Running back Anisa Rutu closed her locker and turned toward me. “How you feeling today, Della?”

 

“Never better.” I capped my remarks with a forced smile. I didn’t want to trigger alarm bells that would put me out of the game, not when I was so close to setting a new North American Women’s Professional Football League season record for receiving yardage.

 

“I—” Anisa shuffled her feet, her gaze shifting from me to the bank of lockers, then back. She shrugged. “I’ll see you on the field, I guess.”

 

I nodded, then waited until I heard the door close behind her.

 

Alone, at last.

 

I leaned my forehead against the locker’s hard surface and closed my eyes, in hopes that the headache and nausea would dissipate. No such luck.

 

Fine. Life had made me scrap and claw to get where I was today, but I’d managed to fulfil my girlhood ambition. I’d dreamed of suiting up for a women’s professional football team since I saw my first in-person game in 2025, a tilt between the Hamilton Mavericks and the Toronto Wallabies. Thanks to the booming interest in sports predicated by the rise in virtual reality, burgeoning streaming capabilities, holographic replays, and all of the other bells and whistles developed in the past decade, women’s professional football now drew far more supporters than our counterparts in previous eras. I considered it a privilege to have the opportunity to show off my gridiron skills in a stadium packed with enthusiastic fans.

 

I entered the tunnel leading up to the field, my helmet dangling from my right hand. Further up, Rosie Vromme, our Public Relations person, was just finishing a conversation with Anisa. Rosie spotted me and took a step down the sloping corridor. I held up my left hand, palm outward. “I’ll let you know after the game.” Rosie had been after me to set up a time to visit a local school to talk to young women about professional sports careers. Thing is, I wasn’t sure I knew what I’d say. That making it to the pro leagues took hard work? That you had to persevere through pain, sometimes? That it was all worth it?

 

Wasn’t all of that self-evident?

 

I jogged onto the field to participate in the pre-game warmup drills. Game day always brought with it that extra frisson, that shot of adrenaline. But today, I was preoccupied by a problem, and it ran deeper than the question of what to say on career day.

 

My performance enhancement tech was giving me a headache. Literally.

 

I knew the reaction-improvement features—like the in-helmet heads-up displays on our eye-shields and the implants behind our ears that helped us interpret those in double-quick time—came with baggage. I’d volunteered to be one of the first guinea pigs on the Hamilton Mavericks to try out the new technology.

 

I couldn’t deny that the heads-up predictive display helped me anticipate defensive players’ moves, and elude tacklers after I’d made a catch. The display mapped out the open lanes, and my body adapted so I made evasive moves without even thinking about it.

 

At first, it’d been almost intoxicating, seeing my stats accumulate. I’d quickly gotten on track to set shatter the previous records for catches per game and total yardage, and this was just my third year in the league.

 

But lately, I’d had trouble sleeping. My brain, which had adapted to the tech by jumping up its processing speed, refused to shut down after I clocked out for the day. Then there were the headaches—possibly from a concussion, or the tech, or a combination of factors. I should have been protected by the bio-stat tracking software every player could choose to wear these days, thanks to the contract the players’ association negotiated. But the association had also negotiated the right for individual players to withdraw from the real-time tracking, if they chose. And Bryn, our tech person, had made it clear that she’d only provide the experimental gear to players who opted out of the bio-stat monitoring.

 

As I jogged toward the sidelines for the pre-game ceremony, I shrugged. I couldn’t have it both ways. If I wanted to be a professional athlete, I was darn well going to be the best I could. There’d be time to wind down after my career was over. For now, I had to be all in.

 

A glance at the stands told me a good crowd had materialized for our final game of the 2035 season. Many of them were women, with and without kids in tow. It was the young girls who caught my attention. A number of them sported the jerseys of their favorite players. Since it was a Hamilton home game, the stands were a sea of purple and grey.

 

The opposing team made a good gain on the kickoff reception, but our defense stymied them on their first possession. I put a lot of credit for that on Bryn’s shoulders. Sure, Coach Connor had something to do with it. I’d be a fool to argue otherwise. But Bryn had equipped some of the defensive players with the tech, too. You could tell which ones, just by watching the game.

 

The Toronto Wallabies were no slouches, but somehow, we seemed to have everyone’s number this year. I expected this game to be no exception. On our first offensive series, I listened to the play-call, then trotted to my position.

 

I wanted to put on a good show for the fans, so I was happy to be the primary receiver on the play. I ran a comeback route and turned to look for the pass. It was a little high, but I leaped up to grab it, and turned so the heads-up display could get working on my best path forward.

 

Just as my feet hit the ground, an opponent hammered me. It took me a few seconds to catch my breath. Instinctively, I glanced toward the bench. Without my bio-stats, they wouldn’t know I’d been winded. Well, I’d manage. I hated coming out of the game. I jogged back to the huddle and doubled over, trying to hide my discomfort.

 

Tilda, our quarterback, called a running play, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I ran the assigned slant route, serving as a decoy for the defensive side. The whistle shrilled, and I looked back.

 

Members of our team stood in a loose group around a fallen player just behind the line of scrimmage. I hustled back to find out what was going on, and gasped when I recognized the player lying on the ground. Anisa.

 

“When I went to hand her the ball, she just keeled over.” Tilda’s face looked pale under her helmet.

 

I lowered my head. I’d been so self-centred, back in the locker room. Maybe Anisa hadn’t been prying, when she asked how I felt. Maybe she’d been looking for an opportunity to talk.

 

I stepped back as the training staff ran onto the field. A low murmur rolled down from the stands. Finally, Anisa managed to get to her feet. Assisted by the trainers, she made her way to the sidelines. A ripple of applause accompanied her.

 

The way I feel today, that could have been me. It was a sobering thought.

 

I stole a glance at the stands, and blushed. So many of the young girls wore jerseys with my number, or Anisa’s. What kind of role models were we? What message were we sending, by keeping our bio-stats monitors turned off? Were we saying that the appetite for faster, higher, and stronger needed to be satisfied, regardless what it cost us physically?

 

I thought about the records that were easily within my grasp. But who was I fooling? As technology improved, there’d be new, and better, heads-up displays. Quicker algorithms. More powerful chips in players heads. Any records I set today were likely to be swept away on the current of tomorrow’s technology.

 

Bryn worked for us, but her family’s IT company also benefitted from her learnings here. It would be only a matter of time until the tech was perfected and spread to other teams. I suspected the defensive player who’d hit me on the previous play was geared up just like some of my teammates.

 

When the tech proliferated through the league, then what? Harder and harder collisions when unstoppable forces met immovable objects at ever-increasing speeds?

 

I closed my eyes. What I was about to do would not be easily undone. That’s often the case for the most important things in life.

 

I reached down to my wrist and triggered my bio-stat wristband to the “on” position.

 

I held my breath. Maybe I wasn’t as badly off as I felt. Maybe it was all a perception.

 

Seconds later, someone tapped me on the shoulder. Vikki Jones jerked her head toward the sidelines. “Doc said you’re off the field.”

 

She took my place in the huddle, and my eyes narrowed. I’d seen her talking with Bryn at practice. Vikki was relatively new, and hungry as a feral Martian sand-cat. You could see that in her eyes, and in the intensity with which she pursued the drills.

 

I shrugged. I could only control what was within my scope. Me, not other people.

 

I jogged to the bench to find Bryn waiting. With a jerk of her head, she gestured for me to follow her to a less-populated section of the sidelines. “So, this is the thanks I get for making you a star?”

 

I took my helmet off so the display wouldn’t distract me. “At what cost?”

 

“You didn’t ask about cost when you signed up for the tech, did you?”

 

She had me there. “No. But I didn’t have all the facts back then.”

 

“Fans want more. They always want more. And I’m giving you the ability to deliver.”

 

“And setting the foundation for your family’s business to profit, if all this takes off.”

 

“It is taking off. And so what? That’s what business is all about.”

 

I put my hands on my hips. “Making money? Regardless of the cost?”

 

“There is big money in this. And you better not get in my way.”

 

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Anisa, who’d been sidelined to recover from her collapse, edging closer. By the glint in her eye, I figured she wanted to give Bryn a piece of her mind. I crossed my arms and nodded at her to have at it. Then I stepped back and squinted up at the stands. I looked at all those parents and kids, coming here to watch a spectacle but also to foster dreams. What would those parents think if they found out what their aspiring football players were getting into? What would those aspiring football players think when they got to where Anisa and I were now?

 

It would, I knew, be up to them to decide what risks they were willing to accept. But it was up to Anisa and I, and others like us, to make sure they still had a choice. To ensure wearing the tech, regardless of the physical price, wasn’t a condition of employment by the time they got here. “We’ll need to talk to the player’s association,” I said. “Let them know what’s going on.”

 

“If you go to the media with this—” Bryn’s voice carried a threatening undertone.

 

“I have no intention of going to the media. We can keep this in-house, for now.” I raised a finger. “But if someone in your company is tempted to take drastic steps to keep us quiet, you can advise them against taking action. I’ve left a complete copy of all of my health journals and post-game observations with a third party, in case anything happens to me.”

 

In point of fact, I hadn’t done anything of the sort, but it was a good idea, and one I’d see to right after the game.

 

Bryn’s shoulder slumped. “Maybe we can work together with the player’s association to set out parameters.”

 

“No more opting out of the bio-stat monitoring would be a good start,” I said.

 

“The player’s association sanctioned that, as I recall.”

 

“Maybe if we sniff around, we’ll find that your company influenced that decision. Besides, you made it a team rule when it came to who got the tech.”

 

“Fine. Bio-stats will be part of the discussion.” Bryn stalked away down the sidelines.

 

Anisa and I stood side by side until the final whistle. Doc had made it clear neither one of us would be cleared to get back into the game. Much to my surprise, I wasn’t all that disappointed. Without the adrenalin rush of game play, various aches I hadn’t been aware of were making themselves known. I had a sneaking suspicion that Bryn had included a pain suppression program in the implants, and that she’d turned it off out of spite.

 

It didn’t really matter. The day’s events had clarified one thing for me. I knew what to tell the young women when I went to the school. I’d tell them about balance. That when it comes to tech, we need to consider what we’re getting, and what we’re giving up. That we always have the option of saying no, provided we’re willing to stand up for ourselves. Now I had the personal experience to back up my words.

 

After the final whistle shrilled, I joined my teammates in the post-game celebration. We’d won handily, even with Anisa and I sidelined. I was last to leave the field, allowing myself a long look back before I entered the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Maybe one day I’d wish I’d done what it took to break those records.

 

But I had a feeling that given the price, I wouldn’t regret it at all.

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