Chapter 5
Five
Blair
“You can’t be serious.” I have to remember to close my mouth because I’m standing in front of the head coach, special teams coach, and general manager for the Upstate Cosmos. Tyson, Joey, and the Zack Andersen stand behind me, watching this unfold.
Because there’s no way someone just asked if I was available to kick in an NFL game today. Like, in two hours? And that would mean I’d be on the Cosmos roster. With a rookie minimum paycheck.
“What are you looking for?” the head coach asks as my head swivels corner to corner.
“Cameras. Someone filming in the corner. There’s no way this is real.” I laugh and put my hands on my hips.
Dylan, the special teams coach, jumps in, “We could be saying the same thing. How in the hell are you just walking around able to kick like that?”
“Older brothers. A competitive household. Soccer in college. I own a gym. I don’t know?” The logical reasons fall out of my mouth, but it’s still a long string of ramblings and it’s hard for me to catch my breath.
“Stop it. She played D1 soccer.. Plus, she’s fucking strong,” Tyson interjects and I shoot him a look that begs him to stop talking.
Nerves creep up and flush my skin. I feel the warmth spread across my cheeks and I’m sure my hands are sweaty and disgusting.
“Here’s the deal. We’re out of options for kickers.
The owners have the cash and are willing to do something that’s never been done before.
This game is critical and if having a shot at an extra point puts us in the best position to win later in the season, we’re willing to do it.
” His eyes are glued to mine. “If you want, we’d like to make you the first woman on an NFL roster. ”
My head lolls forward, mouth hanging open—I can feel the deep lines dig into my forehead, the way I look when I’m trying to figure something out. Turning behind me, I look at Tyson.
“There’s no way you’re serious. It’s very much giving ‘this is a prank and I’m the butt of the joke.’” The words are quiet but we’re in a tight space—everyone hears it.
Zack Andersen, Super Bowl champion, casually strolls forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, I get it. No pranks here. But you know what? It could be a fucking blast.” He laughs and shakes me like we’ve met a thousand times.
What in the world is happening?
Tyson’s wearing this smirk, almost like he’s daring me to say yes. Or he wants me to. His blue eyes are unforgettably close to the Cosmos blue of his warmup gear.
“Blair, come on. Like you’re going to let the boys have all the fun?” He says the phrase that he uses when he’s trying to get me to do something. He points his words in a way that makes me feel like I can do it, and also like he already knows that.
The first woman on an NFL roster? On a random Sunday?
I take in a deep breath, rolling my shoulders away from my ears, letting the muscles relax all the way to the tips of my fingers. Closing my eyes for just a second, I stretch my neck, and sigh out the anxious air from my lungs.
Taking a page from my therapist’s book, I try to clear my mind.
Breathe through the noise until it’s a blank canvas.
Can I do this? Do I want to do this? It’s not necessarily something I see, but I hear the sound of the whistle, the swell of the crowd.
I feel butterflies in my belly and a smile pulling at my lips.
“I’m in. What’s next?”
The Cosmos facility has quite literally anything you’d want, including a place to create my game wear for today. Clearly I have almost zero insight besides what Tyson has shared, but this is like a very modern, accommodating sports compound. Fancy as fuck.
After I practiced kicking inside—into a net with some of the special teams staff— and the quickest physical of my life, I’m now standing on the sidelines in a full Upstate Cosmos uniform.
Blair Miller, #7, possible extra point kicker, at your service.
This can’t be happening. I look at my jersey, pinching the inside of my arm to prove I’m actually awake.
I keep finding Joey in the stands because bothering Tyson isn’t the move.
This is his actual job and I’m over feeling like some PR stunt experience maybe gone ridiculously wrong.
The butterflies in my belly flutter about and keep stealing the air from my lungs—it’s kind of rude, to be honest. When I see Joey, he claps and gives me an enthusiastic thumbs up.
I wish I could just be around Tyson but I don’t want to be more of a distraction than I already am.
The buzz around the stadium is almost tangible—like you can reach out and grab it—which tells me people are on to something.
Believe me, I’d wonder why the random ass woman from the pre-game shenanigans is now donned in complete Cosmos gear, too. Like, who gave this rando a helmet?
The players line up and I’m trying to figure out if I do this?
Where do I go? Just as I’m about to panic, internally of course, Zack lightly pushes me in front of him.
Since he’s the long snapper, and a key part of a successful kick after a touchdown, he’s sort of made me his problem.
He stays close, almost like he’s ready to answer any questions that might come my way.
I turn and give him a small nod, but in my head it’s like a mountain of forehead kisses and perfect coffee color and the cool side of the pillow whenever you need it.
Zack seems to be as sweet as I’ve heard.
I know he’s one of Tyson’s favorite teammates.
Honestly, it’s kind of reassuring that I’m not bothering Tyson—he can do his job while others check in on me.
When the burly head coach comes and stands next to me, I forget how to breathe.
“I don’t know you but I think we’re going to get along just fine. You’ve got bigger balls than some of the guys on the team. And if that’s harassment, I’m sorry, but I want you to know how impressed I am.”
The comment is borderline but we give the pass to the self-aware coach making his point.
“You already won today. You said you’d try something that’s never been done and I want you to know that, before any points are scored.
You seem like someone who might need to hear that.
” His hand finds my shoulder, now covered with a shoulder pad, and the softness from him calms the anxiety zipping through my bones.
When Coach offers the tiniest of one-sided smiles and walks away, Zack, who feels like my personal cheerleader, leans forward and says, “You know you got this, right?”
***The Cosmos are hurting—I’d be yelling at the TV if I was watching this game at home. We’re down by six in the fourth quarter and it feels like I’ve been here for days. Time seems like it’s walking through the sludge that is nervousness and anxiety.
Today was the perfect time for the Cosmos to test the two-point conversion play calls after scoring a touchdown.
Today was also the perfect time to learn that this is a significant gap for the team.
They’re 0 for 4 on two point conversions and weren’t able to convert on two fake punts they tried on fourth down–lining up for a field goal with a decoy kicker, to try and get the first down instead.
During halftime, I stood in the doorway of the locker room until someone waved me in.
It truly didn’t feel like I should be allowed in there.
After the quick message from Coach, which was simply a longer version of “Get your shit together,” some of the special teams’ staff took me back to the net, having me kick a few more times.
Now, we’re on defense in the fourth quarter, trying to get a stop. I feel Tyson slide next to me.
“How do I get one of those?” He points to my jersey, sweat dripping down his face.
“I’m not sure if I'll even get to keep this one,” I joke, even though the staff told me I could a hundred times, because that’s how many times I asked.
He bumps his shoulder into mine, “So, I feel like you’ll appreciate the heads up. If we can stop them here, we’re going to try and score and have you kick the extra point. If you miss, it goes into OT, and if you make it, we’ll win.”
I can’t lose the game.
“Everyone is buzzing about how cool you are. The guys especially. But, I know you want to go out and show them how fucking strong you are.” His smile hits me like a punch to the gut—good thing I’m wearing full pads.
Then his voice lowers, just enough that it gets lost beneath the roar of the crowd. “Hey,” he presses, like he’s afraid I won’t hear him. When I turn, he’s closer than I expect—helmet off, eyes soft in a way I’ve never seen from him before. “No matter what happens… I’m proud of you.”
It’s quiet, like it’s only for him and I, but it lands like I’m being tackled. My throat tightens instantly. All I can manage is a nod, because if I try to talk, it’ll break something open. His lips tug up on one side, offering a smirk, before bumping his shoulder into mine.
Shaking my head, I let out a smile. We both stand without another word and keep moving our bodies while we watch the defense.
They stop the team. No additional points scored. Still down by six. There’s only two minutes left when Tyson jogs out with the offense. Zack has found his way to me, still taking me under his wing. I’m fairly certain they had Tyson come and mentally prepare me that I might actually be going out.
I can’t help the excitement running through me. It’s like when you know penalty kicks are coming in soccer—win or lose.
This is just like a penalty kick but less stakes. I repeat that mantra over and over as I bounce between my feet, keeping my legs ready.
The Cosmos offense seems to come to life, everything clicking and whirring like the machine they’ve built and quite literally paid for.
Lineman block while running backs find gaps to sprint forward, collecting first down after first down.
It’s a twenty-six yard touchdown pass to Tripp Owen which has the clock running out and the Cosmos tying the score.
Coach calls a timeout and everyone huddles together.
Zack playfully taps my helmet as I pull it on, waiting for the thing I know is coming.
Coach looks at me, mimicking taking a deep breath, and gives me a thumbs up.
Everyone looks at me and it’s like the world is tilting and my legs don’t know how to manage the incline–even though I work at a fucking spin studio.
I know it’s the anxiety. The stress. The nerves.
But before I can let it consume me, Tyson stands next to me and says, “Those fucks think this is going to overtime.” He points to the opposing team captains, waiting near the fifty yard line to run out for the overtime coin toss.
“They think we have no shot. Do with that what you will.”
Blame it on my brothers, or just being a woman in this climate, but I’m ridiculously competitive. I want nothing more than to make this extra point. Tyson knows it, too. I’m thankful for the extra fire, for the chance to prove someone wrong.
The sound of the stadium seeps into my bones, getting louder with each step I run out on the field.
Zack and Tyson are on either side of me and the nervousness is fading into excitement.
My shoulders feel lighter the further I make it on the field, which lets me lift my helmeted head a little taller.
I could pass out or I could be completely fine–only time will tell.
I can’t lose the game. Overtime or win. A perfect scenario.
People—technically teammates—I don’t know are saying “Let’s go, Blair” or the more aggressive “kick it down their throats” as we line up.
I go where I was told and take a deep breath, waiting for the whistle and focusing on where the ball is going to be held.
How many steps over. Where I kick. Everything my older brothers taught me when I was a kid.
I tune out as much as I can, feeling my breath in my chest, and my heart racing like it’s got a marathon to run.
Breathe. In and out. In and out. Whistle. Snap. Approach. Kick.
And I fucking make it.