Chapter 9 #2
Deep down, I knew that having the men’s team as allies would benefit us.
We just needed to make sure that they were doing it for the right reasons.
Investment was one step we’d been lucky enough to secure this year, but marketing the team and having already established voices speaking out for us, believing in us, that was another entirely.
Every day had been an uphill battle to get here and we deserved the validation, but it was also why we tried so hard to make a difference in this sport.
Still, I nodded again, because what else was there to do? “I’ll make it work.”
Just be me, right? That was easy… except me was a little strung out. Maybe I needed to jump in an ice bath before I left later just to keep me Zen. Yeah, that would work.
***
So it turned out that I became grumpy when my routine changed.
Natalie knew this. I knew this. Micah would argue I’m grumpy, period.
But the reality is—I was a simple creature.
I liked knowing when I’d be training, when I’d be eating, and when I’d get to collapse in a very unattractive starfish position on my memory foam mattress bed.
Today, none of those things were happening.
Because today, despite Coach giving me a heads-up, I still received a five a.m. wake-up call that felt like a personal attack on both my circadian rhythm and my dignity, all in service of being across town for a six a.m. brand shoot.
My body, which had trained itself to move like clockwork in the direction of the stadium, was now being rerouted through half-awake traffic, half-buttoned jeans, and the kind of inner monologue that could only be described as seventy percent swearing and thirty percent caffeine withdrawals.
And honestly? I was not thriving.
The drive was foggy—mentally and meteorologically—and I was halfway convinced this whole thing was some kind of karmic punishment for something I’d done in a previous life.
By the time I pulled up to the studio, which was really just a repurposed warehouse with overly hip industrial windows and zero available parking, I’d already drafted three versions of a message to Coach about why I’d be a more effective team leader if I stayed on site.
I didn’t send it, obviously. But it was a close call.
And then as I exited my car, a mess of dark hair was waiting outside the building.
He turned, showcasing the face of smugness itself, all too tall and perfect and very much already there, like this was something he did every week before breakfast.
I approached him, even though my body didn’t like that very much, and when I got closer, he smiled at me.
He held out one coffee cup, like an olive branch—or more accurately, likely a bribe—and I blinked at it in suspicion.
“What is this?” Nothing in my life had prepared me for a surprise hot drink from my nemesis.
And he’d earned that title when he took summa cum laude in college.
Our GPA was matched until that last dissertation of his that tipped him from a 3.
9 to a perfect 4.0. I yearned to know what it was he wrote about in that dissertation, but I’d never ask him because my pride wouldn’t allow it.
Graduating magna cum laude would have to be enough for me.
Well, I hoped this drink was a cappuccino. The reality was, he had no idea how I took my coffee, and it would probably be a basic Americano. Though I was surprised at all to receive anything; the Connor I knew wouldn’t be so chivalrous.
“Good morning, Teddy.”
I frowned. “Good morning… Is this a bribe?”
“A peace offering,” he said, shrugging one shoulder like this was totally normal.
“For?”
“My guys being idiots the other morning.”
I squinted at him. “That’s… appreciated.
” I knew he might want me to say it’s fine, but this had to be a learning curve for him and his team.
Second chances didn’t come often with me.
But I took the coffee anyway, because I was a rational adult who knew better than to turn down free caffeine.
It was warm, smelled like heaven, and when my lips lowered to the tip of the cup, I knew… “How did you know I like cappuccino?”
His hand shot to the back of his neck, massaging for a second before a guilty pair of brown eyes found mine. “Micah told me.”
I’d have to have a talk with my assistant coach if she was planning on giving information out so easily, but I wasn’t sure she would’ve told him either.
I let myself assess him, scouting for the truth, but it was also a convenient excuse to take him in for a moment.
He stood too still, broad shoulders set with tense muscles.
His jaw was tighter than it needed to be, his hair pushed back like usual, but it looked a little more unkept today.
His mouth did that thing where he pressed his lips together.
I’d put money on the fact he never asked Micah at all and he knew all along.
How? I had no idea, but why lie about that?
“Mm,” I murmured, giving him a final once-over.
“What?” His throat bobbed.
“Nothing.” I shrugged. “You’re a bad liar is all.”
I turned and walked away before he could reply.
The moment we stepped inside, a woman with a headset greeted us like she was operating air traffic control and not, in fact, managing a morning shoot for a natural energy drink.
She directed us toward wardrobe and hair and makeup with all the enthusiasm of someone who’d had three Buzz shots before sunrise.
I was handed a crop top and leggings that looked like they were made to be worn by people who didn’t have my thigh dimples, curves, or insanely long legs. Sure, they served me well on the pitch, but in gym wear? I sometimes had to be particular.
Which was probably why I looked mildly unhinged when I emerged over an hour later from wardrobe squeezed into the set.
The makeup was a lot more than I’d usually wear, and I couldn’t wait to wash it off already.
I gave the waistband a tug, trying to figure out how much of my torso was about to be in this ad.
Then another, as if that would magically make them longer or more supportive. Or different in any way, really.
They didn’t yield and no amount of my sparkling personality would help either.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like my body; I just had certain clothes that I preferred more than others.
My stomach was toned instead of curved and womanly, and while I didn’t have an issue with my own image, I had an issue that women were constantly told to wear what would make them more feminine and desirable instead of their performance ability and skill.
The idea that sex sells still haunts women’s sports, and that itself is a scary notion.
Being here in leggings and a crop top, I felt every ounce of that weight and pressure.
I was adjusting them when Connor walked out of the opposite dressing area.
He had the audacity to look awake and clean and fully at ease in his own skin, like showing up for an early morning shoot wasn’t throwing off his entire day.
His shorts fit better than mine did, and those damn thighs that would send all the humans in our vicinity feral were on full show. Of course.
His eyes dropped for half a second to the exact place I was tugging at, and a smile threatened the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t say it,” I warned.
He mimed zipping his mouth shut, and I was glad.
Turning the corner to the empty studio, a few people flitted around us, fluffing my hair, patting his nose. When I’d pulled at the crop top for the fourth time, Connor said, “Are you uncomfortable?”
My head snapped to his, with a brow so low, I knew I was scowling at him. “It’s fine.”
His shoulder brushed mine as the photographer called for lighting checks. “It doesn’t look fine,” he murmured. “You don’t like the crop top?”
I don’t like any of it, I wanted to shout but swallowed the words.
Connor’s expression shifted. A second ago, he was concerned, but now his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. “They should’ve given you something you feel good in.”
“Yeah, well,” I said quietly, “that’s not usually the priority, is it?”
“What does that mean?”
I huffed. “It means that as much as I want to be in an oversized sweater right now, rotting on my sofa with my favorite reality TV show, I’m not.
I’m here. Wearing this.” I flicked the hem of the crop top like it had personally wronged me.
“Because someone in a boardroom, probably someone with a dick, decided female athletes sell better when we ‘look the part,’ translating to wearing less.”
Connor didn’t say anything. His jaw ticked again, that deep-set muscle flexing the way it did when someone pissed him off on the pitch. Not that I’d ever admit I noticed. I tried my hardest not to.
“Half the time, the marketing still feels like it’s stuck in the nineties. Less ‘strength’ and more ‘can we get a little more ass in that shot?’”
Something sharp and protective streaked across his features, and I chose not to read into it. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen that look, but it was the first time it was directed at me. “Feckin’ hell, I’m going to find someone from wardrobe.”
He turned before I uttered another word, already stalking down the hall with the kind of purpose that made people get out of his way on instinct. “Connor,” I hissed, reaching out—too late. He was gone, all long strides and righteous fury and absolutely zero concept of boundaries.
“Dammit,” I muttered to myself, planting my hands on my hips. Someone I hadn’t met yet gave me a nervous smile and shuffled away, like I might bite her.
It took Connor all of sixty seconds to come back. Sixty seconds of me debating whether I could physically drag him back by the collar before he embarrassed us both. Sixty seconds of me searching for the emergency exits.
He reappeared with a tank top in one hand, looking way too pleased with himself. “Here.” He held it out. “Put this on.”