“What was that shit you were saying, calling me a bitch?” I demanded.

I didn’t get much of a chance to talk to the Bulldogs #17 in the rest of the quarter, because things got very busy on field. We took the kickoff and set up our flying wedge again with me in the middle, but the ‘Dogs had seen this before and were prepared; they’d put their heaviest guys on field and broke our wedge near their 35-yard line.

This time it was one of the bruiser ‘Dogs that took me down. When I saw he was going to be too close to avoid, I jinked around him and slipped under his arm to fall sideways and avoid being crushed when he hit the ground next to me.

“Pussy,” he snarled, as he stood up, but he was smiling. Normal-on-field trash talk, I supposed. Not the kind of thing Ginger had been saying. I lay there with a fake grin until the ref approached, then accepted a hand from Dave Garcia to help me up.

“Good run,” said Dave.

I grunted as deeply as I could manage. It was frustrating for the other #17 to be so close, and yet we couldn’t talk. Dave put an arm across my shoulders and we trotted into the huddle. “Fake reverse handoff, sixty-three,” he chose from the playbook. Then we all did the hokey Lion’s Roar, slapping helmets and butts before taking our positions.

The play involved me going behind the QB at the snap and taking a fake handoff on our weak side, then Dave passed to Upsteen on the right. If nothing went wrong, we would get a small gain, with luck a bigger one.

It went flawlessly, Upp took the pass (a bit high), and stumbled four or five steps to an eight-yard gain before going down. Ginger, playing deep safety for the ‘Dogs, was all over our man, but it was a good play for everyone.

New huddle, “Fake handoff, fifty three, forty four,” said Dave. This was kind of the reverse of the previous play, a handoff faked on the strong side with the pass going to our left, while Bill Gorman, our fullback, added a convincer by coming to the line on my side instead of blocking for Dave.

Bill and Matt hit the line, opening a beautiful hole for me. Too bad I didn’t have the ball. I went through the motions and almost got tackled. Ginger was right there, grinning at me. But Dave’s pass got knocked out of the receiver’s hands, and we were third and two, twenty-eight yards out.

I knew we could run that same play again, only actually give me the ball and I could pick up the two, easy. But it was Dave’s call, and we were supposed to be trying to establish a passing game for the first half. Instead, we took a one-yard loss on what should have been a softside pitchout to Bill.

It was Dave’s first near-sacking, and he didn’t like it. Fourth down. We could bring in a kicker to go for a field goal, but frankly, that ain’t Lions-style. This deep in their territory, we weren’t afraid of giving up the ball, and why settle for three points?

Dave called a play that looked a lot like the previous pitchout, but when Bill hit the line, he already had the ball, and Dave was still in the pocket pretending to look for an open receiver. But Bill made less than three yards on the weak side play, and we had to give the ‘Dogs the ball.

Three plays later, the tables were turned. Their QB had thrown the bomb to Ginger and the speedy little ‘Dog almost got past me, I had to chase him down, taking him at the heels from behind.

But we were alone, almost in the middle of the field, by ourselves. “What was that shit you were saying, calling me a bitch?” I demanded as we dusted ourselves off.

He laughed! “The bushwah our cheers got from yours is that you’re really a chick. That a hoot?” He trotted off to the gratz from his teammates, ‘cause the ball was now on our thirty-eight.

I stood there, not saying anything, while the Lions gathered around me. “Good tackle,” several said. “I bet he didn’t expect you to catch up to him,” Upp remarked.

I still didn’t say anything, just nodding and smiling while I thought. It had to be Joanna’s doing. Why was she messing with me? She’d told her own squad my secret but, according to Megan, no one had believed her. Now she had evidently spread the story to the Bulldoggettes, and they had told their guys about me.

How far would it spread? Would someone decide they needed to prove or disprove it? How could it not already be known to my own teammates?

I hardly knew what happened in the rest of the first half. I know I walked around, I spoke to people, took part in plays on the field. But inwardly, I was wrapped up in my own problems. I was angry that anyone would be doing this to me, and hurt that it was Joanna, who I had every reason to be considered a friend.

And I was anxious that my secret was already out there, my only shield from discovery being that the truth of the matter was just so unbelievable.

The Dogs continued a lightning drive to our goal, scoring on a snap pass to #17 right on the goal line. All he had to do then was fall the right direction to make it a touchdown. Catching that pass, though, was something Ginger evidently could do that was an unreliable feat for me.

My small, flimsy hands did not react well to the impact of a pound of leather and air hurled by someone like Jake or Dave. Last year, I dropped caught passes almost as many times as I’d been able to hang onto them. This year, so far, Coach and my quarterbacks had avoided putting me into that situation. Even in practice. Jake and Dave avoided throwing to me.

I wiped my face and realized I was crying. We lined up to stop the ‘Dogs from getting their conversion. They tried a kick and Upp leaped high enough to turn the effort aside. But a glance at the scoreboard told a tale, Visitors 9, Home 8. For the first time this season, the Lions trailed their opponents. Only by one point, but seeing that did nothing to stop my tears.

The rest of the team began lining up to take the kickoff, and I was wandering in that direction when the whistle blew for the end of the half.

The cheerleaders poured onto the field from both sides, half time being their time to put on a show. Ball players, including me, trudged toward the gym. The rest of the Lions didn’t appear as glum as I felt. Dave slapped me on the helmet as he passed by. I hadn’t pulled it off because I didn’t want anyone to see I had been crying.

“Second half,” Dave crowed. “Time for Petey to shine!”

“Oh, shit,” I said. I’d forgotten Coach Wilson’s strategy of letting Dave play a passing game first half, then me running with the ball in the second half. My high confidence had been shattered. Wasn’t I the best halfback in our league—maybe in all of Division IV statewide?

Maybe not.

Megan was there, running up to me before I reached the gym doors. I pulled off my helmet now and shook hair, sweat and tears out of my eyes. Behind us, the cheerleaders were singing, “Boom-Chika-Boom!” as they bounced around in front of the stands.

“Petey-Pete-Pete,” Megan said, in a voice hoarse from shouting, then she pulled my face down for a kiss.

The stands near us were going wild. But I was hearing a chorus from the cheer squad. “Don’t you just love her?” they sang. And I wasn’t sure if they meant Megan—or me.