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“Oh shit, Levi,” Art laughed. “I don't want you to wine and dine her. I just want to make sure she has appropriate space to change and escape. We can't have her in the same locker room as the other officials and Atlanta is one of the few teams that has the space. Richard was all too excited to help us out and I am sure he wants things to be smooth. But I also need to make sure the image of the NFL stays on the positive side, as well.”
I pushed the exit doors open and clicked for the automatic start on my car to engage. “Well then, I think you have everything handled, sir. I will be there coaching my ass off, and Ms. Wright has a private room for her locker space. Let’s hope she calls a good game.” I knew that was the truth because it was down the same corridor the home team used to come in and out. But I also felt sorry for the poor girl. If she didn't call a good game, Richard would be her worst nightmare. He had already told me as much.
Honestly, Richard’s interest in her was more than Art bargained for, but that wasn’t my business. I tried to convince myself not to care.
“Oh, she will,” he assured me. “And the entire world will be watching.”
The media would be crazed if they knew what went on behind the scenes to make sure everything was just right when the cameras rolled. It was almost embarrassing how much the NFL focused on the production of everything besides the game.
I wasn't going to let it be my focus, though. The team and my guys were the only thing I cared about and after being analyzed and prodded about whether I could sustain our championships, I knew the season was going to be rough.
Add in a new referee that the league wanted to coddle–and Richard wanted to control–and I knew I had a fight on my hands.
Chapter3
Charleigh
Iwas in my black and white stripes with my hair pulled into a braid under my black cap. I walked with my fellow officials down the corridor of the stadium toward the field. I was the only female and the youngest by a long shot at thirty-five years old. But the guys I was teamed up with seemed like amazing guys to be working with.
The head referee, Martin, was a fit sixty-year-old man that could have been my dad. He had more experience than the rest of us, hence being the head ref, and was in charge as long as we were a unit on the field.
The big LJ on my back indicated that I was the line judge and that was where I would be the entire season. Along the sidelines, marking downs, throwing flags, and responding to the coach’s requests for timeouts.
That was where my problems started. Because as the line judge, I would be primarily on the home side of the field, giving Coach Peyton a better chance of recognizing me as the girl that sucked his dick like a Slurpee and bailed from the room while he slept, never to be seen again.
I should have quit.
Instead, I held my head high and walked onto the field to a chorus of boos.
“Don’t worry, we always get yelled at. Fans hate the refs.”
“That’s comforting,” I deadpanned.
That wasn't my first time on the field of a football game. I wasn't just a football fan with uncanny knowledge and a drive to be near the field. I had been officiating football games at the college level for five years. But things worked differently in college. Not to mention I never officiated a high-level college.
The officiating crew did our normal pregame rituals of small talk and handshakes, and I met some people along the sidelines that congratulated me for my role. The players were warming up and the coaches were swarming, but everything seemed to settle and move smoothly, allowing me to breathe easier before game time.
It was preseason, and that made the air lighter as everyone was excited to start the season on a good foot. I was thankful for the preseason games, not only for the players but for me, because I was realizing that those games would help me get used to the processes before things got serious.
Or so I thought.
Once I hit the sideline and the game started, I had chills racing through me and I knew it wasn't the adrenaline from the game. It was because I was standing in front of Coach Peyton. I was paying attention to the game, but I could hear his voice behind me. He was calling plays, yelling, and walking down the field with me as the ball moved back and forth.
Right before half time, I threw my first flag for pass interference and even though it was undoubtedly pass interference, I heard Coach Peyton yell, “Are you blind?”
I ignored his anger and referred to my fellow referees who also confirmed they saw pass interference and the call was announced. When I walked back to the sideline, I kept my head down until I could turn around and face the field again.
The entire experience was awkward.
I was balancing being anonymous with being taken seriously, while also battling the weakness in my knees from hearing his deep voice again so close. His words came in behind me like they did that night in New York when he grabbed my hair from behind and told me he was going to spank my ass.
My body shook and I had to tap my head to get it out of that hotel room and back onto the field. By that time, I could hear Coach Peyton behind me, yelling. He was telling me I was blind as a bat and missed the call, but I had no clue what had even happened.
There was a play?
They threw it near me?
Was I supposed to make a call?
