The following excerpt is from Victoria Zeller's debut novel One of the Boys, released from Levine Querido on May 13. The book follows 17-year-old Grace, a D-I bound kicker who left the world of football behind (or so she thought) when she came out as trans.
A wave of relief crashed over me at the final bell. One day down, a hundred-something more to go.
I kept my head down in the hallway on the way to my locker. I felt restless; mentally tired, but physically jittery. Idle. Useless. Going home right at the bell in September just felt wrong when the football team was about to dig into a Tuesday practice. Maybe I needed to go on a run, burn off some of this energy.
Just as I started mentally planning out my route, a familiar voice cut through the after-school din. “Woodhouse! I was looking for you.”
My head snapped up to see Kaeden Park-Campbell, of all people, standing in front of me. The guy was unassuming: five-five, skinny, arms covered in blotchy football bruises. From his position at strong safety, though, the dude was an absolute menace, throwing his body around with no regard for his health. I’d seen him make players six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than him cry.
“Kaeden,” I greeted him, unable to suppress a grin. I noticed heavy bags under his eyes. “Junior been keeping you up?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “You know, I don’t even have him half the time. Mikayla and I split it up evenly. But he’s five months old now. You know what sleep regression is?”
I shook my head.
He exhaled. “Don’t learn.”
I laughed at his expense, but started to get nervous. Kaeden and I were friendly enough that he liked my coming out post (I expected him to, given that he had two moms), but he’d never been my closest friend. If he wanted to talk—not just say hi—it wasn’t because he’d wanted to tell me about his son’s sleep schedule.
“Look,” he said, sounding embarrassed, “you heard I’m replacing you at kicker, right?”
That made me perk up. “Really? I figured Rut would poach someone from the soccer team.”
“Oh, he tried. Held open tryouts for a few of the boys and everything, but none of them were any good. So”—he pointed at his chest—“it’s my job. Like everything else.”
Kaeden was cursed by two things: 1) he was smart, and 2) he was quick to volunteer when an extra body was needed. Offense, defense, special teams, wherever. He’d become the designated utility man of the team, a steady hand who could be trusted not to mess anything up. Add kicker to his already lengthy list of responsibilities.
“How’s it been going?”
He sighed. “I mean, I’m okay. I just haven’t had the time, you know? I don’t get the reps at kicker ’cause they need me everywhere else. I was, uh, actually wondering if you could help me?”
A choked laugh escaped my throat. “How?”
“Just a little extra work after practice. I’d go to Rhoads”—the special teams coach—“but he’s old, you know? I feel bad asking him to do extra work.” He winced, which is how I realized I was making a face. “You don’t have to, obviously. Totally get why you wouldn’t want to.”
If it was anyone else, I would’ve said no, turned on my heel, and marched home without a second thought. But Kaeden had the most jobs on the team, a schedule full of honors classes, and a goddamn baby at home. I didn’t know how the poor guy was still standing, let alone learning how to kick a football.
“What exactly do you have in mind?” I asked hesitantly.
He smiled. “When can you start?”
I pulled Lorraine into the Pageland High parking lot around six that afternoon, very pointedly ignoring the knot my insides had tied themselves into.
I ran through another inventory of the practice materials I’d scrounged up, pawing through the old mesh equipment bag in my passenger seat. Some part of me hoped I’d forgotten something, given myself an excuse to head back home, but I hadn’t gotten lucky: there were the few footballs I had laying around, there was my kicking stand. My old cleats—highlighter-orange Nikes, made for soccer—taunted me from the top of the pile.
I glanced up at the field to find Kaeden, as expected, in a ratty T-shirt and gym shorts on the sideline. What I didn’t expect to see were the three other guys with him. Crap. I hadn’t dressed for a crowd; I’d just thrown on a tank top and athletic shorts. Getting feminine workout clothes had been an early-transition priority, but they still weren’t a natural fit. I felt my stupid boxy body below the material with every move I made.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Teach Kaeden how to kick, suck it up, it’s the right thing to do.
I was halfway to the field when Ahmed Nassar glanced over his shoulder and called out: “Here comes Coach!”
I bit back a smile as the boys cheered, keeping my eyes glued to the ground. After what felt like an eternity, I crossed the track that circled the field and tossed my equipment bag to the ground in a heap. “Ta-da!”
Ahmed was the first to greet me, grinning like an absolute dork. “My queen,” he said, extending his hand for a dap. “How’s it going?”
I’d forgotten how big he was. I mean, I knew it logically—he was listed at six-three, two-eighty last year—but it looked like he might’ve grown another inch over the summer. For how dangerous he was on the field, he couldn’t have been less serious off of it; he was constantly making dumb jokes, throwing parties, and always, always smiling. It was hard to remember that he might play in the NFL someday.
“I’m alright,” I said, remembering his question. “Hanging in there.”
He clapped my shoulder. “Good shit.”
Next up was Dray, a wide grin on his face. Since the last time I saw him, he’d switched up his hair again: he’d let his twists grow out, bleaching the ends blond. “About time, Grace.”
I’m not the biggest hugger in the world, but I couldn’t resist the pull. “It’s good to see you, dude.”
Dray had been my first real football friend, back when we were both freshmen running backs on the JV team. A few weeks into the season, our sophomore kicker tore his hamstring, and they stuck me—the kid who used to play soccer—in as the emergency kicker. Dray eventually switched positions himself, becoming one of the best receivers in Western New York.
When he came out as gay two years ago, I was embarrassed and confused and extremely fifteen about it. For a few months, I barely spoke to him out of an emotion that I could now see was jealousy. So stupid. Add that to the list of things I regretted.
The day I came out as trans, the very first text I got was from him. Well, the first two texts.
The first: Grace Woodhouse!
The second: Feel better now?
“Good to see you too,” he said, patting my back as he pulled away from the hug. “Glad you’re here.”
Prez, who lingered off to the side, looked considerably less comfortable. He’d been Dray’s closest friend for a few years, but the two of us had never been particularly close. He waved shyly. “Grace.”
“Zachary.”
That broke the ice, just like I hoped it would. “Just ’cause you’re not on the team anymore doesn’t mean you get to call me that,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You sound like my mom.”
Prez was as stereotypically Quarterback as they came: tall, blond, easy to get along with. Handsome in a Riverdale extra kinda way. I found myself thinking back to a party at Ahmed’s last spring, one where everyone was ranking the hotness of celebrities on a one-to-ten scale. Prez had deemed me “sus” for thinking Kristen Stewart was hot, since “only lesbians” thought that. Which, yeah, funny in retrospect, but . . . did it have anything to do with why he didn’t seem thrilled to see me? I mean, he was best friends with Dray, but just because you’re cool with gay people doesn’t mean trans people get a pass.
I decided not to linger on it. He’d shown up, after all, and he didn’t have to.
Lastly, of course, was Kaeden, who I realized with a start was holding his son. I didn’t immediately drop everything and demand to see him, but it took a lot of effort. Kaeden saw the look on my face and smiled. “You wanna hold KJ?” He held up the little dude dramatically as Dray hummed “Circle of Life,” which cracked everyone up. “He’s chill. He won’t puke on you or anything.”
I gingerly took the baby from Kaeden, holding KJ under the arms. He was pretty damn cute by baby standards, with his little mop of black curls and his tiny Buffalo Bills onesie. “Hey, buddy. What’s up?”
KJ reached out his tiny hands and brushed my hair, which he seemed to find fascinating. I couldn’t help but giggle. “Where’d he come from? Didn’t you guys just get out of practice?”
“KJ loves ball,” Dray said. “He’s the next Kyler Murray.”
“You can’t just say that ’cause he’s Black and Korean, bro,” Ahmed replied, shaking his head. “That’s a cancelable offense.”
“That’s not why I said it! I picked Kyler ’cause he’s short!”
“My grandma dropped him off,” Kaeden clarified. “He’s not used to spending all this time away from me or his mom, you know? I figured he’d wanna see me ASAP.”
“Aww!” KJ grabbed two fistfuls of my hair and babbled happily. “Did you miss your dad?”
Then he pulled hard and squealed in delight.
Kaeden looked mortified while the rest of the guys laughed at my expense. “Sorry, he really likes pulling hair. I should’ve warned you.”
“It’s—ow—it’s okay!” I held him further away from me, depriving him of torturing me further. “You’re a little menace, aren’t you?”
KJ giggled and kicked his legs in reply. Confirmed menace.
“Alright, I’m calling it. Feelingsball’s over.” Ahmed held out his arms expectantly. “Gimme the criminal. Go coach his daddy up.”
I hesitated and glanced at Kaeden, who nodded like it was the obvious thing to do. “You don’t trust me?” Ahmed asked incredulously. “I’ll have you know I’m excellent with kids. You know I got three little nieces.”
“He’s better at changing diapers than I am,” Kaeden admitted sheepishly.
Once I handed KJ off to Ahmed, who started fussing over him like he was a goddamn prince, Kaeden and I lugged our equipment towards the near goalposts. I set up the kicking stand at the ten-yard line, the distance of an extra point attempt, and had him kick without any coaching to get a sense of what I was working with.
The results weren’t encouraging. His steps back and to the left were all choppy and uneven; his approach was a mess. When he finally made contact with the ball, he punched it low and to the left, accompanied by copious mumbled swearing.
“Okay,” I said, sucking in a breath through my teeth, trying to figure out where to begin. “Let’s start with your steps.”
I modeled the process for him, taking three even steps back followed by two sidesteps to the left. I walked him through his approach steps in slow motion and showed him where his plant foot was supposed to end up relative to the ball. It’d be easier if I changed into my cleats—Converse don’t exactly bite into field turf—but I was afraid of the feelings they might dredge back up. Last year still hurt. I wasn’t ready to poke the hornet’s nest yet.
“Don’t worry about kicking right now,” I told him. “Work on those steps. Take it slow.”
While Kaeden ran through a dozen reps, the boys settled into a spot on the turf maybe ten yards behind us. “Looking good, Kaeden!” Prez called. “You’re in your Tyler Bass era!”
“I thought this was a private lesson, K,” I said while Kaeden slowly counted out his steps again. “You got fans?”
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, not taking his eyes off the turf. “I mentioned it in the captains’ groupchat. They invited themselves.”
I put my hands on my hips and theatrically looked over the four of them. “These are the captains of the Section VI favorite Pageland Druids? We’re doomed.”
“C’mon now,” Ahmed said. KJ sat contently on his knee, his big brown eyes trained on his father. “You know we’re keeping the boys in line.”
“How’s the squad looking? Is this really ‘Pageland’s best team ever?’”
That was what every Section VI football preview seemed to think, anyway. Consensus was that the Druids would roll over their section schedule and into the state championship in Syracuse, which no Pageland team had ever made before. Given that we were a botched field goal away from State Semis last year, I could believe it.
Dray sat up straight and cleared his throat. “We’re just gonna play our game, give a hundred and ten percent, and leave it all out there on the field,” he said in flawless Football Speak. “We’re taking it one week at a time. Right now, we’re focused on Seabass.”
Prez rolled his eyes as Dray cackled at his own joke. “We’re gonna wreck the section. Our only real competition is Wake East, maybe Bennett.”
“Good stuff.” I glanced sideways at Kaeden. “Gonna need a kicker for all that, right? Think we’re ready to put laces on leather again?”
He sighed, rolling out his shoulders. “Guess so.”
Kaeden’s second kick wasn’t perfect, but it looked a hell of a lot better than his first. His steps looked solid, and even though his trajectory was a little low, his kick sailed comfortably between the uprights. The guys whooped in celebration as I slapped Kaeden on the back. “Hell yeah, dude!”
“Ugly,” he noted, suppressing a grin, “but it got there.”
“It’s a good start. If you just make your extra points consistently, it’ll put us ahead of half the schools in the state.”
“Woody’s right,” Prez said. “Keep working at it, dude. You got this!”
We stayed at it for another ten minutes or so, just long enough for Kaeden to knock a few more kicks through the uprights. Even though he held his own, I wasn’t surprised to see him hit a wall quickly; there was only so much progress you could make in one afternoon. I told him to call it a day, and he left to go chase down the balls he’d scattered behind the goalposts.
“Can you still kick, Grace?” Ahmed asked suddenly.
I shrugged, trying my hardest to act like I hadn’t been wondering the exact same thing. I hadn’t kicked a football since that night in November; the pain of the loss had kept me away from practicing over the winter, and by the time the pain began to fade, I realized I was a girl, and football was gone forever. “Probably not.”
“Come on,” Prez said, gesturing towards me with a half-eaten protein bar. “I know you can still hit ’em from deep.”
Dray nudged him with his elbow. “Leave her alone, Zach. She don’t wanna kick, she don’t have to kick.”
Kaeden came trudging back towards us, delicately balancing an armful of footballs. “Could be a good learning experience,” he said with a shrug. “To watch a pro, you know.”
“I was never a pro!”
“Says the kid who visited Penn State on a recruiting trip last year,” Ahmed said, waving a hand dismissively. “You got schmoozed by James Franklin. When’d you get so humble?”
It’s not like I was ever really that good. FightSong said I was the eighteenth-best junior kicker in the country, sure, but there are so few decent high school kickers that people think the best ones are wizards. I was the Paul Bunyan of Section VI last year, with preposterous rumors spreading far and wide about my kicking exploits. I heard Woodhouse can kick right AND left-footed. I heard Woodhouse hit from seventy yards out in practice. I heard Woodhouse has never missed.
That kicker—the one they told myths about—wasn’t real. That kicker wouldn’t have missed a chip shot with the season on the line.
“Can’t do it, guys,” I said, finally unclenching my jaw. I hadn’t even realized I’d been grinding my teeth. “Sorry.”
“S’alright,” Dray said, holding his hands up. “Don’t sweat it.”
While Kaeden and I loaded up my equipment bag and the other captains started to drift off, he gave me a tight smile. “I appreciate it, Woodhouse. Do you, uh, mind meeting up again? So we can work on kickoff?”
I shrugged and tried to act like I wasn’t stoked, like this wasn’t the first time all day I hadn’t felt like an alien. “Yeah, I think I’m down for that.”
