3.
The auxiliary gym smelled like chalk dust, old sweat, and Pine-Sol.
It was Thursday afternoon, and my body was screaming. I stood at the corner of the blue spring floor, my chest heaving, staring at the diagonal line I was supposed to tumble across. We’d been running full-out routines for ninety minutes, and my legs felt like they were filled with wet cement.
The lack of sleep since the park bench conversation, combined with the constant, grinding anxiety of my bank account, was taking a toll. I was running on fumes and cheap dining-hall coffee.
"Sloane! You're up!" Coach barked, her whistle dangling from her neck. "Round-off, back handspring, full. Stick the landing this time. We aren't grading on a curve."
I took a deep breath, pasting on the mandatory, bright cheerleader smile that felt like a plastic mask, and launched myself.
The muscle memory took over, but the power just wasn't there. The round-off was sloppy, the handspring lacked height, and as I rotated through the air for the full twist, I knew I was coming down short.
I hit the mat hard. My right ankle rolled outward with a sickening noise.
I crumpled to the blue foam, biting my tongue to keep from crying out. A blinding, jagged tear of agony ripped through my whole leg.
"Sloane!" Jessica was beside me in a second, her face pinched with worry. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," I gasped, instantly pushing myself up, ignoring the throbbing pain.
I couldn't be hurt. A sprained ankle meant sitting out.
Sitting out meant losing my spot on the competition squad.
Losing my spot meant losing my scholarship, which meant I was on a bus back to Ohio with nothing but debt.
My body wasn't mine to protect; it was university property, and I had to keep it functional.
"Walk it off," Coach said, her voice devoid of sympathy. "Tape it up and get back in line. We don't have time for injuries."
I limped to the sidelines, grabbing a roll of athletic tape. As I bound my ankle, pulling the white tape so tight it cut off my circulation and numbed the pain, a heavy wave of exhaustion washed over me.
I looked around the gym. At the girls throwing themselves into the air, risking their necks, tearing their ligaments, all for the privilege of wearing a logo. We were breaking our bodies for a system that would replace us the second we couldn't perform.
I am so fucking tired of this, I thought. The resentment tasted bitter on my tongue. Life shouldn’t be so hard.
Ten minutes later, Coach blew her whistle, a sharp, piercing trill that echoed off the cinderblock walls.
"Bring it in! Center mat!"
We jogged to the middle, forming a tight circle around her. I shifted my weight off my throbbing right ankle, keeping my face perfectly neutral.
Coach looked around the circle, consulting the clipboard in her hand.
"Listen up. I got a call this morning from the athletic director's office," she began, her tone shifting from taskmaster to conspiratorial. "Richard Davies is hosting the Chairman's Circle mixer this Saturday at his estate in Calabasas."
A murmur ran through the squad. Even I knew who Richard Davies was. He was the white whale of the booster club. His name was on the new training facility.
"He’s requested 'hospitality staff' for the alumni," Coach continued, raising a hand to quiet the whispers. "Serving drinks, passing hors d'oeuvres. Smiling. Being ambassadors for the program."
She looked down at her clipboard, then pointed her pen.
"Sloane. Jessica. Maria. And Lauren."
She had picked the three of us who needed it most, and Lauren—the girl whose father owned a string of car dealerships—to ensure we didn't look like charity cases.
"It's Saturday night," Coach said, looking at the four of us. "It pays five hundred dollars. Cash. But there's a condition."
She paused, looking slightly uncomfortable.
"You are to wear your game-day uniforms. The skirts, the shell tops, ribbons. You are representing the university to our most important donors. Be polite, be accommodating, and remember that these men fund the stadium you dance in."
Five hundred dollars. Cash.
The number obliterated the pain in my ankle. It silenced my anxiety about the electric bill. Five hundred dollars was a month of groceries, gas, and breathing room.
It was exactly the kind of transactional opportunity I had been fantasizing about in the dark of my bedroom.
"I'll do it," I said instantly, my voice ringing out clearly in the quiet gym. I didn't hesitate. I didn't look at the other girls to gauge their reactions. The desperation completely overrode any instinct for caution or pride.
Jessica and Maria nodded quickly, their eyes wide. Lauren just shrugged, as if five hundred dollars was tip money.
"Good," Coach said, looking relieved that she didn't have to force us. "Details are on the board in the locker room. Be at the pick-up spot at six PM sharp. Don't embarrass me."
She blew her whistle again, dismissing us.
As I walked back to the locker room, my ankle throbbing a dull, angry rhythm, I felt a strange, cold sense of purpose. I was going to a rich man’s house in a pleated skirt to serve drinks to old men. I knew exactly what it was. But for the first time in months, I felt like I had a lifeline.
The locker room was a chaotic blur of slamming metal doors, hissing showers, and aerosol hairspray, but in our corner, the atmosphere was tight and focused.
The four of us—me, Jessica, Maria, and Lauren—stood around our open lockers, dissecting the offer we’d just accepted.
"Game-day uniforms," Maria muttered, pulling a university-issued sweatshirt over her head. Her dark hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat. "Are you kidding me? It’s October. We're going to freeze our asses off if they make us serve drinks on the patio."
"It's not about the weather, Maria," Lauren said, rolling her eyes as she applied a coat of expensive mascara. "It's a theme party. They just want the 'college experience.' It’s harmless."
"It’s a fetish," Jessica shot back, her voice tight with nervous energy.
She slammed her locker shut. "Let's call it what it is.
They don't want waitresses in black slacks and button-downs.
They want twenty-one-year-old girls in short skirts and crop tops fetching their bourbon.
They're paying five hundred bucks to look at our legs and tits. "
She wasn't wrong, and none of us even tried to argue with her.
"Look, it doesn't matter what they want to look at," I said, leaning against the metal bench, carefully keeping the weight off my injured ankle. I kept my voice pragmatic and cold. "It’s four hours. We smile, we serve the drinks, we take the cash, and we leave. It’s easier than a shift at The Beanery, and it pays five times as much. "
I was playing it cool to keep the panic down, but inside, my brain was doing the desperate math of a broke bitch weighing five hundred cash against her pride.
The fear of walking into a house full of powerful, drunk older men was there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was heavily laced with that dark, thrilling ambition I'd discovered two nights ago.
I was preparing myself to walk into the lion's den, actively suppressing my pride for the payout.
"Just remember the rules," Maria said, zipping her duffel bag with a sharp yank.
She had worked at a dive bar long enough to know how men behaved when they thought they had bought the right to you.
"Keep moving. If you stand still too long, they think you're an appetizer.
Don't let them corner you by the bar or in a hallway. "
"And what if they try to touch us?" Jessica asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. She looked genuinely terrified.
"Accidents happen," Lauren said, snapping her compact shut with a sharp *clack*.
She looked at us, her eyes hard. "If a guy gets handsy, you 'trip.
' You spill a full glass of red wine or sticky bourbon right on his expensive Italian loafers.
It ruins the mood instantly, and they can't yell at you because you're just a clumsy college girl. "
I nodded, committing the strategy to memory. Keep moving. Spill the drink. Survive the four hours.
We finished packing up in a tense, shared silence, bound together by the knowledge of what we were about to do. We were athletes, but on Saturday night, we would be commodities.
Twenty minutes later, I was walking back to my apartment. The sun was setting, casting long, bruised purple shadows across the campus quads. My ankle was throbbing with a deep, persistent ache.
My phone buzzed in my hoodie pocket.
I pulled it out. Tyler’s name flashed on the cracked screen.
I almost didn't answer. I was exhausted, in pain, but the memory of his panicked face, the desperate edge in his voice from our last fight, made me swipe the green icon.
"Hey," I said, my voice flat.
"Sloane, thank god," Tyler said. He didn't say hello. He didn't ask how practice was. His voice was frantic, pitched high with genuine, naked terror. "Where are you? I need to see you."
"I'm walking home, Ty. I sprained my ankle at practice. I'm tired."
"I don't care about your ankle, Sloane!" he shouted, the sound startling me so badly I stopped walking. The campus around me seemed to fade away. "I need help. Now."
"Tyler, calm down. What's going on?"
"The guy," Tyler stammered, his breath hitching. "The guy I owe. He called me. He said the deadline moved up. He needs a payment by Sunday morning, or he's going to the coach. He's going to ruin my eligibility, Sloane. He'll break my fucking legs."
My guts turned to ice. "How much?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
"Just ... just a couple hundred bucks," Tyler lied.
I could hear the lie in his voice. He was downplaying it, begging for whatever he could get.
"Just to show good faith. Just to buy me another week to figure it out.
Sloane, please. You have to help me. If I lose my scholarship, we lose everything. Our whole future."
He was weaponizing the dream again. Using the phantom promise of the NFL to guilt-trip me into saving him from his own stupidity.
I stood there on the sidewalk, the cold wind biting through my hoodie. My ankle throbbed. I was so tired. I just wanted him to stop whining. I wanted to go home, ice my leg, and sleep for twelve hours. I wanted the panic in his voice to stop scratching at my brain.
To shut him up, to get him off the phone, I snapped.
"Fine!" I yelled. "Fine, Tyler. I'll get it."
"You will?" The instant, pathetic relief in his voice made me sick to my stomach. "How?"
"Coach offered me a gig," I said, the words spilling out before I could stop them. "A private party for the boosters on Saturday night. I have to wear my uniform and serve drinks. They're paying five hundred dollars cash."
There was a beat of silence on the line.
"Five hundred?" Tyler asked. The fear was gone, replaced by a greedy, calculating hunger. "Cash? On Saturday?"
"Yes," I said, closing my eyes, rubbing my temples. "I'll give you three hundred on Sunday morning. That should be enough for a 'good faith' payment, right?"
"Yes! Oh my god, yes, baby, that's perfect," Tyler gushed, suddenly overly affectionate. "You're a lifesaver, Sloane. Seriously. I owe you so big. I love you."
"I have to go, Ty," I said, and hung up the phone.
The screen went black.
I stood completely still on the concrete path. The wind howled around me, but inside my head, dead silence. A cold dread killed the air in my lungs, chilling me right down to the marrow of my bones.
What the fuck had I done?
I hadn't just agreed to sell my time and my dignity to a room full of millionaires, I had already forfeited the reward. I was going to put on a short skirt, let old men stare at my legs and probably squeeze my ass, and I wasn't going to get to keep the money that made it worthwhile.
I had sold myself to save a mommy’s boy who couldn't save himself.
The resentment I felt—the anger I had been suppressing for months—suddenly crystallized into outright, burning fury. He was bleeding me dry. He was taking the only leverage I had—my body, my looks—and using it to pay off a bookie.
I started walking again, my limp more pronounced now. Every step sent a jolt of pain up my leg, but that was nothing compared to how I felt in my head.