Page 30 of Old Fashioned
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 youcouldplay 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 afactthat 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 womancan’tplay in the NFL.”
“Really?” Paige lit up.
“Really,” I chimed in. “And, there are alreadymanywomen 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 noideawhat they wanted to do with their lives, and even if theythoughtthey 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.
