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Phia Kerr 1.

“No.” Coach Heacock’s voice carries down the empty corridor of the athletic complex. My advisor, Elias Gillison, rolls his eyes my way with a heavy sigh. We haven’t even entered the coach’s office, and I already know this meeting isn’t going to go well. I curse myself once again for my choice of thesis subject. Unfortunately, I believe, as does my advisor and the thesis committee, that the football team is my best chance for field-study experience…just as soon as Coach Fred Heacock unclenches the world’s tightest asshole.

“Coach, there is no valid reason to deny her—”

“Valid? I don’t need a valid fucking reason! This is MY team. Mine. I say what happens here. My word is law. And I say she can’t be here. Sheshouldn’tbe here.”

Whoever he is talking to, probably one of the assistant coaches, exhales so loud we can hear it out here. Eli places his hand on my arm to stop me from knocking. Finger to his lips, he urges me to remain quiet. No doubt, he wants to see what else the fossilized dinosaur of a coach has to say.

“The board already stated—”

“The board can suck my atrophied dick!” I throw up a little in my mouth at that lovely retort.

“Fred.” The man with him is rapidly losing patience. I feel for him. “She is going to be with us for the season, whether you like it or not.”

“Not! I don’t like it. I hate it. She is…she’s…” I inhale deeply, resigning myself to hearing an unpleasant description of my person and character. I better get used to it; it isn’t the last time I’m going to go up against stubborn asses refusing to evolve and adapt to the changes of our communities and economy. “She isn’t a good fit.” Hmm. “She’s…there’s a lot of movement…she’s gonna have to run up and down the sidelines…I don’t believe she can keep up with the fast-paced nature of the game.”

That was a diplomatic way of saying I’m fat. Too fat to be the water girl for a college football team where the head coach is escorted on and off the field in a golf-cart because it’s too far to walk for his arthritic knees. Also, there is a young man on the staff roster who’s only job is to follow Coach Heacock around with a padded chair, so he has a comfortable place to sit during the game.

Why didn’t I listen to my mother and major in Arctic Studies? I could be somewhere cold, left alone to do my thing without interference from pompous, hypocritical octogenarians!

“You are so full of shit.” The other man snorts and I smile. Eli is done listening, though. He pushes the partially closed office door open; it hits off the wall and bounces back. His entrance is smooth, mine is less so as the door smacks me in the face. I wrinkle my nose and close my eyes against the pain. That hurt.

“Sorry, Phia.” Eli whispers over his shoulder. I shake my head and wave my hand for him to defend my honor…and my thesis.

“Coach Heacock—”

“This is a private office! You need an appointment!” Heacock blusters. “Or at least fucking knock.”

“Office is owned by the university. Phia Kerr, your new water person.”

“Water girl is fine.” I don’t care much what they call me. My fingers itch with the need to take notes. Derogatory comments about my weight are nothing new, however, coach’s insistence that I don’t “belong” because of it is interesting.

“No. Get out.”

The other man in the room ignores Coach and approaches me with his hand extended. I take it and shake it firmly. “Brandon Beiler. Offensive Line coach. Welcome to the team.”

“SHE’S NOT PART OF THE TEAM!”

“Thank you, Mr. Beiler—”

“Brandon. Please. Would you like me to show you around? It’s pretty quiet right now.”

I look at my advisor, my brow cocked in question, and he nods curtly, addressing Brandon himself. “Thank you, Brandon. That is very welcoming of you. Coach Heacock and I need to have a word.”

Brandon holds the door open and motions for me to head out first. I follow him in silence down the corridor and around a bend. Once we’re far enough away from Coach’s office, Brandon spins on his heels and stares down at me. He’s really tall.

“I am so sorry, Phia—”

“Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything.”

“I know. But Coach…he doesn’t apologize for anything ever. I’m just sorry that you are going to have to deal with him for the foreseeable future. He won’t make this easy for you, I’m afraid.”

“Energy and persistence conquer all things.”

He nods along. “And alcohol. Alcohol helps.” I laugh as he resumes walking. Brandon is great. Friendly, knowledgeable, and genuinely interested in my thesis topic. He’s probably in his early 40’s, shaggy curly hair, built like a football player, which makes sense since he tells me he was one once upon a time, tanned skin, and an affable smile.

The athletic complex is huge, and I know I’m going to get lost at some point. Brandon introduces me to the security guards we pass, back-office staff, and a few of the other specialized coaches still lingering long after practice. The first game is this Saturday, so I have 3 days to observe and learn my responsibilities as water girl.

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