Midnight Oil Page 13

  “Jesus,” Troy said, voice hoarse. He stood there without saying anything for a long time. “So…you never told anyone?”

  She shook her head. “Not even my mother. I just wanted to put it out of my mind, bury it, pretend it didn’t happen. I figured that if I didn’t talk about it, then it would just go away.”

  “You didn’t talk to a counselor or something?”

  “No. What good would that have done?”

  “It might have helped you deal with what happened!”

  She looked at him levelly. “Would you have gone?”

  He blew out a breath. “It never would have happened to me.”

  “But if it had, would you have gone?”

  Slowly he shook his head.

  “Well, there you go. Neither did I.”

  “Peggy—” he scrubbed his hands over his face “—I don’t know what to say except that I’m so sorry. What you went through was awful. Now I understand why you got so mad in there….” Troy pulled on his own jeans and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  She looked at him miserably. “What I don’t get is why I inspired so much hatred and contempt, when all I wanted to do was play. It wasn’t just those three who were bad—every other player at Bryce University hated my guts. Why?

  “Not because I had no talent. Not because I was a horrible person with a bad attitude. Just because I had tits. I cost a serious player a spot. A guy. I made the players a laughingstock on the college ball circuit, because they were obviously such ‘pussies’ that a girl could make the team.”

  Troy closed his eyes. “The male ego is a complicated thing. Men do incredibly stupid things because of pride.”

  “Oh, it was pride that made them goose me any chance they got? Harass me, come on to me, expose themselves to me? I have another word for it.”

  “Not every guy could have treated you that way.”

  “Nah. There were some who just ignored me.”

  “And maybe on a different campus, in a different group of guys, things would have been different. Not all football players are like that.”

  “Yeah,” she said bitterly. “Whatever.”

  “You got a lot of press as the only woman starting for the team. Were they jealous of that?”

  She shrugged. “Could have been.”

  He nodded. “I think it must have irritated them.”

  They stood in silence for a long moment. Then he touched her arm. “C’mon, it’s hot out here. Let’s go inside. You want something to drink?”

  She was parched. “Yeah. But then I need to go. And I am going to lodge a protest with the school about their decision. It’s just bs.”

  She followed him inside and let him get a glass of ice water for her, which she gulped down without a lot of grace.

  Troy watched her. “Can I ask you something? And don’t get mad. It’s just a question, because I really don’t understand.”

  She nodded.

  “If that was your experience, then why do you want to keep training girls like my nieces, keep encouraging them to think that maybe one day they can be on a high school or college ball team? Why would you want anyone else to go through what you did?”

  Peggy set her cup down with a snap. “Because it’s the only way that the system will be challenged and the only hope that someday it will change!”

  He folded his arms. “Look, you don’t have coed basketball, or coed soccer or anything else. Why should there be coed football? Nobody wants it. The best you could hope for is a women’s team.”

  “Then give us women’s teams. But we’re not going to get them if we’re wiped out at the first scheduling problem or budget cut! I’m asking you to stand with me on this, Troy. Not because you owe me anything, but because you owe your nieces.”

  He gave her a long, hard stare. Then he looked at the floor. Finally he said, “All right.”

  Even though she’d demanded it, he could tell she didn’t expect his cooperation. Somehow, even though she’d told him her story, she’d lumped him in with the rest of the players who’d hurt her: big, male and unfair.

  So Peggy stared at him, a smile of warmth and fond disbelief and gratitude slowly dawning across her freckled face. “Yeah…?”

  Something inside him cracked at the sight. He cupped her face in his hands and leaned forward to kiss her lips. “Yeah.”

  TROY WATCHED HER DRIVE AWAY in her ridiculously cute munchkin-mobile. She herself was ridiculously cute. She didn’t look like the kind of woman who had scars or worries; she looked like the all-American girl. Freckles, adorable little upturned nose, big blue eyes.

  He thought about three thugs—her fellow ball players—attacking her in a shower stall and wanted to be sick. Team spirit took on a whole new sinister dimension. They’d gone as a posse to rape the little upstart, show her who was boss.

  Troy threw the contents of his glass into the kitchen sink and stared down the black hole of the disposal. He whirled and splintered the same cabinet door that Peggy had kicked. It didn’t matter, since he’d be gutting the whole damn kitchen within weeks, anyway.

  Fury at three unknown men pulsed through him; he knew a desire to pound their faces into pulp, hear the sickening sounds of their bones cracking. The potential for extreme violence shooting through his body and psyche scared him.

  He’d managed to stay calm when removing Sam’s derelict husband from her house, and that had been tough—but last night’s situation came nowhere near the sheer rage that consumed him right now.

  The creep punched holes in walls and created scary scenes. But as far as Troy knew, he’d never tried to gang rape a defenseless girl.

  Troy began to systematically destroy every cabinet door in his entire kitchen with his bare feet and fists.

  The cheap wood and laminate splintered, screws popping loose and veneers peeling back. The old hinges didn’t stand a chance of holding up under his assault, nor did the thin panels in the middle of the frames.

  When he was done both the room and he were a mess. He got a hold of himself and stared around the shambles, feeling no better than Sam’s ex, who’d only kicked in the bottom of one door.

  Troy rinsed off his bloody knuckles under the tap and grabbed for the roll of paper towels. At least the cabinet doors hid only dated pots and pans, not a frightened woman and her crying children.

  Troy headed for the bathroom off the master bedroom, sat on the edge of the bathtub and poured hydrogen peroxide over his feet. “You are one stupid sonuvabitch,” he said aloud, looking at the scrapes, bruises and abrasions. They were evidence of something even stupider: he’d gone and developed feelings for Peggy Underwood, and they were more than guilt feelings for sneaking around trying to break her business’s lease.

  He told the feelings—whatever the hell they were—to get lost, but he knew it was a losing battle. He thought about the times he’d been a little rough with her sexually, and was deeply ashamed. He weighed twice what she did. How could he have not been gentler?

  And where the hell did he go with her from here? No wonder she’d once told him that she wouldn’t date him. I don’t date football players. Not ever. He recalled her saying that.

  A wave of protectiveness washed over him, and as he sat in the tub and watched the cuts on his feet bleed, he resolved that no matter what happened between him and Peggy in the end, he was going to change her viewpoint on football players. He could help heal some of the wounds of her past.

  Chapter 14

  PEGGY DROVE HOME half appalled and half relieved that she’d finally told her story to someone. She wasn’t sure why she’d spilled her guts to Troy, but his smug comment about the male culture of football had enraged her. She’d had to make him see that it wasn’t okay, the whole boys-will-be-boys mentality.

  It was fine for boys to be boys—as long as boys being boys didn’t involve them acting like animals.

  She started to cry as she drove and hated herself for it, for being weak. But the tears came faster as she thought abou
t her father’s reaction to her making the college team. He’d congratulated her, but he’d been puzzled, just like everyone else, as to why she’d wanted to play. She was a girl. The question hung in the air between them, never asked by him and never answered by her.

  He’d never connected it to her wanting his attention, never realized that she’d tried to impress him and show him she was just as worthy of his love as that jerk Alan, who had his own dad anyway, and didn’t need to take hers, too.

  Her mom had flown in for one of the early games, which was sweet, if a little embarrassing. Mom had dressed from head to toe in chartreuse—even her socks—and worn what Peggy could only describe as a Peter Pan hat with a tiny green feather. She’d also brought a set of ancient red-and-white pep-squad pompoms, and cheered in rhyme from the bleachers, looking like a demented Santa’s helper.

  Peg had wanted to punt her to the North Pole but felt horribly guilty about it. At least one of her parents cared enough to show up—even if it was the one who a) couldn’t really afford the plane ticket, and b) didn’t know the difference between a field goal and a point after touchdown.

  She slicked the tears off her cheeks with the heel of her hand and pulled into her apartment complex, parking the Mini as close to her door as she could. Then she went inside, glanced at Marly’s mural and sprawled on the carpet in front of it. The girl she’d painted was full of power and energy and love of life, everything that Peggy had believed in back then and still believed in now. The reason that she coached the powder-puff team. Because girls should have all of those qualities.

  Lots of girls dreamed of being cheerleaders, and that was great. But the ones who dreamed of being part of the action on the field should be able to make it happen, too. All it did was expand their possibilities and their freedom to make choices.

  Maybe Barrington was right, and the day a coed team accepted a female quarterback was the day they ice-skated in hell. Peggy considered that a whole different issue. Her girls shouldn’t have to put up with what she’d experienced. But that was a bridge they’d cross when they came to it. For right now, Peg would concentrate on step one: making sure a female team could exist, with a female quarterback, and without mockery or stereotypes.

  Peggy got up, showered and made some calls.

  The school had been careful in selecting the teams to be terminated. They weren’t all girls: the boys’ lacrosse team had been cut in addition to the girls’ softball and powder-puff football teams. Field hockey hadn’t been cut, just moved inside to the gym.

  Peggy decided to be proactive before confronting school officials: better to find an alternative practice area first. The problem was that downtown Miami wasn’t exactly full of open, grassy fields.

  She’d driven by a couple of areas with signs listing development companies, so she called those first. One guy laughed in her face; the other politely told her that building would commence in ten days and even if it didn’t, the liability issues were too overwhelming.

  Stymied, she didn’t know whether to get into the Mini again and drive around, looking for other areas—or call the parks and rec department, maybe even a real estate agent who wouldn’t mind devoting an hour of his or her time to charity.

  Across the apartment complex, Peggy saw a sweet-looking older woman locking her door. She wore a powder-blue suit and stockings in the heat, with cream T-strap summer shoes and a matching handbag. She looked as if she were going to church.

  Church! Why hadn’t Peg thought of it before? There was a large Catholic church near the school, on a significant parcel of property. Maybe they could get permission to use the church grounds for practice and games.

  She herself wasn’t Catholic, and didn’t want to think about how long it had been since she’d last sat in a pew on a Sunday, but maybe Troy and his family were, or one of the other girls on her puff team. Yes, now that she thought about it, Angela Flores belonged to that very church: there was a bumper sticker on her mother’s Range Rover.

  Peggy jumped up and went to rummage in her tote for her Palm Pilot. She found it and called Angela’s home number.

  “Hello, Mrs. Flores? This is Peggy Underwood….”

  A WEEK LATER Troy joined Peggy, Sam, Derek, Danni and Laura at the Woodward School to make their case for the team. Mrs. Flores and another girl’s father came, too, with their children.

  Peggy had gotten the appointment with difficulty, having to call three times and then go in person to secure it from the principal’s secretary. It was due to her making a pest of herself that they got a time slot at all. But Peg didn’t care if the school thought she was irritating—this was important.

  The principal, a harried, ginger-haired woman named Mrs. DeMarco, extended only the barest courtesy as Peg introduced herself and the others. She looked at her watch. She capped her pen and folded her hands on the legal pad in front of her, as if willing them to go away.

  Peggy began in a low-key manner and built her case systematically, bolstered by Troy’s support and the expectations of the rest. “In the fifth and sixth grades, as a tomboy, I learned to play football along with boys who were my friends. I had an aptitude for it and a love of the game that brought me freedom and a sense of power and a feeling that I could do anything in the world, after driving the length of the field and scoring a touchdown.”

  Mrs. DeMarco’s polite expression didn’t change.

  “That feeling continued in junior high and even high school, when I didn’t allow gender stereotypes to force me out of a traditionally all-male sport. Much as you didn’t allow them, Mrs. DeMarco, to stop you from pursuing a graduate degree in education, or dissuade you from taking the steps along your career until you became principal of the Woodward School. Who knows, you may become head of the school board next, or even a congresswoman. The point is, you kept pushing the boundaries for women. And you still do. I admire that, Mrs. DeMarco, and I ask that you foster the same courage in your female students at Woodward.”

  Aha, the woman was now paying more attention. Peggy forged ahead.

  “A girl who has faced down a team of opponents who outweigh and possibly outplay her, a girl who uses her brains and skill to bypass those opponents and show them she’s a worthy adversary—those are the girls you need at the Woodward School.

  “Football is not an average girl’s pastime, not considered a feminine sport. But as long as there is interest in it, how can you deny a girls’ team the chance to develop? Hone their skills? Become the next generation of empowered women—women who understand what it means to stand and fight on the same playing field as men?

  “Mrs. DeMarco, I do understand Woodward’s dilemma about time slots at the Coral Gables Youth Center. But if I were to tell you that we have come up with an alternative practice field and host field for games, would you and the advisory board reconsider your position on the powder-puff football team—and the other teams who are being affected in this situation?”

  The principal cleared her throat. “Miss Underwood, while I appreciate your heartfelt appeal, the Woodward board reached its decision only after considerable thought and research into the alternatives….”

  “We understand that. And we do appreciate the effort that was put into the process. But we’re not asking that any further time or energy be expended by the board. All we’re asking for is a rubber stamp. We’ve done the legwork, found a host field, gathered the paperwork—” Peg broke off, and turned to her supporters. “Can the girls themselves show you what the powder-puff program has meant to them?”

  Mrs. DeMarco nodded.

  Danni and Laura had brought a scrapbook that they kept, full of pictures and journal entries about what the team meant to them. They took it forward and placed it in front of her, flipping through pages and explaining every photo, while the principal’s face began to soften.

  Angela Flores stood up and told Mrs. DeMarco that she was going to be president one day, but she’d like to train by being quarterback first. “I’m gonna be ten times as go
od as Tom Brady,” she declared. “And they’re gonna put me on the covers of magazines.” The principal actually smiled at that.

  Peg watched the little girls in action, feeling something expand and unfurl inside her. She’d spurred them to stand up for themselves, to question and work for change. She was a role model for these young women. And that made everything she’d gone through in the past worthwhile, if not okay.

  She exchanged a glance with Troy, who stood silent with Derek in his support role, an enigmatic expression on his face. He probably wasn’t used to standing in the background.

  Finally Peggy and Mrs. Flores handed the principal a letter signed by Monsignor Salas, stating that the church would be pleased to host the team’s practices and occasional games until the school’s athletic fields were operational again.

  The capper was that Peg had arranged for the girls’ softball team and the boy’s lacrosse team to be able to practice and play there, too. In the face of their determination and organization, the principal had little choice: she announced that the programs would remain active for the year. Secretly she looked pleased.

  Whoops from the girls echoed throughout the hall, and Laura even turned a backflip.

  A wide grin spread over Troy’s face, and after he’d ruffled his nieces’ hair, he wrapped Peggy in a bear hug. “Congratulations, Peggy-Sue!”

  “Thanks,” she said against his shoulder, just as relieved and happy as Danni and Laura. They’d done it! They’d saved the team. “All it took was a little girl power.”

  TROY’S CHEST HAD TIGHTENED with an unfamiliar emotion. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, but he thought it might be pride. He was impressed by Peggy…but the admiration had definitely crossed the line into something more personal.

  “Tell you what,” he whispered in her ear. “I know how much this means to you. So why don’t I take you for some champagne later?” The words were out of his mouth before he remembered that he had to talk to her, had to come clean.