“It’s not just your fault,” I chimed in. “Offensive line has the most difficult job in this game, in my opinion. And sometimes guys — er,” I checked myself. “Sometimes players on the defense slip through. I’ve been watching you all day, Zara, and you’ve been fighting and playing hard. Don’t sell yourself short after one bad play.”
She sighed, kicking the grass with the toe of her cleat. “I just… I feel like I don’t belong here.”
That stirred something in Emily. I saw the intensity in her eyes when she lowered herself even more, enough that she could sneak in and get face to face with Zara. “What makes you say that?”
“I just don’t fit,” Zara said, frustrated. “I’m too tall and fat to be a quarterback, too slow to be a receiver, but not big enough to be good on either line. And what does any of it matter, anyway? Girls can’t play football. Not for real. Not professionally.”
Emily glanced up at me before looking back to Zara, our eyes meeting in a moment of understanding that shook me more than I expected.
“First of all,” she said, brushing a strand of hair off Zara’s forehead, “you’re wrong about half of that.”
Zara frowned. “I am?”
“Yeah.” Emily nodded toward the field. “You’re not too small for the line. I’ve been watching you. You get lower than the girls across from you, which means you’ve got leverage. That matters way more than size. The only reason they got through on that last play is because your feet stopped moving.”
Zara blinked at her. “My feet?”
“Yep. You planted and they kept driving. Keep your feet churning and suddenly that ‘too small’ thing becomes quick and scrappy.” Emily looked to me for confirmation. “That’s actually a pretty dangerous combo.”
I nodded. “Very much so.”
Zara’s lips twitched a little, like she was trying not to smile.
“And second,” Emily went on, leaning back on her heels, “not fitting in isn’t the insult you think it is.”
Zara huffed a quiet laugh. “Easy for you to say.”
Emily gestured broadly toward the stadium, where the Seahawks Dancers scattered around. “Look at them for a second.”
Zara
“Now look at me.” Emily spread her arms.
Zara studied her — the tattoos peeking out from beneath the uniform, the tiny hoop in her nose, the edge of a piercing glinting along her ear.
“Do I look like I fit in with them?” Emily asked.
Zara shook her head slowly. “…No.”
Emily grinned. “No, I don’t. But I’m still one hell of a dancer.”
That made Zara’s mouth lift for real this time.
“My body doesn’t change that fact,” Emily continued. “Not my tattoos, not my piercings, not my age, not the fact that I’m built different than half the girls out there. And you—” she reached out and tapped Zara lightly on the chest pad, “—are a damn good player and teammate. You don’t have to look like everyone else for that to be true.”
I watched Zara absorb that, the tightness in her shoulders loosening just a little.
“And as for girls not playing football for real,” I added, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, “that part’s definitely wrong.”
Zara looked at me.
“There are women’s tackle leagues all over the world,” I said. “The Women’s Football Alliance, the WNFC. Some of those athletes are absolute monsters on the field. I’ve trained with a few of them in the off-season, and they’d flatten half the guys I know.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Really,” I confirmed. “You keep playing, keep learning your technique and building strength? There are places for players like you.”
Emily nudged Zara’s knee. “See? Even Mr. Serious Boss Man here agrees with me — and between you and me, he’s a real fuddy duddy, so this is a big deal.”
