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Chapter13
Charleigh
“Icannot believe you threw that flag at his feet,” my mom was laughing as we laced beads onto a string in the middle of her living room. Jesse was there on the couch, watching us, and wanted the TV turned onto the sports channel.
Naturally, my flag was the talk of the town. No one realized how personal that flag was when I threw it, thank God, but they all knew it cost the Jets the game. What everyone wanted to know was what Coach Peyton had said to earn it, and not one person that was around that conversation was talking.
It was funny seeing them try to read his lips, though.“Gonna be a fucking chicken wing cup when you lend four limes cooking the layers and blot the whey.”
“That is not what he said, was it?” My mom looked up from what she was doing to look at me, but I was having a moment of concern that the lip readers got it that wrong instead of what he actually said.
“No,” I finally laughed. “I don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was bad enough I threw the flag.” I wanted to spare her the details for some reason. If I told her what he said, she would hate him forever and for some reason, that didn’t sit well with me.
“Well don’t do it again,” Jesse complained. “The Jets need to win the super bowl.”
“They’ve won, like, fifty of them. Isn’t that enough?”
“Nooooo,” Jesse sat up and crossed his legs. “There are talks of canning the coach if they don’t win again.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Money,” he said matter-of-factly. “The coaches and players love to play, but the owners love money. Winning Super Bowls is the only way Coach Peyton can keep a job. He has to win to pay for his contract.”
“That’s…” I trailed off, not wanting to call it stupid in front of Jesse. He was a whiz when it came to sports and didn’t like when I called anything pertaining to his facts, stupid. Also, Jesse was rarely wrong. He studied everything he was interested in with a deep passion. He was one of the smartest people I had ever met.
“He is under a lot of pressure this season,” Jesse continued. “And then with what happened with Tyson Black, I bet it is worse. I want him to stay, he seems nice when he’s not yelling. But I don’t know of a football coach that doesn’t yell.”
True.
“What happened to Black?” If anyone knew, it was Jesse.
“His girlfriend was shot, but she is going to live.”
My mouth dropped open and I felt a little guilty about throwing the flag when Coach Peyton had more on his plate than just insulting me. Then again, it wasn’t fair to show him grace like that. He had to separate his emotions just like I did.
“I’m just going to keep calling the plays like I see them, Jesse. If he wants to win and keep his job, then he can learn not to be a dick.”
“Eww,” Jesse said, covering his ears like a child.
“He’s a good coach,” I redirected, just to ease Jesse’s sensitive and innocent ears. “He will find a way to make it work for the team. Maybe he is stressed, but I’m sure he has a nice healthy coping mechanism.”
Like boxing.
* * *
I walked into the gym that next Friday, hoping I had a chance to fight my own demons in the ring. That was something I could relate to where Levi Peyton was concerned—we both liked to fight. It was cathartic and soothing in a way that made most people cringe.
I had never been soft though. You couldn’t be when you grew up having to fight for everything you wanted. I was more of a tomboy growing up, and because I wasn’t cheery and dainty, I took a lot of shit. But I refused to be someone I wasn’t, so I found ways to let out my frustrations. I almost quit when I realized guys didn’t like women with a harder punch than them, but I had started taking Jesse with me and together, it became a full-time passion.
Plus, I also learned that any man threatened by me was too weak to handle me anyway. Maybe that was why I was so drawn to Levi. He had no qualms about using his size and strength against my own.
I didn’t wear my first dress and heels until I was thirty years old. I thought I would feel like a weak and fussy damsel in distress, but I felt the opposite. I felt like a bad ass bitch. One that hit heavy bags all day and dressed to kill at night. It was the first time in my life I felt like I knew who I was and what I wanted to do when I grew up.
I had already been working as a referee, but it was when I turned thirty that I decided to reach for the stars and shoot for the NFL. I expected to be much older than thirty-five when I reached that goal but there I was, refereeing in the NFL.
Sometimes I had to pinch myself.
After a long day, I finally pulled my gloves on and made my way to the punching bag. No one was around to spar with, but it made for a nice and quiet match against myself. Bobby’s was always quiet on Friday nights, so when I needed time to swing punches, that was the night I chose to be there. Conveniently enough, it was also the last chance I had before Sunday games, so I tried to make it a ritual during the season to keep my head screwed on tight and focused on the game.
