It’s a nerve-racking day for college football players all over the country. But not for me.
It’s NFL draft day—which is actually a three-day event, not just one day. Over two hundred talented athletes will get picked to join NFL teams. Some of my friends might be among the lucky ones. I know a few guys who are in New York City right now, attending the draft. Roger Goodell, the NFL commissioner, will call their names, and they’ll walk to the stage, posing with the team owner who just drafted them. They’ll get a new hat with their team’s logo to go with their fancy, flashy suits.
Meanwhile, I’m in my basketball shorts and Cincinnati Bearcats shirt, legs stretched out over my mom’s coffee table. My dad is on his recliner, two of my siblings on either side of me on the couch. Olivia, my Irish twin—born almost exactly one year after me—is in her Bearcats sweatshirt, her legs tucked beneath her as she bites her lip. My little brother, Will, is taking up too much space on his side of the couch with his long limbs akimbo, his hair swooping into his eyes.
“Shouldn’t you be in New York?” Olivia asks, her hazel eyes darting from the TV to me and back. “Isn’t that, like, a thing on your draft day?”
“It’s not my draft day, Livvy.”
“You don’t know that,” her soft voice chides.
“I do,” I say quietly. My family has their hopes up far more than I do.
Our oldest sister, Emily, sweeps into the room carrying a tray of pigs in a blanket. She shoos my feet off the coffee table and sets the food down in the middle. “Maybe if you’d gone to the combine it would be your draft day,” Emily says with a huff. She’s my older sister, but she fancies herself a second mom, which is why she thinks I should have been invited to the NFL combine—a showcase event where top college athletes are evaluated through drills and tests by pro coaches and scouts.
“I wasn’t invited to the combine,” I say, keeping my voice level.
“Trevor said if you’d hired an agent like he suggested then you would’ve been invited to the combine.”
I shrug, looking away from her. Her lawyer boyfriend Trevor thinks he knows so much about everything. In this particular instance he’s not wrong, but I wasn’t about to seek out an agent. It’s just not my style.
I’ve never had delusions of grandeur.
In fact, it feels wrong to even be watching the draft with my family—like I’m sending the wrong signals to them about my prospects. My pro day was a disaster. My athletic measurables—the forty-yard dash, broad jump, bench press, and so on—were in the lowest 20th percentile for my position as quarterback. I’ve always had the right feel for the game and pinpoint accuracy, but I’ve never been an elite athlete.
And I never will be.
So here we are, watching as my fellow collegiate athletes get called up to various NFL teams, while my family’s hopes are poised to be dashed. Even though I’ve prepared myself for this, watching my friends get called up still feels like watching the ship sail away while I’m stuck on the dock.
“You know,” Emily says, squeezing between Will and me onto the couch. “When you were little you always wanted to be a garbage truck driver. If you don’t get drafted, you could still do that.” She waggles her eyebrows at me as she pops a piece of hot dog into her mouth.
“You would always rush us out of the house to watch the garbage truck drive by,” my dad says.
“I also wanted to be a dinosaur, but that didn’t pan out either,” I say, smirking at Em.
My mom hurries into the room as the Browns are about to name their first pick, carrying a plate of buffalo wings with a large bowl of ranch dressing. She places it beside the pigs in a blanket and then turns to me, placing her hands on either side of my face and kissing the top of my head. “No matter what happens today, we are so proud of you, Austin.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
It’s painful to watch my family—all of them leaning forward in their seats, bated breath, as I lean back against the couch we’ve had since I was a kid. Sure, I’ve let myself imagine what it might be like to play in the pros—not least of all what it’d mean for my family. Getting my parents new furniture, a spa day for my mom, a car for Liv and one day for Will too. But as fun as it is to dream, I know it’s just that—a dream.
My phone pings with text notifications. I pick it up to see a group text with Omar and Caleb, my two best friends.
Omar: Yo, how’s it going? Any word yet?
Me: Nothing yet. Not looking good.
Caleb: Dude, even if you don’t get drafted, teams still pick up players after the draft. It ain’t over till it’s over!
Omar: Yeah, UDFA is still a thing. Keep your head up!
I sigh at Omar’s reference to being an undrafted free agent. He’s right, but I don’t even want to entertain the thought.
Me: Appreciate it, guys. Trying to stay realistic here.
Omar: Realistic schm-ealistic. You’ve got skills, man. Someone’s gonna notice.
Caleb: And if not, there’s always Bucky’s Used Cars. You’d be the worst used car salesman ever but they’d use your ugly mug in their commercials. 
Omar: Can you imagine Austin trying to sell a used car? He couldn’t sell hand warmers to an Eskimo.
Caleb: He couldn’t sell water to someone dying in the desert.
Me: You’re hating on my skills as a salesman but I fleeced you last year in our fantasy football trade.
Omar: Good point. Maybe you could become a full-time fantasy football player since you can’t do the real thing.
We both laugh at Omar’s jibe and Caleb sends a burn GIF in the thread.
Caleb: Hey man, even if you don’t get drafted today, I’ll select you as my last pick in our league out of solidarity.
Omar: You got this, man. 
I chuckle at my friends’ messages, feeling a bit lighter. Their support means a lot, even if I’m not holding my breath for a miracle. And I know better than to dream too much.
If I were a man, I’d be playing in the NFL right now. But I’m very clearly a woman, so instead I’m on the data analysis team for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. Growing up, when people would find out that I’m obsessed with football, they assumed I’d want to be in broadcasting. I get it, I’ve got a pretty face, so that means I should use it. But it turns out I also have a pretty sweet brain too. And I’d much prefer to use that.
It’s draft day for the NFL. This is my first season with the Bucs, and I’m trying to show what I’ve got. I know my analysis is spot-on—but I’m the newbie in the room. I’ve interned with other NFL teams, but this is my first full-time analysis position after finishing my masters degree at MIT for data science with a concentration in sports analytics.
This is my dream job and I’m ready to shine. However, it’s the third round and I haven’t said a peep except to debate back and forth in whispers with my co-workers.
We’re in the draft room at the Bucs’ headquarters inside the AdventHealth Training Center. Today, the massive room is packed with every scout, analyst and member of the coaching staff. Live coverage of the draft is playing on a mounted television at the front of the room. The scent of stale coffee and the buzz of hushed conversation between colleagues fills the space. We’re on a conference call with our representatives at the draft as well as the Bucs’ owner, Mr. Beaumont. Everyone is eagerly waiting to see who the Philadelphia Eagles will select. We have the next selection, so the Eagles’ pick could greatly affect us.
My rival, ahem, counterpart, Ethan Driver, thinks they’ll pick up Drake Blythe, a quarterback from Florida State, but my money’s on Lorenzo Mattias. He’s a running back from Michigan and the Eagles’ new coach loves his run game.
The problem with the Eagles’ picking Mattias is that we are planning to pick him up next.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I sneak a glance. It’s a text from my best friend, Claire Beaumont. Her dad owns the Bucs and we’ve been connected at the hip since her dad hired mine as the General Manager almost a decade ago.
Claire: [GIF of a cat typing frantically] How’s the war room? 
Me: Total chaos.
Claire: Have you given any of your suggestions yet? 
Me: 
Claire: Dani! You’re the smartest, most knowledgeable person EVER. Like, you should get an award for knowing so much football stuff. OPEN YOUR BEAUTIFUL MOUTH!!
I press my lips together to hide my smile as I tuck my phone away. Even though her dad owns the team, Claire knows as much about football as a toddler. But she believes in me, and I could really use some of her faith right now.
Roger Goodell steps up onto the stage to announce the Eagles’ pick. “For the 2024 NFL draft, the Philadelphia Eagles select—” he glances down at the paper in his hand, though I’m certain he already knows the name written there “—Lorenzo Mattias.”
Beside me, Ethan narrows his eyes, but I don’t dare move a muscle. I can’t afford to gloat, not now—and possibly not ever. Being a woman in this man’s world, I have to be above it all. It’s exhausting but so, so worth it.
Despite the fact that most of the people in the room are wearing casual clothes, I’m in my typical attire: a tailored suit. Today I’m sporting a black suit with tapered pants and a soft ivory blouse. I never, ever wear skirts or dresses. EVER. I do, however, allow two nods to my femininity: stellar high heels and long braids that I almost always wear down. After almost a decade of wearing my hair in a severe bun for ballet—thanks to my stepmom—I’ve opted to wear my hair down.
Ethan, on the other hand, seems to always be in a Bucs shirt that’s been washed too many times and is losing its color. He’s got a dark beard, perpetually smudged glasses, and what our boss Mark calls a “gamer bod.” We’re essentially a study in opposites.
Today I’m rocking a pair of Dolce & Gabbana heels with a pointed toe in a bright red to match the Bucs colors. My braids, which hang halfway down my back, are decorated with tiny red braid cuffs. My makeup is simple and, other than the braid cuffs, I don’t have on an ounce of jewelry or perfume. When the men in this room look at me, I don’t even want their brains to register that I’m a woman. I want them to only think I mean business. Because I do.
The moment Goodell announces the Eagles’ pick, the draft room erupts in chaos. My dad, the Bucs’ GM, Darius Marshall, takes his place at the front of the room. If he weren’t my own father, Darius Marshall would be terrifying. Heck, he’s still kind of scary, and I know he’s got a soft spot for Italian anise cookies and his fluffy white Pomeranian, Fifi. He’s six foot three inches, well over 250 pounds, with a perpetual scowl and a bald dome that seems to always have beads of perspiration gleaming off his dark skin no matter the temperature.
A white board hulks behind my father, who’s frowning at the names written on the board. He crosses off Mattias’s name from our list as I shuffle my papers and do the same. “Ten minutes on the clock. Should we take Yelenski? You have two minutes to convince me otherwise,” my dad says in his booming voice.
Since the running back, Mattias, got snatched from our hands, Yelenski’s the next best option for a running back. But with his talent level, he should go in the sixth round, not the third.
We also need a backup quarterback since we traded ours away. Though the odds of our backup QB playing are slim to zilch—our current starting QB just signed a massive four-year $180 million deal with us with a $50 million signing bonus and $100 million guaranteed—you always need at least one backup, preferably two, in case all your hopes and dreams burn down with an ACL tear or rotator cuff injury.
“Yelenski’s got the speed we’re looking for,” Uncle Clive—excuse me, Coach Clive—says as I fidget with my braid cuffs, twisting the metal between my fingers, wondering if I should bring up my alternative option.
“Since the Eagles didn’t take Drake, it’s worth looking at,” Ethan says. My dad points his dry erase marker toward the analysts: Mark (the lead analyst), Ethan, and now, me.
“Give me his numbers,” he says.
Mark starts rifling through his papers and Ethan’s scrolling on his computer for the data, but I cut in. I may not remember where I put my car keys, but football numbers stick in my mind like they’re made of superglue. And Claire’s admonition for me to open my mouth hits home. “His last season, Drake had over 3,700 yards and 37 touchdowns. His completion percentage is 65% but he threw fifteen interceptions.” It’s the first time I’ve spoken in this entire draft, and I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. Assessing.
“And his combine stats?” I can’t tell if my dad is testing my memory or if he actually wants to know.
“His forty time was 4.4 and he has a thirty-eight-inch vertical.” His stats make him a standout option, but I have strong misgivings.
I’m trying to summon the courage to speak them when Ethan cuts in. “He should’ve been picked up in the first round. We’re getting a steal if we grab him now. He’s the most talented player on the board.”
“There’s a reason he didn’t get taken in the earlier rounds: he makes bad decisions on and off the field. He’s a huge liability.” My words are strong, my tone is firm, and yet my insides are quaking like an off-the-Richter earthquake. I’ve been in meetings like this since my mom died when I was eleven and my dad had to drag me along. But this is the first time I’ve ever spoken in one. Even when I was interning with the Jets, I was a sit-in-the-back-and-take-notes kind of intern. Not the speaking kind. And certainly not the opinionated kind. “I’ve developed a new metric called the CHOICE score. We all know that in any given game a quarterback makes hundreds, if not thousands, of decisions. Should we run or pass? Is the defense blitzing? Should I shift the line? Should I hot route that receiver? And those are just the decisions before the snap. After the snap, the quarterback has to reread the defense, go through his progressions, and throw it to the right receiver. All within a few seconds. What you want in a QB is someone who consistently gets that right. I’ve charted Drake’s decision making, and in a word, it’s bad. His athleticism has overcome some of those decisions, but it won’t work in the NFL. If we’re going to draft a backup quarterback, we should draft Austin Taylor. He was the highest scoring quarterback that I charted. He always gets the offense into the right play, has a great feel for what the defense is trying to do, and makes the right choices time and time again.”
“Thanks for the football lesson, chica.” One of our scouts, Orlando, says with a not-so-discreet eye roll. “But draft day isn’t the time to be experimenting with untested theories. There’s a reason almost every NFL team has Drake graded above Taylor. You think you really know something that the entire scouting community missed?”
“All I know about Taylor is that he runs like a newborn giraffe,” Ethan says, and the rest of the room chuckles.
My dad gives me a look and says, “I appreciate the outside-the-box thinking, sweet—” he clears his throat, stopping himself from calling me sweetheart and I try not to cringe. “—Danielle. But with Nolan Reese as our starting QB for at least the next four years, we have plenty of time to develop Drake into a much better decision maker. What do you say, Coach?”
Coach Clive looks at his computer and then back at my dad, nodding. “Let’s draft him.”
My dad barks into the phone to draft Drake Blythe, and I lean back in my chair. Beside me, Ethan has pulled up a picture of Austin Taylor from a Google search. He glances at me, then back at the picture. “He’s easy on the eyes, I’ll give you that, Marshall.”
I clench my jaw, turning away from Ethan without a word.
We don’t draft Austin Taylor.
In fact, no one does.
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