Lovely Day

Jack, August

I wake up Wednesday morning, sunlight pouring in my window. I wince, still sore from yesterday's practice. There's a soft knock at my door.

"Jack?" My mother turns the knob and pokes her head in.

"Morning," I groan and roll over to check my phone. 7 am.

"You'd better get going, Bud. Gonna be late," she says raising her eyebrows and taking a sip of her coffee.

"Yeah," I say, sighing.

"You okay?"

I nod. She comes and sits on my bed, her eyebrows knit together like she's worried. "You feel alright?"

I study her face. She always knows if something's amiss. "Yeah, just couldn't sleep last night."

"Something on your mind?"

I look at her, tanned and freckled, dark brown eyes still a little puffy from sleep even though I know she's been up for hours. She holds her mug in two hands, sunlight streaming through the steam.

"There's a new kid on the team." I shrug.

"Oh? He any good?"

"Not sure yet. Fast."

"That's a positive. What position does he play?"

"Running back."

"Oh, like you?"

I nod.

"You worried he's going to take your spot?"

"Not really. I'd rather play linebacker. But the thing is, he's not a he."

She tilts her head. "What do you mean?"

I look out the window thinking back to Monday, remembering the pained expression in Peyton's eyes when I confronted her.

"I mean, he's a she."

"A girl?"

I nod.

"Wow. What do the coaches think about that?"

"They don't know yet."

Her eyes grow wide. "Oh, Lord. How did they not notice that? Does she look like a boy? Is she, uh...built like the other players?"

"Sort of. From far away. Hard to tell all suited up in pads. She's tall, for a girl. But reedy. And I think she shaved her head."

"Really?" She smiles, curiosity alight in her eyes.

"Yeah. I saw her without her helmet."

"And you knew she was a girl?"

"She smiled, and I knew." I stare out the window, watching the sun creep higher in the sky.

Ma looks at me with a knowing grin. "Is she pretty?"

"Kinda." I shrug. "As pretty as a girl with no makeup, no hair, and a chip on her shoulder can be, I guess." But what I'm really thinking is that she might be the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Her beauty comes from within. Natural and electric, like lightning in a bottle. And her eyes mesmerize—one minute lit up with fire and the next dark and deep and haunted.

"Chip on her shoulder, huh?"

"Yeah, she's a real prickly pear. A real character. Anyway, I confronted her about it."

"And? Is she gonna tell them?"

"She needs to. I told her so. It ain't right, hiding something that big from the team."

"It isn't right," she says, correcting me. She hates when I talk like a redneck.

"Exactly. It isn't right."

She smiles again. "What do you think she'll do?"

I shrug. "She's scared, I think. That they'll kick her off the team. I don't know if she'll tell them."

All through practice yesterday, I watched her from a distance. They had her over with special teams, practicing kick-return. I was running plays with offense but having trouble concentrating. She looked so confident as she made a catch and went for it, juking her way to the end zone. I know how happy the coaches are to add another skilled player to the roster.

Ma studies my face. "Well, it should be interesting to see how it all plays out," she says, setting her mug down on my nightstand. Then she gathers her long red hair into one mass and twists it, looping it around like a cinnamon roll before tucking the end through the middle of the roll, making a large bun at the back of her head. She pats my leg, grabbing her mug. "Better get up and get dressed."

I stare at the ceiling, nodding. As she's walking out the door, I say, "Ma?"

She turns and raises her eyebrows. "Yeah, Bud?"

"Do you think I should tell them? I mean, if she doesn't?"

"It's not your secret to tell, Jack. It's her responsibility. You don't always have to step in and try to make things right. These things have a way of working themselves out."

"Damn," I say and sigh again.

"What?"

"It's just kinda crazy. She must have some major balls to pull something like this."

"Sounds like she made a big impression on you." She laughs as she turns and closes the door behind her.

"You have no idea," I mumble, pulling myself up and out of bed.

*****

Practice is different today. The coaches are acting weird. First clue, instead of our regular warm-ups, they called us all to the track.

"I wanna see you do three miles," Coach Murphy shouts. "And no pansy-assing!"

Three miles in full pads and helmet? In sweltering heat? Something's off. They've never done this before.

I start my slow jog. About a mile in, I scan the mob, looking for her. She's on the opposite straightaway, got me by almost a lap. So I slow down to a near crawl, jogging among the linemen at the back, and wait for her to lap us. She tears around the curve on the inside. Man, she's poetry in motion, running like that. Most of the guys are gasping for air already, and she seems completely unfazed at the start of the second mile. I nonchalantly separate from the pack and jog up behind her, sidling up and syncing my stride with hers.

"Hey, Thomas," I say casually.

She doesn't respond.

"You ignoring me now?" I ask, trying to measure my breathing so I don't sound like an overheated dog.

She shakes her head, glancing at me.

"You tell coach?" I ask, but I'm having trouble forming words at this point.

"Yep," she clips.

I gather enough air to say, "Wish I'd been there to see that."

"Yeah," she says, "epic." Her breathing is barely labored.

"But you're still here," I point out.

"Yep."

Good lord, this girl.

"I'm impressed," I huff.

"Yep." She shakes her head like she's getting annoyed.

"You don't seem too happy about it, Thomas."

She sighs and turns her head to level that icy gray stare at me. "Are you planning to run by me and talk the whole time?" She asks.

Smart ass. I grin despite myself. She makes me switch sides, says she can't run with anyone on her left. I cave to her demands but keep chatting away even though I'm irritating her. I just can't seem to help myself. I can't believe she told them. I have so many questions. But she's not exactly a fountain of information.

But I do think I understand one thing now. And that's why we're running. It's hazing. They're trying to cut her out from the herd like a weak calf. They don't have any idea who they're dealing with, though. She's not going to be cowed. So I urge her on. I want her to come in first and show them they're wrong.

When she crosses the line ahead of everyone, including me, I'm sucking air, doing my damnedest to stay upright to the finish. The coaches are standing there, shaking their heads in disbelief. Coach Murphy is smiling, but Coach Carson's face has disgust written all over it. Then he starts yelling.

"Gentlemen! I hope y'all are satisfied! The whole bunch of you just got schooled by the new kid!"

None of the team has the energy to care about that. They're in survival mode. Coach Carson, aware that the players feel no shame whatsoever, hammers the point home.

"Let me be clearer," he shouts, pointing at Peyton. "All y'all got your asses handed to you by a skinny little girl!"

Damn. I try to stifle my grin but looking at those players as the realization dawns on them is just too much. They're struck dumb. Their mouths hang open as they exchange confused glances with each other. Well, everyone except Marshall. He's stoic, as usual. He doesn't seem the least bit surprised.

The rest of practice is even weirder than the start. Guys are huddled in their cliques, muttering to one another. Nobody will touch Peyton during the drills. There's some kind of unspoken understanding that her existence will not be acknowledged.

Cowards.

At the watering station, I stand next to Marshall Payne and ignore the chatter swirling around us. They players seem to agree that she shouldn't stay on the team. Cash Carson and crew are the most vocal about it.

I follow Marshall back to the practice field. "What do you think about all this?" I ask him. He shrugs.

"You didn't seem too surprised when the coaches made the announcement," I prod.

He shakes his head.

"How come?" I ask, trying to get something, anything out of him.

He looks at me through his dread locks as he puts his helmet back on and says, "Low center of gravity."

"Huh?"

"Her center of gravity. It's in her hips. That's why she was so hard to tackle."

Laughter bubbles out of my mouth. "Damn, Marshall. Ever the physicist."

He just nods. No expression on his face.

After practice, I wait on my tailgate for Peyton. She's walking in my direction with her little shaved head hanging down.

"Don't look so glum, Thomas."

Her head snaps up, and she spears me with the lightning in her eyes.

"Thanks a lot, for that, Chaplin," she says sarcastically.

"For what?" I cannot figure out for the life of me why she's coming at me so hot.

"Did you and Coach Carson plan that little scheme?" She asks, hand on her cocked hip.

"Are you nuts? All I wanted was for you to prove how tough you are. You think they always make us run three miles in full pads?"

She stares at me.

"Well, they never have. Not once. And it's because of you that they did today. They were trying to get you to quit. You were getting hazed, Thomas. They think because you're a girl, you're weak. I wanted you to prove them wrong."

"Why? Why do you care?"

"I have no idea. You're a real pain in the ass."

She narrows her eyes at me, but I trace a slight hint of amusement in the way she's trying not to smile. I can't help but grin at her like a moron.

"You're pretty extra, Thomas. But you do keep things interesting."

She rolls her eyes then takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. I study her mouth, sweat beading along the curve of her upper lip.

I close my eyes and try to shake the trend my thoughts are taking.

"It's more than that, though," I say, opening my eyes. Then I explain what someone like her, who came from a place a world away from here, would probably not understand. This is a town of closed-minded rednecks—racist and sexist and ignorant.

"This town could use I little diversity, is all I'm saying," I finally tell her.

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, Chaplin. But the only thing I'm going to diversify is the bench. Coach made that pretty clear in our little meeting this morning."

Her tongue darts out and skims along her lower lip. It kills me when she does that, really does. It makes me wonder if she'd taste like salt and fire. Or if her mouth would melt into warm sugar and vanilla.

I stand there in trance, doing everything in my power to stop the blood from rushing to inconvenient places. But I can't stop wondering what it would feel like to kiss her. Or imagining what she might do if I tried.