Chapter 7
Seven
Blair
Life comes at you fast, especially when you sort of wander onto an NFL roster for the rest of the season—or until they say they don’t need you anymore. It’s been three days and it’s hard to even believe this is real life.
First, I now have a manager, Claire. She works with Willow—global superstar and love of my life even if she doesn’t know it yet.
Apparently, Tripp was raving about me to his girlfriend and Claire reached out to the Cosmos, offering to work with me for free.
Weird kind of world when I think about how I’m playing football with Tripp, who's dating one of my favorite music artists of all time, and then we end up with the same manager.
Second, I could’ve paid her because my bank account is about to be in another tax bracket, but she insisted. Well, actually she told me, “You can buy the next one,” like we were settling a tab at the bar.
When the Cosmos told me they’d pay me and get it all situated, I was expecting like a thousand dollars.
Nope. The league minimum is well over eight hundred thousand dollars and that’s what I’ll get paid for being available for the Cosmos.
I still don’t believe it. There’s no way this random extra point situation is going to put me in a different financial position—one I've dreamt of.
Third, I have practice. Since I still run a gym, I was able to get a modified Cosmos schedule, which has me working with special teams twice a week and then the final team walk through.
They have a locker for me, in the women’s locker room, and sent me a ridiculous amount of Cosmos gear—both ladies fit and unisex wear.
Lastly, I’ve had to put a pause on accepting gym memberships to Embers and Ashes.
It only took a few hours after I made the extra point for my identity to be revealed and the gym to be inundated with people wanting to join.
A dream come true, but also scary as fuck.
So far, everyone has been respectful and there for the right reasons.
A few people have asked me for photos and I’m more than happy to do that.
If I'm being honest with myself, it’s a nice distraction.
I’ve not seen Tyson since I made up an excuse to leave his apartment too early after staying over due to my loose lips the night before.
Honestly? It’s kind of Zack’s fault—he sent that delicious champagne, and when that was gone, the bourbon was just as smooth, and next thing you know. ..
I always think you’re going to kiss me...
I’m a fucking cliché and it’s embarrassing.
To my bones, I can’t believe those words made it out of my brain.
Even with the drinks, it was like I was having an out of body experience—floating above the two of us—as I casually told Tyson, one of my best friends and favorite people in the world, how I thought about him kissing me.
I mean, it was true. But it wasn’t something I intended to share. The thought of him putting an end to the possibility of us exploring something more is enough to have me hold onto this secret with white knuckles.
I'm supposed to be one of the guys—I'm literally his teammate now—and the man has never once put a single move on me. It’s never been like that.
The pit in my stomach opens up, like my journal pages are flipping to the worn handwriting—the lines where I wondered about ending up with Tyson. The secret I've kept to myself.
He’s always had this pull to me. Ever since we met, he’s been able to take the most run of the mill things and make them feel special. His jersey is strewn over a chair, and it brings me back to a night in college.
The floor might be sticky and the beer might be warm, but this is the most fun I’d had at a house party in a minute.
Not surprising, considering Tyson and I were tucked in a corner, seemingly in our own little world.
He laughed like he means it, like you were the only one in on the joke, and somewhere between his dumb impressions and the way he always saved me a drink at these things, I’d started looking at him longer than I should.
I liked him. Quietly. Stupidly.
And he didn’t have a clue.
I was mid-thought when Tyson elbowed me. “Hey,” he said, nodding toward the far end of the room. “Flannel over there is giving you heart-eyes.”
I blinked and followed his gaze. Sure enough—tall guy, lean build, sharp jaw. Cute. Definitely looking. Probably on the basketball team.
“He’s been staring since you walked in,” Tyson added, a crooked grin playing at his lips. “Should probably put him out of his misery.”
I smirked and took a sip from my drink. “Maybe I’m good here?” I willed him to forget about anyone else looking over here. At me. At him.
“I know I’m a blast.” He puffed up, mockingly, then tilted his head toward Flannel Guy again. “But he’s not bad. You should go talk to him.”
His voice was light. Easy. Like he wasn’t sending me toward something that made my stomach twist—but not in a good way.
I hesitated, gaze drifting back to the guy.
He lit up when our eyes met. I tried scanning the room for anyone who might be looking for their opening with Tyson and my stomach bottomed out.
Tyson nudged me gently. “You got this.”
I glanced up at him one more time, searching for something in his face—hesitation, jealousy, anything—but he was already looking away, sipping his drink like it was just any other night.
So I smiled. Bright, fake, and practiced.
And then I lifted my hand and waved at the guy. I hated the way my heart sank as he started walking over.
The same pit reopens when I think about last night.
He’s not something I’m willing to risk. He’s not even a chip I'd consider wagering. But maybe someone should’ve reminded the version of myself from the other night of that very sentiment.
The one that let him carry her, in the pajamas he had delivered, into his bed, which smelled like him—all leathery and clean—and then just spit out that horrific line about kissing.
I know this is one of those things that will race through my mind for the next twenty years when I try to fall asleep. Here’s to anxiety and it keeping track of your most cringeworthy moments—the scoreboard you can’t run from.
Think about something else. This can’t be what’s on my mind as I walk into my first practice. Standing in front of my locker, I stretch my neck from side to side as my eyes fixate on my locker name plate. Blair Miller. #7. Special teams.
I catch my reflection and step closer to the mirror. My typical longline sports bra and high waisted legging workout uniform are nowhere to be found. The leggings could stay, but a Cosmos branded quarter zip covers my top half.
Facing the mirror, I fixate on the outline of my body.
I’ve always been sort of square shaped, straight up and down.
When I was younger, and before I knew better, I’d do all of these fad exercises or supersets trying to grow that perfect peach shaped ass everyone was after.
I’d undereat to the point of lightheadedness being the norm and push myself harder than anyone ever should at the gym.
Figuring out how to properly move, fuel, and build my body is something that completely changed my life.
I fell in love with it—putting the pieces of the puzzle together.
It also saved me from myself. It wasn’t until I was in a great place that I recognized how bad my mental health really was before—how I’d been living with depression and anxiety without ever knowing it had a name.
I thought everyone hated themselves the way I did.
Or thought through almost every step, or possibility, of a social interaction before it happened.
It’s not that I don’t do those things anymore—depression is one of the most consistent things in an inconsistent world—but I can check in with my body, my brain, and do my best to give it what it needs.
I don’t always get it right—I think to myself as I start to scrutinize the body in front of me. My hand reaches across my chest and squeezes the space between my neck and my shoulder.
Your arms are too big.
You look manly.
Who would find this attractive?
To be fair, I didn’t come up with these insults. These are things people have said to me, for almost my entire life, in some way shape or form.
Some of the most vivid memories I have of my dad are him yelling at my mom for letting me do things with the boys.
This isn’t for girls. Girls shouldn’t do that.
Boys don’t like girls who beat them, or talk too loud, or have dirt under their fingernails.
He left when I was twelve, but he did a whole lifetime of damage before he finally packed his bags.
We were better off but it still hurt. My mom was never quite the same—it was like he took pieces of her she didn’t know he had access to.
There weren’t many times that I can ever remember them being happy, but it was like there was hope that he would be the man she fell in love with—a spark waiting for kindling.
He left and never looked back. And the last time I heard from him was a birthday card on my eighteenth birthday.
I can practically feel my confidence slipping away, one internal insult at a time. My belly tenses and I take a breath, feeling the stretch of my lungs. My brain attempts to build up the wall that lets me scale it and push past the thoughts.
I’m only a couple steps from the locker room when a familiar face spots me, grinning as he asks, “You ready for your first practice?”
Dylan Peterson, kicking specialist for the Upstate Cosmos. He helped me with a crash course on practice kicks at the game and treated me like an athlete, as soon as he heard my current training plan. I liked him right away.
“I think so. Kind of have that same feeling when you’re walking into a group fitness class when it’s something you’ve never done.” I clap my hands, letting them swing to my sides. “So, like I’m about to make a complete ass of myself.”
A tiny laugh sneaks out, making me feel a little better. “Small crew today. Everyone is doing skill specific work. That means we’ll start in the gym, see where you’re at with some lifting benchmarks, and then it will just be you, me and a long snapper for some kicking drills.”
When Dylan found out I owned a gym, was a college athlete, and was borderline obsessed with a routine, he almost dropped to his knees to thank whatever god he prayed to.
I wasn’t what they expected, in more than one way, and it was like I could watch his eyes go from 'this might be a wild PR stunt' to 'this could be something legit for the team. '
“Plus, some of the trainers are women, which means you won’t be the only girl in the club today.”
A smile lifts a corner of my lips, the competitive fire I'm accustomed to lighting in my muscles, and I reply, “Believe me, I’ve never been afraid to be the only girl.”
We walk into the gym and I have to consciously keep my jaw from dragging on the floor.
I don’t know why I assumed the gym would be a bit dated and smell like feet—maybe too many rom-coms where the male lead is a coach or player—but that isn’t the case.
The space is open, modern, with lighting that would serve even the pickiest of influencers.
Shoes pounding treadmills, stationary bikes whirring, and weights being racked compose the soundtrack and it wraps around my shoulders like a cozy blanket. There’s nothing like the fine-tuned machine of a well-run, and used gym.
The thing I may be most surprised by is the energy.
The vibe. Whatever you decide to call it, but it feels supportive, strong, and encouraging.
I feel like I was waiting for competitiveness and egos to gag me—I almost texted Tyson asking him about this exact thing but couldn’t bring myself to hit send.
Embarrassment hits my cheeks for only a second before Dylan asks, “You ready to get some work done?”
I nod and shake out my hands.
Work. A task. The gym. I can definitely do this.
Well, probably.