. Serwaa will look like she went for a light jog.

Some people have all the luck.

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