Then I hear someone call out, “Callahan, you’re the man!”
Everyone starts laughing, and when I realize I recognize the voice, I’m disgusted.
It’s Eli, of course.
He’s sitting at a table not too far from my brother’s, and they’re all wearing their team colors of black, purple and gold. I can tell Eli is their leader, the one they all listen to. Just like my brother. Those two are very similar.
Maybe that’s why they hate each other so much.
Dad waves at Eli’s table as we move past it. My gaze falls on Eli to find he’s already watching me. His lips are curled into a smirk, and his eyes are dancing with humor. It’s hard to take a guy who’s so full of himself seriously.
At least, it is for me.
I look away and focus on following Dad. We end up at a table clear on the other side of the room, near the front and close to a makeshift stage that’s been set up. I’m sure someone’s going to speak. At some point during our stay here, I’m guessing my father will be a speaker. His favorite thing to do is to help high school football teams. Inspire them. He says he wants those boys to believe in their goals and dreams.
I often remind him that girls play football too, and he always gives me one of his patient smiles and agrees, though sometimes, I wonder if he actually means it. I find that offensive. I would’ve been offended even more if he patted me on the head. Such a patronizing gesture. He’s done it before.
He hasn’t done that in a long time though, and I’m glad. I don’t like yelling at my dad or reminding him that he’s partaking in misogynistic behavior.
The boys’ club crap has got to stop, am I right?
Anyway.
I’m sitting in a giant boys’ club tonight, that’s for sure. Once we’re settled at our table, I glance around the cavernous room, looking for a fellow female. There are women working here. Mom is here—duh. But I don’t think there is one girl who’s on a team here tonight.
That’s a little disappointing.
I suppose I could’ve played football if I wanted to. I’ve been involved in more family football games than I can count over the years, but honestly? I don’t get it. I’m not that good at it. Dad tried to explain the rules to me, and his words just flew over my head. Autumn ate it up. Jake and Beck are both stellar football players.
A group of older men who are all dressed similarly step onto the makeshift stage, and one of them flicks on the microphone that’s attached to the podium sitting in the center. He leans in, murmuring, “testing,” as everyone is prone to do when speaking into a microphone, and the whine of the feedback that rings through the speakers makes all conversations screech to a halt.
That’s one way to get everyone’s attention.
“Sorry about that,” the man says with a chuckle. He’s wearing a bright red polo shirt and an equally bright white smile. “We know you’re hungry. Dinner will be served in a few minutes, but first, we just wanted to thank all the coaches and their teams for coming to this camp for the next four days. We want your boys to play and to learn. And we hope you’ll all leave inspired and eager for summer practice.”
There are a few good-natured groans and low chuckles at those words. No one enjoys summer practice. It’s hot and intense, and they usually schedule them Monday through Friday, three hours a day.
“We’ll have a speaker after dinner, and then the rest of the evening is free time. Enjoy yourselves.” The man turns off the microphone, and he and his fellow red shirts exit the stage.
With a dramatic sigh, I turn back around to face everyone sitting at the table, my gaze meeting Mom’s. “Those guys were boring.”
“Those guys are joining us for dinner,” Dad chimes in, sending me a stern look. “So be polite.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course they’re joining us.”
“Ava.” I glance over at Mom, who’s studying me with concern in her eyes. “Please don’t give those men a speech about the patriarchy in football and how there should be more women playing the sport.”
My mouth drops open. Mom doesn’t usually ask me to keep quiet. She encourages me to express my feelings, always. “But there should be more women playing, especially at the high school level. Or even at the youth league level. Total acceptance from the ground up will ensure they’ll be accepted over time.”
I might’ve given this speech before. Jake always tells me if I care so much about girls playing football, I should play. Because he knows that’s never going to happen, it usually shuts me up. But he’s not here.
“Boys have an unfair advantage over girls in such a rough contact sport,” Dad says calmly. Always calm when he argues with me on these points. I’m the one who gets heated up. I can’t help it.
“Girls are tougher than you think, Dad.”
“I’m not big on violence toward women,” he says, just as smoothly as ever.
I love my dad. Really, I do. When I was little, I fought with Autumn on who got to sit in his lap first. He doted on my big sister, but he also completely babied me. For years, I was the baby, and I used it to my advantage before I even realized that’s what I was doing.
Then my brother Beck came along and ruined my youngest child status. Dad still babies me, though. I’m his last girl at home, and I love the long talks I have with my father—though during football season, I don’t see him much. I love his hugs. I will still sit on his lap on occasion, and he’ll go on about how heavy I am, but really? I think he loves it.
I love it too.
But when he argues with me like this, I sort of want to smack him. Is that wrong? I just don’t understand why he can’t agree with me. Why he always has to contradict what I say. He probably feels the same way about me.
I can’t help it if I have strong opinions. I blame my parents, anyway. It’s probably genetics. Mom is never one to back down in a confrontation. She’s fierce. Dad always says I’m just like her.
“It’s not like it’s violence against women on purpose,” I remind him. “They can wear the same kind of protective gear as the rest of their teammates.”
Dad’s about to say something else when all those red shirts appear at our table, giant smiles plastered on their faces, as they each shake my father’s hand and lavish him with compliments. Dad introduces them to us, and Beck and I smile and nod but otherwise, they say nothing to us. They’re too busy laying it on thick about how great Dad is, and Mom too. When you have famous parents, people tend to lavish them with lots of attention, and it can feel very…fake sometimes.
Whatever. I’ve already forgotten their names.
Again, I glance around the room, relieved to see staff pouring out of the kitchen, holding giant trays that are covered with plates of salad. My stomach growls, and I watch with rapt attention as they start doling out the plates to the tables that are on the complete opposite side of where we’re sitting.
I have a long wait. I don’t know if my stomach can take it.
“Hey.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I find Jake standing there, his hands in his shorts pockets, his gaze on Dad. “Are you going to join us?” I ask him.
He scoffs. “Hell no. I’d rather sit with my friends.”