Chapter Eleven
Emily
I loved being a girl.
Sure, we faced more than our fair share of shit — lower wages than men, subpar healthcare, lawmakers who didn’t even understand female anatomy trying to make regulations on our body.
There were an infinite amount of reasons to be pissed at the system and to continue fighting for women’s rights every day.
And also, there were infinite reasons why being a girl was the fucking best.
Girlhood, for one. You ever look around and see a group of guys giggling and holding onto each other while they sip martinis and share their biggest fears in a safe space?
Definitely not. Women will unpack their entire emotional history with someone they met twenty minutes ago in a bathroom line.
Men need at least three beers and a playoff loss to even admit they’re sad.
Even then, that’s the end of the discussion.
And then there’s the way women celebrate each other — like the moment someone steps out in a new outfit and the entire room loses its mind, screaming, hyping her up like she’s just walked the runway at Fashion Week.
But what had me appreciating being a girl more than usual on a sunny day in mid-June was that my whole job consisted of getting all dressed up and taking pictures with my teammates — my friends.
Nothing was more fun than that.
There were lashes and clouds of hair spray everywhere in our dressing room, my teammates running this way and that between taking photos for the roster website, videos for team promotion, or making their own social media posts.
I had one stylist tending to my hair while the other finished up my makeup, and for the first time, I was wearing my uniform.
Not the ill-fitting ones we borrowed for community events up to this point — mine.
It was one of my favorite things about being a dancer. We didn’t just perform art — we were art. Every inch of us was a canvas waiting to tell a story, and the team working on my hair and face now were the artists helping to bring that tale to life.
“Okay, I have to say… I’m obsessed with this look,” Marcus said, sliding up behind me with his eyes wide in reverence as he took me in. “The hair, the uniform, the lashes? My God.”
If I was a different kind of girl, I might have blushed. As it was, I just beamed, my smile knowing and sure as I dragged my gaze over my reflection.
My uniform hugged my lean physique like it had been painted on — bright white with thousands of tiny rhinestones.
The Seahawks logo shimmered across my chest, the high neckline sleek and dramatic with a narrow cutout just below it that showed a sliver of skin.
Even the sheer sleeves glittered, stones trailing all the way down my arms like frost.
The bundles the glam squad had sewn in for today’s shoot had been swept up into a messy high knot that somehow looked both effortless and editorial, with soft curtain bangs falling around my face and loose tendrils brushing my cheeks.
The stylists had teased the crown just enough to give it height, the rest pinned in place so not a single curl would dare move out of line.
And as if the hair wasn’t stunning enough on its own, my makeup was the showstopper.
My lashes were so long they flirted with my brows every time I blinked, my eyes dusted with warm bronze and shimmer that made them pop beneath the studio lights.
My cheekbones were sculpted to heaven, highlighter catching just under my eyes and along the bridge of my nose.
And my lips were glossy and full, a soft caramel shine that made them look deliciously kissable, if I did say so myself.
I looked expensive.
Like someone who belonged on a poster the size of a city bus.
Or a calendar, my inner ego whispered.
But hey, I wasn’t getting ahead of myself on that one. Rookies rarely ever made the dancer calendar… but I could still hold out hope.
“Is it how fuckable I look in this skirt or the glossy lips that do it most for you?” I asked. The stylists both widened their eyes and exchanged glances that had me and Marcus smiling at one another.
“Probably the way they somehow softened your resting bitch face with that highlighter.”
“A miracle, truly.” I laughed, turning in my chair to look him over properly. “I’m equally obsessed with you, by the way.”
“As if I didn’t already know.” Marcus pretended to flick his invisible long hair over his shoulder before he did a full spin.
And if anyone else in this room understood the assignment today, it was Marcus.
The glam team had gotten their hands on him, too.
His dark curls were shaped perfectly, tight and springy across the top with the sides cleaned up.
Someone had brushed a little powder across his skin to cut the shine under the lights, and the result made his warm, golden-brown complexion glow even more.
And that mustache… it was a showstopper all on its own.
His uniform was the men’s version of ours — still Seahawks white, still sharp and camera-ready, but cut to look strong and sparkly.
A fitted white zip jacket stretched across his broad chest and thick shoulders, the team logo bold against the fabric.
The sleeves hugged his arms, and I knew from experience that underneath all that sleek tailoring were the kind of muscles that made tumbling passes look easy.
Marcus was built like a brick wall that had decided, for reasons known only to God, to learn how to do backflips.
And somehow he still looked glamorous.
The stylists had even convinced him to wear a tiny pair of diamond studs that caught the light every time he moved, which meant he now looked less like a dancer and more like the lead in a Latin pop music video.
“That outfit was made for you.”
“Literally,” he shot back before striking a pose, one hand on his hip and the other draping over his forehead as if he were in distress. “Alas,” he said, sighing dramatically. “It is hard to be this attractive.”
I rolled my eyes. “Relax, superstar. They’re not photographing you for People’s Sexiest Man Alive.”
“Not yet.”
We shared another smile before Claire called his name. It was his turn to shoot, and he blew me a kiss over his shoulder as he sashayed away.
I thanked my glam team profusely when they finished with me, and then my phone was in my hands and pointed at my reflection in the mirror.
I took a few selfies and a video before Darcy came over and we took some photos together.
She was also stunning, from her glossy platinum blonde hair to her shiny blue eyes lined in kohl.
Where my hair was swept up, hers waterfalled down her back in bouncy curls.
We were like two schoolgirls playing hooky, the way we giggled and posed in the mirror.
We were still tittering as I swiped through the shots, Darcy hooked onto my arm with her eyes on my screen. We were trying to decide which one I should post to my story when a text popped up at the top of my screen.
Boss: I’m at the stadium doing hype videos for the season. Heard you’re here, too?
My jaw nearly unhinged. Of course, that was the last sensation I was cataloging in my body because the overwhelming ones were how my stomach flipped and the wings of a million butterflies tickled my ribcage.
I couldn’t fight the smile that curled on my lips, and Darcy clocked it instantly.
“And who the hell is Boss,” she asked, crossing her arms with her tongue in her cheek and a little pop of her hip. “Because the only boss you have that I’m aware of is Claire, and that sure as hell wasn’t her.”
I rolled my lips together, looking over both shoulders and holding my phone close to my chest before I answered her.
“It’s Braden Lock.”
The cheeky little grin on Darcy’s face melted right off, shock washing in to replace her previous glee.
“Braden Lock?!” She whisper-yelled the words, looking around the same way I had before she grabbed me by the elbow and tugged me down to yell more in my face.
“Emily! Why the hell does a football player have your number, and why is he texting you?”
“Because I gave it to him, and I’m about to find out the answer to that second question.”
I typed out a response even as Darcy warned me not to, and she tucked her hair behind one ear, smiling nervously at a dancer who passed us before she was scouting the room like we were on a heist and she was the lookout.
Me: I thought we weren’t supposed to be fraternizing.
“This is a truly stupid idea,” Darcy hissed at me.
“What is?” Marcus asked, bounding up behind me and snatching my phone before I could catch him. His eyes widened. “Boss? Who the hell is Boss?”
“Braden Lock,” Darcy answered for me, still whispering.
And where she had been aghast at the discovery, Marcus was delighted. He pinned me with a Cheshire Cat smile before tossing my phone back to me.
“I know that’s right,” he said. “Tell him I claimed downs.”
“Marcus,” I chastised, but it was through a laugh.
“What? Would you prefer I join you both? Because I’m one-hundred percent open to that option, too.”
Darcy sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Lord Jesus, send me the strength to survive these two.”
Marcus winked at me before holding up his hands in mock prayer.
My phone buzzed, and all three of us leaned in to see the next text.
Boss: Exactly. So you better not be in the hallway by the team store stock room in five minutes. Wouldn’t want to accidentally run into you.
Marcus’s jaw fully dropped as Darcy winced and sighed like she’d lost a bet, her head falling back and eyes washing up to the ceiling.
“Did he just…” Marcus started, his jaw slowly coming back into place as he smiled.
“Proposition me to break the rules?” I asked, my grin mirroring his as those damned butterflies in my stomach tripled. “I believe that’s exactly what he did.”
“Well, we all know you would never,” Marcus teased, inspecting his nails.
“No, never!” I said, hand coming over my chest in mock offense. “Not even if he would be the perfect candidate to help me check off every item on my freaky bucket list.”