“Any questions?” Carrie asked, adjusting my collar.

I was moments away from stepping onto the field as the first female coach in Rebels history. And one of only a handful of female coaches in the NFL. This was a big day, not just for me personally, but for women and the sport. Sure, I’d been coaching the team for the entire preseason, but this was the real deal. This was where it counted. And all eyes were watching the sidelines for the woman who dared to lead the Rebel charge.

“I’m ready.” I grinned, adrenaline and excitement coursing through me. I could feel the energy of the crowd flowing in my veins. I could sense the team’s spirit and strength lighting me up like the jumbotron. Everyone was itching to get on the field, and I was right there with them.

“Great,” she said. “I’ll meet you after the game so we can go over a few talking points before you address the press. Now, go kick some ass, Coach.”

I nodded, but my attention was solely focused on the field. All my hopes, all my dreams, my heart were on the gridiron. My entire life boiled down to this day, this hour, this moment. The turf unfurled before me like a red carpet, the swirl of cobalt pom-poms heralding my arrival.

I’d walked across the stage to accept my PhD diploma. I’d stood on the podium to accept a gold medal at the Olympics. But nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared me for this moment.

As I left the tunnel with Coach Sawyers at my side, the crowd erupted. Even though they weren’t cheering only for me, it certainly felt like it. It felt as if the whole world were cheering me on, celebrating my achievement. Maybe some of them were rooting for me—girls like Abigail who wanted to play football, or women who’d been marginalized. Maybe there were some men out there too who wanted more equality on the field. And here I stood, showing them it was possible. Showing the world that a woman could have her place on the gridiron.

I glanced toward the sky, sending up a silent prayer to the universe. This moment was the culmination of a lifetime of hard work and sacrifice—not only mine, but my parents’ as well. Though I couldn’t see them, I knew my dad and Bastian were cheering me on from the stands. I smiled up at the crowd, looking forward to meeting them after the game.

I could only hope wherever my mom was, she was watching with a smile. I hoped she knew I’d never let anything stand in the way of my dreams, my legacy. Because that was all I’d ever wanted—to leave a lasting impact on this world. To keep my promise and live up to my potential. To live with no regrets.

After the coin toss, the game passed in a blur. It was one play after another, and the Rebels were dominating. The crowd was fired up, and my heart was beating out of my chest as the clock counted down the final seconds. I was riding high on excitement from the win, and I couldn’t wait to see my dad. I just had to survive a date with the media first.

I took a deep breath and stepped into the media room, cameras and lights pointed at me. But it was nothing compared to the questions being thrown my direction by every reporter in the room. Demanding my attention.

I might not like photo shoots, but I could answer questions about football in my sleep, and I excelled at stats. After the pressure of making snap decisions on the gridiron, the prospect of fielding the media’s questions seemed almost easy. Unfortunately, most of their questions weren’t focused on football; they were about me.

“What’s it like to be the first female coach for the Rebels?” one reporter asked.

I shrugged, trying not to let my frustration show. This was an opportunity, a platform, and I intended to use it as my tool. “I imagine it’s not much different from being a male coach for the Rebels. Though, my team polo has a more tailored cut.” That garnered a few chuckles.

“Has the team been welcoming? Have the players been receptive to your advice?” another asked.

“The team has been great, and I feel privileged to work alongside such talented players, coaches, and staff. Coaching the Rebels is a dream come true.”

“How do you think the team played tonight?” one guy asked.

“The team did great,” I said, standing straighter, a smile on my face. “There are always things we can improve, but we have a great group of guys. And all their hard work in practice has certainly paid off.”

I pointed toward a guy in the back. “A woman who loves football…you are a rare breed.”

“Was there a question in there?” I asked.

He shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest as he assessed me. “More of an observation.”

I wanted to beat my chest and shout, “I’m a woman, and I love football. What’s the big deal?” Instead, I leaned forward on the podium, meeting each and every one of their eyes. Though the room was mostly filled with men, a few women were present too.

“I’m hardly what could be considered a rare breed. Did you know that women account for nearly half of the NFL’s fan base?” I asked, thinking of a recent poll I’d seen. “Yet women make up just a third of league employees. And there’s never been a female head coach or general manager.” There were a few murmurs around the room.

“Any other questions…about football?” I asked the room of reporters, irritation tingeing my tone.

The following questions focused on the game, and I answered them with ease until Carrie finally cut them off.

“You rocked,” Carrie said when we were back in the coaches suite. In a rare break of character, she held up a hand for a high five. I grinned and slapped her palm.

“Thanks,” I said, surprised she wasn’t chiding me for losing my cool.

“No, seriously. Where was that girl hiding at the Vogue shoot?”

I shrugged. “I don’t like the spotlight.”

“You sure about that?” she asked, her gaze questioning. “Because you completely charmed that room of reporters. You had them eating out of the palm of your hand by the end.”

I laughed, brushing my hair back from my face. “Men are so predictable,” I said. “They somehow think it’s impossible for an attractive woman to like football, let alone be knowledgeable about the sport. And I just love proving them wrong.

“Seriously, though,” I said, my expression turning more serious. “I’m not in trouble for the ‘rare breed’ response?”

She shook her head. “It was brilliant. You showed him—and everyone else watching—that you’re knowledgeable and passionate. That you’re not afraid to stand your ground.”

“Good.” I grinned. I didn’t need her validation, but I appreciated her support nevertheless.

“So if any media outlets request an interview, can I say yes?” she asked.

I shrugged, still riding high from the game. “Sure. Why not?”

My phone vibrated, and I reached into my pocket to see who it was. Carrie patted me on the shoulder before walking away.

Bastian: Where you at, B? Big Mac and I are waiting by the east entrance.

Me: Just out of press conference. Be there in five.

When I arrived at the east entrance, most of the fans had already cleared the stadium. The cleaning crew was canvassing the stands, putting everything back in order. Come tomorrow morning, it would be as if the game had never happened.

I spotted Bastian quickly, but my dad was nowhere to be seen. Bastian wrapped his arm around my shoulder, hugging me to him.

“Dude, B. I think you just became America’s Sweetheart. You’re going to be bombarded with men asking to marry you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Bastian.”

“What?” He shrugged. “You’re gorgeous, and you’re passionate about football. You’re like a freaking unicorn.”

I shook my head. “One day, the world will realize there are many women who love football just as much as I do.”

“Nope. Nuh-uh,” he said, and I began to wonder how many beers he’d had during the game. “Stop fighting it. Say it with me now—” he waved a finger through the air like a director cueing his actress “—I am a unicorn.”

When I didn’t say anything, he nudged me in the side with his elbow. I grunted but held firm. “I’m not saying it, Bastian.”

“Not saying what?” my dad asked, pulling me in for a hug.

“That she’s a unicorn,” Bastian said. We walked down the corridor toward the parking lot.

“And here I thought she was a Rebel.” Dad smirked.

“Well, she is. But she’s also a rare, mythical creature, a beautiful woman who loves football.”

Dad laughed, the sound rich and warm. “How many beers did you have to drink?”

Bastian shrugged, and I smacked my dad’s arm. “What do you mean, how many beers did he have?” I glared at him. “Dad, you promised. You were supposed to cut him off after three.”

“Three? I thought you said it was free.” There had been a lot of background noise when we’d talked on the phone earlier, but still. My dad knew better.

Bastian sauntered ahead, his swagger even more pronounced than usual. “Free. Three.” He gestured wildly, his hands flapping around. “The Rebels won. Can you blame me for celebrating the fact that my bestie is one of the hottest coaches on the field?”

“Bastian.” I glared at him, and he stopped to turn and look at me.

“Correction,” he said, holding a finger in the air. “The hottest badass bitch on the field.”

I rolled my eyes. “I can’t believe I actually considered introducing you to some of the players.”

Bastian froze, his eyes bulging. “What? Are you serious?”

I barked out a laugh. “Um, no.”

“Why not? I already sort of met Colt and Tristan,” he whined.

“You introduced him to Colt Whitney and Tristan Holmes?” My dad’s voice was pained, even though there was a hint of teasing too. “What about me? I thought I was the most important man in your life?”

We passed the security guards, and I bid them goodnight. Several of the cheerleaders walked by, their hair bouncing and makeup flawless as they headed for their cars. I waved and wished them a good evening, as I wondered how many of them were going to hang out with the players despite the no-fraternization policy.

“You are,” I said, patting Dad’s arm. Men, I thought. So needy. “And Bastian only met Colt and Tristan because they happened to stop by the apartment.”

“Stop by?” Bastian coughed. “Colt stayed the night.”

Dad slowed, turning to look at me. “Blake…are you sure that’s wise—making a play off the field?” The tips of his ears turned pink, and I knew he was just as uncomfortable as I was.

“Dad,” I said, drawing out his name.

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. Not only had he humiliated me by asking about my sex life, he’d also managed to use a football pun to do it. I didn’t know why I’d expected any different. Any time we’d had to have a difficult conversation, he almost always used football metaphors to make his point.

“Up high, my man,” Bastian said, lifting his palm for my dad to high-five. My dad shook his head at him, and Bastian slowly lowered his hand.

“This isn’t a joke, Bastian.” I turned on him, eyes blazing. “And you were supposed to keep your big mouth shut,” I hissed.

“So, it’s true?” Dad asked from behind me.

I turned to face him, wishing we were having this conversation anywhere but at the stadium. “Dad,” I huffed. “He slept on the couch, and he was only there because Bastian—” I glared at him “—was out of town for a conference.” Geez, I felt like I was sixteen all over again.

Dad frowned. “I still don’t understand why Colt needed to spend the night.”

“Oh, right,” I said, climbing into the passenger seat of his SUV. “Because I got a concussion.”

“You could’ve called me. You can always call me if you need something. I’m not halfway across the country anymore,” he said, putting the key in the ignition.

“I know,” I said with a sinking feeling. I knew how much my dad had missed me when I moved away to Florida. And I should’ve known he’d be hurt I didn’t call him first. I was almost thirty, but I’d always be his little girl.

Conversation returned to the game, and it wasn’t until later, when Dad and I were alone in the kitchen that he said, “You did good, kiddo.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His grin was soft. “I’m so proud of you, Blake. So very proud. And your mom would be too.”

I wrapped my arms around him for a hug, feeling the warmth of his love in the strength of his embrace. He’d always been there for me, and I knew he always would be. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Can I give you a little fatherly advice?” he asked when I pulled away.

“Always,” I said, wondering what this was about.

“Be careful with the message you send to the guys on your team. You may be America’s Sweetheart today, but you know how fickle the media can be. One wrong step and…” He left me to fill in the blank.

I nodded, knowing he was right. I needed to be careful, especially in an industry where image was everything. I might not like the spotlight. I might not enjoy playing the media game. But if I wanted to be successful in the NFL, I had to. I’d made a crack in the glass sideline, but I wanted more. I wanted to shatter that motherfucker.