THE KICKER

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020

Warning: If you don't like reading transgender or related fiction, then stop reading now.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental (or light-heartedly complimentary insofar as they may be public figures).

RT

LATE FEBRUARY

"I'm sorry to break it to you that way, Nick, but that's what the national high school sports association and the state education board have decided. There's no going back." Coach sighed and dropped the papers on his desk.

I gasped. This is so unfair, I thought.

I've been kicking since I was six years old. Some soccer, sure, but mostly football. Punt/Pass/Kick. Flag football. Junior Varsity. Varsity. Next year is my senior year. I had dreams of a university sports scholarship at Alabama, Clemson, or Ohio State. I dreamt of being Sebastien Janikowski, Adam Vinatieri, and Morton Andersen, nailing the winning kick in the final seconds of the Super Bowl.

My kicking record was a state record: 100% on points after, 100% on field goals inside the 30 and 98% outside, and 100% touchbacks (pretty incredible in high school) on kick-offs. And I could consistently punt to pin the opponent inside their 10, even from our side of the 50.

"Coach, I'm stunned. How? Why?"

"Blame YouTube or Carli Lloyd, whatever. That internet phenomenon of girls kicking for high school teams got more exposure after Lloyd's 55- yarder. And then Sarah Fuller at Vanderbilt kicked open the doors in the SEC and the minds in the NFL.

"The NFL isn't stupid. Throw on top of all that the increasing number of female position coaches, strength coaches, coordinators, assistant managers, college scouts, team directors, publicity heads, marketing executives, corporate vice-presidents, and more. And there's the fans: 47% of all NFL fans are women. Merchandise. Money.

"The NFL owners' meeting before the Super Bowl the other week? That new 4F option for PATs? The Female Four-point Free kick from the Forty-four? Only Female kickers. And the dedicated, additional roster spot for one female kicker. The game's changing. The NFL follows the money.

"Across the country, mothers at PTA meetings --- and a lot of dads too -- - have been demanding more opportunities for their daughters to play high school football with the boys. Play like a girl!" Coach wrung his hands together and looked sympathetically at me.

"It comes into effect for next season. Your senior year, I know. Sorry, Nick, but if you want to play varsity next year, then you must either change position and become, say, a wide receiver, or change sex and become a girl. All kickers will be girls."

I stared at him aghast. He shook his head at me apologetically.

"Every school is having the same conversation right now with their current kickers. I got off the phone with Coach Bullnose over at Whispering Pines High. He says his kickers quit. I need your decision within a week. Be back here next Friday after last class."

His words slew me. My hopes, my dreams, my future: all gone because of some girly bureaucratic and viral-video nonsense. I got up to walk out.

"Don't forget your playbook when you come," he said to me sadly as I left.

-----000-----

"We need to talk," I said to my parents. Dinner had just finished. I explained everything. Dad and my stepmom listened patiently. "Any ideas?" I asked.

Dad looked at me caringly: "Sorry. Nick. You and I both know that you won't crack the team as a wideout, let alone a corner. You're too skinny and frail." True; he was honest.

"It's worse than that, son," my dad continued, "in this economy, sales are down at the office. No one is getting a pay raise. We're lucky there aren't layoffs. We have to replace both cars next year. And your sister needs that facelift to repair the scars from the squirrel attack. And your mom here still can't work. No scholarship, no university or college."

Dad sniffled, maybe he too was seeing the darkening skies of my future. "Ted might be hiring down at the garbage dump after next year. He remembers how you helped him out with that black bear problem last summer." I knew dad's encouraging words were little consolation. His glance told me he knew they were too.

"Don't get too discouraged," he said discouragingly.

I looked at my stepmom. Beautiful, blonde, fit, slender, majestic: she sat elegantly on the plush dining room chair. She flicked her fingers through her mane and examined her one-inch long nails. The cherry red colour accented her lipstick.

She had always treated me kindly, unlike so many stepmothers in so many fiction stories, like 'Cendrillon ou la petite pantoufle de verre' by Charles Perrault, 'Paulette' by Cheryl Lynn, or "The Finishing School' by Eric what's-his-name.

She lit a thin menthol cigarette and lifted her head toward the ceiling.

"You could just keep kicking." Languorously, she blew me a teasing kiss: "Nikki."

-----000-----

"Nick, it's great that you're considering it," my girlfriend Debbie gushed, smiling.

I admit to having been taken aback by her eager reaction when I floated the possibility of perchance just maybe 'switching teams' so I could keep kicking for my team. I thought she'd hit me and run me over with her dad's Combine Harvester. I was astonished that she was bubbling with enthusiasm.

There were so many reasons to explain my love for her. She was pretty, she was smart, and she was pretty smart. She got straight A marks. She was the leading midfielder on the girls' varsity soccer team; Mr. Ellis our math teacher was her coach. She did some modeling for a few boutiques in town. She led charity drives and fundraisers. Everyone loved her.

And for some strange reason that I never knew but had decided long ago to not worry about, she had picked me. I once thought it might be because I was on the football team: Terribly cliché: stunning girl dates football player. But she kept dating me even after she learnt I was just the kicker. I knew then it was true love.

"I'll help you!" she shouted joyfully.

-----000-----

"I've made a decision, coach." I sat across from him at his desk. He looked despondent.

"Okay, Nick. Nobody is going to blame you, especially not me. Just leave your playbook on the desk."

"I'm keeping the book, coach! It's Nikki from now on! I am going to become a girl! I will be the kicker next season again! Nobody and nothing are going to stand in my way!"

He suddenly grabbed the edge of his desk with his hands. "Really?" he asked. I nodded. "Fantastic!" he exclaimed gratefully. He looked like he wanted to cry tears of joy. Victory snatched from the jaws of, well, something.

"If you're serious, then you've got my complete support! Anything you need, we can pay for from the football budget! New chest pads for your tits, sorry, I mean breasts, new hip pads, pink towels, rainbow-coloured cleats, proper makeup instead of that cheap made-in-China eye black, a new helmet for long hair: anything! Anything! Anything!" He cheered the heavens.

"Nick, sorry. Nikki! I'm behind you all the way!"

EARLY MARCH

My stepmom helped out right away. She didn't do the evil stepmother thing like they do in bad novels and in third-rate dog-vomit on-line TG fiction. No, she was a much better person than that.

She took me shopping for new clothing; we ambled around trying on shoes; she and I danced down the aisles of Walmart to Muzak. I started a solid accumulation of what she called 'the basics', and it steadily grew.

Even Debbie was impressed: "A corset!" Her exclamation betrayed her suppressed envy.

-----000-----

News spread quickly throughout the school.

My teammates patted me on the back and thanked me. They could now concentrate on their playbooks and textbooks without fear of a horrific record next season; their prospective football scholarships would not be imperiled.

The cheerleaders jumped and cheered in the cafeteria at lunchtime, "Gimme an N! Gimme an I!. Gimme a..." Well, you surely get it; "NIKKI!" They did cartwheels to celebrate the salvaging of the next football season.

Normally, because ours is a largely innocuous skill position, few people know the name of their football team's kicker (e.g. who knows the name 'Scott Norwood'?). But everyone was happy to see me and congratulate me. I had already saved the school's football program without having even started the next season.

Many of the junior students looked at me in awe. Lots of girls started coming up to me to offer dressing, makeup, and dating tips. Debbie found many of the latter to be quite amusing. Some of the boys started leaving encouraging notes on my desk. I even received several belated, anonymous Valentine's cards.

I have to admit, however, that some of the boys in the lower grades chuckled at me behind my back. Twerps.

-----000-----

Nurse Wretched gave me a sneer as she pulled my skinny jeans with floral embroidery down.

"Oh my! Those pink panties are so you," she said just to distract me from the four extremely large needles she shoved in my buttocks.

"My stepmom picked them out for me when she got this other stuff," I said.

"I'm sure she did. How darling of her. I'll be sure to talk about them with her when she comes around to consent to your next set of shots and procedures," she replied. "Halter-top up, please." The next two syringes were even bigger than the first four! I asked what the additional shots were for.

"Just like last week! They will ensure that your new Zena shoulder pads will fit you properly." She smirked as she squeezed the contents into my nipples. They grew itchy and sore quickly.

"Now! Get going to home economics class, young lady!" she laughed as she pushed me out the door. That didn't sound right. I hadn't been enrolled in that class a week ago...

EARLY APRIL

The morning sun caught my locks as they fluttered in the wind. I decided to forego the ponytail today, despite my stepmom's urgings. I so much appreciated her advice and counsel as I progressed deeper into my 'retention of my kicking position' program.

I didn't want to call it 'transition'; that term is just for pansies and poofdahs, and I was hardly one; I was a kicker!

My stepmom and I got along so well now. Just last weekend, we got waxed together! My legs looked great with my capris and closed toe Espadrille wedge sandals in a wonderful natural tan linen. Honestly, the waxing also accentuated my thong where it had to be accentuated. "Better tan lines come summer when you're outside practicing your kicking!" she gleefully said. My tank top already helped in that regard.

The yoga classes we attended together were really helping my stretching. No more pulled hamstrings for me next season!

-----000-----

The team's off-season weightlifting program was well underway. Nurse Wretched advised me to participate in it.

"It will help you recover from your operation," she said.

"What operation?" I asked.

She smiled that snarky smirky smile that masked her sneer. "The operation that the school has raised money for. The operation that will help you become the kicker you deserve to be!"

"There's a 'GoFundMe' page in my name? For this?" I was astonished. I knew that the football program had a limited budget and that whatever money went into me took away from the team. But I was flattered too.

"Actually," she said mockingly, "there's another one as well. Most of the ninth graders call it a 'ComeFuckMe' page. There are rumours that you're only doing this to get in bed with some of the football players."

"I am a football player! Students already want to get into bed with me!" I cried.

"I know that you're a kicker, sweetie. Everyone knows that you're the kicker. And yes, there are some students who definitely want to get in bed with a kicker like you! Now, let's get back to your Kegel exercises."

-----000-----

I learned hardly any details about this forthcoming operation except the following: a) the GoFundMe page had raised $5,438.07; b) the ComeFuckMe page had raised over $2 million; and c) the operation would be performed by a Doctor Ruth White assisted by a Doctor Justine Van Damme.

Holding my knees up by my chest, I rocked myself back-and-forth as I contemplated the foregoing. My Chamomile tea tasted enchantingly delightful.

Plainly, the eighth graders had pranked the money-raising efforts. Debbie whispered to me that someone had apparently thought it funny to have the ComeFuckMe page linked to an Middle Eastern online auction for my virginity. Coach said he saw a big donation to it from the Joe Watson Memorial Fund, whatever that was. The main thing was that the school had money.

As for the doctors, given that both were women and that I needed to be a woman for the playing season, I presumed they knew what they were doing. I hastily signed the various consent forms that my stepmom placed before me. "It's just a little nip and tuck, here and there," she wryly said as she braided my hair.

EARLY JULY

I got back from the Institute in early July. I felt fantastic! The operation was a complete success; I could now be a kicker just as I had always wanted to be.

My school had granted me passing grades in every subject based upon my pre-operation marks, which were mostly As and Bs. Dad had redecorated my room, giving it that manly Chargers powder-puff-blue colour and putting up lots of posters of the Women's Football Alliance, the US Women's Football League, and the two female NFL refs, Sarah Thomas and Maia Chaka.

I had missed my family and my home, my friends and my life. But now, retooled for my 'retention program', my morale soared. I phoned my Coach; he told me to come down to the practice fields anytime and start kicking again. Rather than say good-bye, he ended our call with, "Fucking awesome!" This encouraged me.

-----000-----

I called Debbie. She came by. "You look fantastic!" she squealed. "I love your hair. And, oh my, that's permanent makeup! I have so begged my dad to let me get that."

I flicked my locks back and lifted my chin enticingly. "That's not all that's new," I teased my girlfriend and tilted my head toward my redecorated bedroom.

Once there, I dropped my robe and stood before her in my VS lingerie, one leg crooked, one heel raised, one mouth sultry, panting.

"Oh my god!" she said when she walked in. "Coach let you keep the playbook!" She raced past me to the playbook. I was surprised but, whatever. I put a peignoir on and sat on the bed. I watched her eyes dance across the pages. Cover 2 Man Over. Hashbrown 53 X-Jig Y-Zag Right. Mike Strong Blast Left 55 Eagle Monkey. Her wide eyes seemed to be soaking it all in.

"Coach only had an older one left," she muttered to herself. I barely heard her.

"Wanna play?" I coyly asked, discarding my peignoir, undoing my garter, playing with my belly button piercing. I didn't want her to see my new labia rings and butterfly too soon.

Her head swivelled. Her eyes narrowed. Her mouth tightened.

"You've got the latest Madden?" she asked me breathlessly.

-----000-----

By mid-month, I had recovered sufficiently to start kicking again. My magnificent and gorgeous stepmom --- often with her swept-back hair, dazzling drop earrings, wearing a gown from Alexandre Vauthier, with a plunging neckline, a gathered ruched front, embellished in golden crystals, and designer shoulder pads --- accompanied me everyday to the field and watched me kick.

It felt good to feel the swing again. Nothing hits home like an approach from the just-right angle and a nestled kick with the top side of the foot. I could plant better than before. My follow-through went super high! My legs swung more easily; there was less in the way of the swing, I sighed philosophically, but happily.

Stepmom and I worked religiously for days at recovering my kicking form. We attracted a small, loyal following of boys from grades seven to eleven from local schools. Once or twice, she would helpfully bend over and pick up balls. I would kick away. Once or twice, she would fetch them. I would kick away.

Because it took some time for her to walk the field in her heels, she suggested to me that, since we had a loyal fan club, we could ask them to help me recover my balls. She sniggered when she said it, but I had greater confidence in those boys than she must have had. They eagerly helped.

LATE AUGUST

The preseason workouts started in early August. Debbie and I walked to the field together. I practiced. She watched me. So did the rest of the team. And Coach too.

It was hot. Typically, I wore a Nike rainbow-coloured sports bra and some lightweight knit, wicking, anti-pill and anti-pick shorts with a flattering silhouette from Under Armor. I rubbed my forearm against my forehead to wipe my glistening away. I poured cool water over my head and shook it.

It took me three weeks to kick accurately once again. There was something strange and disconcerting about my distance. However, I put it down to the final finishing days of my recovery. I was confident that my strength would return in full. I occasionally saw Coach lower and shake his head; he was plainly as disappointed as I was in the poor turf quality under the hot summer sun.

Often, after practice, Debbie and I would play together. Small little competitions. Fun. Games. Tiny bets: e.g. 'longest kickoff wins', 'most field goals in two minutes wins', stuff like that. Coach certainly appreciated my commitment and dedication; he too often stayed after practice to watch me kick. Debbie laughed about it.

We often strolled back home hand-in-hand, basking in the sun together.

If only I had seen the setting of the sun...

-----000-----

One day, Debbie didn't show up to go to practice with me. Strange.

I got to the field and saw that she was already there, kicking, wearing a mesh practice jersey. All fun and games, I thought to myself. She took off her helmet.

She was bald!!!

A fucking rookie hazing buzzcut!!!

She had made the team!!!

Then Coach came up to me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Nikki, I've got to talk to you. My office. Five minutes." He started walking away. "Oh," he added, "bring your playbook."

I was stunned. He cut me! He calmly explained to me that Debbie had begun by just playing with some spare kicking balls but had graduated to in-pad practices. She was a better punter than I now was and a stronger field goal kicker. We were fairly even in respect of onside kicks, but in most other respects she was superior.

"Thanks for coming out," he grimly said as he grabbed my beloved playbook from my hands.

"Look," he said in consolation, "if she gets injured, then we'll give you a tryout."

-----000-----

I arrived home to my stepmom sitting on an Adirondack chair on our front porch. She was sipping a drink of some kind.

"Your father's still at the office. Sit," she patted the seat of the chair next to her.

"Well, young lady, it seems like there's yet another young girl in this country who tried to play football but wasn't good enough for the team. How does it feel to really, truly be one of us now?" She passed me a drink: 4 ounces of Scotch. I chugged it.

"Is it always this hard to play like a girl?" I needed her wisdom.

"Sweetie, it isn't. Playing like a girl is easy! It's fun!" She sipped her sangria.

"What's hard," she said grimly, as though she was remembering some painful incident in her past, "are the moments when we girls try to play like a boy. Like trying out for a hockey team as a goalie." She stared off into the distance.

"Being told that, despite having the best skills, a better goals-againstaverage than the boy goalies, the team wouldn't touch you unless you wanted to become a water-girl." She winced and chugged the remainder of her drink.

"Be happy for Debbie; she can do it! That means she's really incredible! Admirable! Enviable! Support her! Cheer her on!"

She stared at her glass, glanced at me, and said, "Now, please be a good girl and fill up my glass, sweetie. Thanks."

EARLY SEPTEMBER

I was still in a funk on the first day of school.

Coach avoided me in the hallways. He was behind me, alright, just like he said he would be; except he was running the other way. Coward. He even darted into the girls' washroom once. You would have thought that the girls would have shrieked. They didn't. They sympathized with him. I later heard they all shared a couple of joints while waiting for me to go away.

My ex-teammates refused to socialize with me anymore. "We don't need pretend football players as groupies. You didn't even make the practice squad," they said. Their repudiation stung. They forced me to turn in my leather team jacket. My colours: gone. I had worn them with pride for years. That too was gone; my pride: gone.

If I had magical powers, then I would have transformed all the boys who now snickered at me behind my back into Little Ponies, Little Mermaids, and castrated unicorns. Those fucking little pricks; I hope they all end up working at Burger King when they graduate.

And Debbie who had taken my spot on my football team? Rumour had it that Florida State was already scouting her: fuck my life. And she had dumped me for that cute little lesbian in Grade 10, Fiona, Fido, or something 'F'. Bitch. Things couldn't get worse on the dating front, I thought.

I was wrong. The Goths and Emos started pestering me. "Snuggle and chat," they said. They creeped me out. I'd probably end up a Wiccan sacrifice or something. I avoided them. Then the computer club nerds started shadowing me; I shooed them away with a flash of my tits. I thought that would scare the masturbating incels away and it did.

Worst was the cretin Biff from English lit class: "I want you to want me because you know how my junk works." Gross: how do girls put up with that? Stepmom had warned of such behaviour but added, "Every crisis is an opportunity," and had rubbed her thumbs and forefingers together in a money sign when she had said it. I toyed with him into buying me three lunches in exchange for one peck on the cheek and a kinda-maybe-perhapsprobably -not-though promise to have a dance with him: what a stupid sucker he was.

Anyway, I held my books up by my B-cup chest and walked to calculus. It was a course that I was dreading and thought that I would not miss after graduation. Thinking about it some more, I realized that I would miss it. This would be my final school year.

No more college dreams. No more university dreams. No more dreams of being a brilliant scientist who discovers the cure for cancer. No more dreams.

Perhaps, then, calculus was my last chance to enjoy school before the drudgery of life eroded my soul, corroded my spirit, and crushed me into a pitiful, pathetic remnant of, well, something.

-----000-----

The calculus teacher, Mr. Ellis, took me aside just before class started. "How are you?" he asked kindly.

"Good enough. Thanks for asking," I answered emotionlessly and headed into class.

"Nikki," he said gently, "I know you're bummed about Debbie taking your spot on the football team. I get it. But that's done and over with. No more 4-down football for you." He waved his hands sincerely. I sniffled, nodded, and turned to sit at my desk. I wanted to cry.

"Nikki!"

His shout caught my ear and those of all my peers, fair weather bastards and bitches as they were. I turned back to face him.

Everyone looked at the two of us.

"I don't have a midfielder now for my girls Varsity soccer team. And scouts from Dartmouth and Stanford are coming this weekend. They offer scholarships. Can you kick for me Saturday?"

Everyone gasped.

I smiled, nodded, and started dreaming of Julie Ertz, Amandine Henry, Dzsenifer Marozsán, and my kicking the winning goal in the next World Cup.

I would proudly play like a girl after all.

END

By Rhayna Tera, copyright 2020