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Flying has never been your favorite thing, and as you begin your descent over London, you’re reminded of the last time you’d flown this far. You’d been seventeen, alone and anxious and on your way to Chelsea, brimming with excitement over finally reaching your dream.
Not even seven months later you were on your way home, ligaments torn and joints aching in a way you’ll never get rid of.
Now, sitting for so long makes your hips cramp and your knees lock and you can feel your ankle swell and pulsate with pain. You know your back would start cramping if you weren’t landing, so you have something small to be thankful for. Really, you’re just lucky that you have a few days to recover before training begins.
It hits you how pathetic it is that you, a professional footballer, need to recover from a plane ride. You try not to let it bother you, try not to wallow in self pity and hatred the way you did when you were 17, laying on your mother’s couch post-op and believing your life was over.
If only you could see yourself now, on your way to join the brand new AFC Richmond women’s team.
The idea of leaving the US was nerve-wracking, but you simply couldn’t pass up the opportunity to play in England again, to try one more time to achieve a dream you’d had since you were a little girl. It was so clear that everyone you talked with truly believed in creating a space for women, to support them and push the sport forward, and that starting a women’s team wasn’t simply a way to keep up with other clubs, to stay relevant.
As the plane lands, you finally allow yourself to feel excited in that same giddy way you did the last time you made this journey. You were finally one step closer to making your dreams come true, and you weren’t going to let your negative thoughts and fears ruin it for you.
The entire ride to Nelson Road, you couldn’t help but let that giddy excitement course through your veins, feeling like you’re a little kid again and on your way to your first day of school. You can’t help but wonder who’ll be in your class, who your teacher will be. The Richmond women’s team has been kept fairly quiet, and you have practically no idea what you’re getting yourself into.
Walking through the doors, your nerves start to build again, and you think your heart is going to beat right through your ribs as you make your way to the front desk. Before you start speaking, you need to take a deep breath or else you’re worried you’ll collapse, and that seems like bad luck considering you’re here to be an athlete.
“Hi, I’m here-“
“I know why you’re here,” the receptionist cuts you off and you’d be upset if she wasn’t beaming at you, “Ms. Welton is waiting for everyone in her office.”
The receptionist shows you the way, gesturing up a grand staircase that gives you plenty of time to freak out some more, your anxiety only growing the closer you get to the owner's office. As you open the door, you wonder if it’s too late to turn and run and catch a flight back to America.
All those feelings disappear when you see one of the other players talking with a gorgeously tall woman, and you can’t help but to squeal despite how unprofessional you know it makes you look.
“Mackie!” You yell out, causing the other woman to turn towards you, a grin blooming on her face when she notices you. Claire McKenzie had been one your best friends since you both debuted for the US team together at twenty years old, bonded by your age and your bench riding skills.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” She asks as she pulls you into a tight embrace, completely forgetting about everyone else in the room.
“I’m here to play some fucking football!” You reply, feeling ten times lighter than you did in the hallway now that you know you have Mackie on your side.
Breaking apart from the hug, you feel everyone’s eyes on you and you’re wishing the floor could just open up and swallow you when the woman who must be Rebecca Welton smiles kindly at you.
“I’m glad to know some of you ladies are already friends,” she says, the room breaking into laughter and the weight lifting off of your chest.
After everyone had arrived, she took the time to introduce herself and the few other non-players in the room, including Keeley Jones, the true mastermind behind the Richmond women’s team. No matter how much this team means to you, to the rest of the team, to Rebecca, it means ten times more to Keeley. This was her idea, her baby, and you can already feel the pride and excitement radiating off of her at the sight of the team gathered before her.
You’re determined to win it all for her.
“This is Coach Kent, and Beard and Nathan Shelley will be your assistant coaches until we can find someone to fill those spots permanently,” Rebecca says with a smile, but you can all feel the tension coursing underneath the surface.
“So no one wanted to coach us?” A voice from the back of the room asks, and it’s like you’ve been drenched in freezing cold water now that somebody’s said it out loud.
“No one has expressed interest… yet,” Rebecca adds, trying to keep up her jovial facade as the players start to mutter to each other. It feels like you’re in gym class again, standing and hoping and praying you get picked for dodgeball but knowing you’ll be last again.
“Oi! I fucking want to coach you, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” Roy says, sounding angry but you can’t quite place what he’s truly feeling, “and these two want to fucking coach you.” Beard and Nate nod, Roy crossing his arms across his chest as your murmurs die down, placated by his statements.
“With the limited space and limited coaching staff, there will be some days where you share training with the boys, but we’re all one big family here,” Rebecca adds, and you can tell by now that the smile plastered on her face is fake, that she’s trying to convince herself as much as she’s trying to convince you.
As you wrap up in the office and head downstairs to see the dressing room, you can’t help but feel as if the entire world’s against the team, against you. All you know right now is that you’re going to need to work ten times harder than everyone else to prove yourself to the fans, to the media, to the world.
Passing by the men’s dressing room, you briefly lock eyes with someone walking towards the pitch, who smiles as you pass. It’s so quick that your brain isn’t able to process who it is, so you try to forget it and follow the rest of the team to the brand new women’s dressing room.
The players rush into the room as if the floodgates opened, everyone trying to find their kit and their name and their number. As much as you want to play it cool, want to make a good first impression on Rebecca and Keeley and the coaches, you can’t help but grin and run with the other girls, everyone giddy as they see the kits in person.
When you finally find yours, you can’t help the tears that spring to your eyes.
It’s the classic Richmond blue, with your name in bold white above a large number nine.
It’s as if everything you’ve ever wanted is right in front of you: you’re a striker on a team you care about. You know it’s going to be an uphill battle, know you’re going to need to prove yourself over and over and over, but right now, with your kit in your hand, your team laughing and smiling around you, you think you can face it.