Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Fashion Forward - Grace
Ileave the pool and head back to the locker room after the second training session of the day.
The afternoons are spent in the water, with more endurance work.
Like doing unders—swimming twenty-five meters without coming up for air.
Wearing ankle weights and weighted vests in the pool.
Then stretching. This is always part of our training, but in the first month back, it’s all we do.
Of course, I’m eager to get back to learning routines and doing artistic moves and acrobatics, but we have to get this foundation training done first. It’s grueling work, but I feel good about what I’ve accomplished so far.
Unlike what I’ve accomplished with Wyatt today.
I cringe as I make my way across the deck, and my cheeks heat as I relive what went down this morning after history class. I’ve been cringing since I walked away from Wyatt at the fountain this morning because embarrassment has raged in me ever since.
I asked him to be my fake boyfriend.
WHY DID I DO THAT? WHY? WHYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?
Why do I care about what Rob says or thinks? He’s an asshole. So are the frat brothers who decided to participate in the bet.
You know why you did it, my conscience speaks up. You wanted to turn the tables on Rob. And sticking it to him with a hot hockey player is a great way to do it.
I feel my face burn even hotter as Wyatt comes to mind. Does he really want to do this? Wyatt didn’t respond to my snap calling myself his new girlfriend. Shit. Does he feel trapped? Not know how to answer the crazy girl who suggested something straight out of a romance novel?
“Gracie, are you okay?” Elle asks as I press in the code to the locker room door.
I blink. “What? Why?”
“You look red.”
Oh my God. If I could pull down my swim cap over my entire face and hide, I would.
“I … guess I’m just hot.” To be fair, thinking of Wyatt does make me hot.
We walk inside the room, and I can’t help but think of how posh the dressing room is for the hockey team in the next building. They have amazing facilities—I’ve seen them on YouTube—with everything state-of-the-art and completely beautiful.
The locker room for the swimming and diving teams, however?
Not so much.
I move over to my metal locker and look around the room. We have panels missing in the ceiling. The water pressure in the showers sucks, and it takes forever to rinse the shampoo and conditioner out of your hair. Our lounge area consists of a ripped-up leather sofa that legit has duct tape on it.
But over on the hockey side of things? They did a twenty-four-million-dollar renovation of their facilities.
Twenty. Four. Million. Dollars.
Yes, I know they bring in a lot of money to the university, but you would think the administration could spare a few dollars to replace some ceiling tiles or get us a new sofa.
I gather my things to take a shower, and as I scrub the chlorine scent from my body, I think about this whole stupid situation I’ve put Wyatt in.
He already felt bad for what his idiot fraternity brothers had put me through—which scores major points with me—and probably felt uncomfortable saying no to my face.
I need to give him an out, I think as I turn off the shower. I’ll send him a message telling him I temporarily lost my mind in a wave of anger over stupid Rob, he can forget it and thank him again for being so nice.
Humiliating? Yes.
But still better than forcing a guy to pretend to date me.
UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. If anyone finds out about this, I’m going to have to transfer schools.
Hm. Ohio State has a great artistic swim program.
Hopefully, Wyatt hasn’t told half the hockey team about the crazy girl from his history class.
I head back to my locker, where other teammates are getting ready to leave.
I change into my clothes, dry my hair, and pull it up into a top knot.
I put my jewelry back on, and after I slip on my last ring, I grab my phone from where it’s been charging in my locker.
I unplug it and see I have snap notifications.
Including one from Wyatt.
My stomach sinks. Crap, crap, crap! It’s probably a message or video walking back his agreement to go along with my crazy plan.
Okay. This will be mortifying. Do I even want to read it?
Not really.
I keep my phone in my hand and swing my backpack over my shoulder. I’m not going to read it here. I want to be completely alone when I suffer through the ultimate humiliation of Wyatt backing away from this insane idea.
Ohio State is sounding better by the second.
Or at least seeing if I can transfer to a different history section so I never have to see Wyatt again.
I walk outside, and the sun is still shining overhead. The palm trees surrounding the aquatic complex sway in the breeze, and I smile up at them. I love palm trees. They always make me happy.
So that would be one negative to a transfer to Ohio State. No palm trees.
But also, no Wyatt Jacobs and no humiliation.
That settles it. I’ll find a tree in Ohio to love just as much as palms.
I reach my car and unlock it, slipping inside. I turn on the engine, trying to ignore how my heart is racing and my stomach has gone acidic as I think about checking Wyatt’s message.
I’m just about to open his snap when the phone rings in my hand, causing me to jerk back in my seat.
It’s Mom.
UGH. If I ignore her now, I’m going to have to talk to her later, and I might as well get this over with before I check Wyatt’s message.
“Hello, Mom,” I say, forcing myself to be cheerful. This is the first time I’ve talked to her since this past weekend, so this is going to be her academic checkup on me.
“Hi, Grace!” she says. “How are classes? The sorority? I need to know how everything is going. Have you been writing?”
Writing. My freshman year, I told her I was getting used to OCU and managing classes, swimming, and the sorority, and it was too hard to sit down and do any good fiction writing. This summer, I told Mom I hadn’t been working on my fiction because I had writer’s block.
Which isn’t a lie. Every time I sat down, trying to write something that addressed societal themes of our day—like Jane Austen did—left me feeling blank inside.
To be honest? I haven’t written anything literary since high school. But the reality is, I don’t want to.
But nobody knows that. Especially not my mom.
“Well, I’ve been busy getting used to my class schedule,” I say. “And we have a lot of sorority mixers this week.”
“Oh, the first week back is such a fun time,” Mom says. “Has the philanthropy committee had any meetings yet?
“We have our first one next week.”
This is the one thing I’m excited about.
I’m on the philanthropy committee for Phi Mu Phi, and we do two fundraisers a year to raise money for our charity, a nationwide food bank.
It’s my first year serving on it, and I like the idea of planning something that will help others, but also be something fun for the campus to get involved with, too.
“Just remember, everything you do in the sorority will look great on your resumé,” Mom says pointedly.
Hm. Does she think me having to dress in a swimsuit and go to a Baywatch-themed mixer with the asshole fraternity across the street will give me an edge in the job market?
I keep that thought to myself. I direct our conversation down the sorority path, and Mom doesn’t ask me anything about how swimming is going.
Of course.
As I’m about to get off the call, she comes back around to writing.
“Grace, please don’t doubt your talent. I know you said the creative struggle has been real, but I think you’re putting too much pressure on yourself.
The fiction you wrote when you were a senior was such a great start.
You have so much potential to write something that could end up at auction with a top publishing house.
You have that kind of talent. Don’t waste time now. You have to start writing again.”
I want to tell her the truth. That is her dream, not mine.
She always dreamed of landing the big publishing deal but never did.
She threw her passion into teaching literature, but now she expects me to produce the next great American novel because I’ve shown talent for writing.
Natasha only had sorority pressure, but I have this weight pushing down on me, too.
If only I could make myself love it like she does. But I don’t.
“I understand. I’ll try again soon,” I say. I ignore how my stomach churns at the idea of sitting down and trying to write something my mom would love.
“All right, sweetie. Love you! Dad sends his love, too!” Mom says.
I disconnect the call and see my snap notifications again. I’ll deal with Wyatt’s rejection later.
I back out of the parking space. As I’m leaving the aquatic center, I see hockey players coming out of the building, since their practice has ended, too. I quickly shift my gaze ahead. The last person I want to see is Wyatt.
Once I’m back at Phi Mu Phi, I head up the big winding staircase to my floor. Just as I reach my room, I see McCall coming out of hers.
“Hey!” she says, her green eyes dancing at me. “I’ve been stalking the hallway, waiting for you to come back.”
I put the key card against the sensor to the room I share with Maddie and laugh. “I’m being stalked? Why?”
“I was wondering if you’d want to go to a meeting with me tonight,” McCall says. “OCU Publications is having an open house for all their magazines. It’s for all areas of publication, including writers. I know you write, so I thought you might want to come along with me.”
I furrow my brow as my door unlocks. “But you want to write for the sports magazine.”
“Well, yes,” McCall says, her fingers picking up the ends of her long, silky jet-black hair and twisting them. “But there are other magazines, too. Like the literary journal. That’s even your major!”
UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH I want to be sick.
“And there’s the fashion magazine, the OCU Scene campus-life magazine, the—”
“Wait, we have a campus fashion magazine?” I ask.
McCall nods. “Oh yeah, it’s called Cove Style.
” She furrows her dark brows. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it.
It’s digital and comes out twice a year, but they always have articles and features up on their website every week.
I thought you would be a reader because of how much you love fashion. ”
I feel butterflies form in my stomach. I love fashion.
I love putting together outfits. Finding things on sale.
I love the glamorous costumes I get to wear for artistic swimming and how intricately they are made.
I still love the glossy fashion magazines, flicking through them while drinking a latte and seeing how fashion-forward everything is in their editorial pages.
My first year of school, I was pretty much oblivious to everything except classes and swimming, and in the second semester, rushing and then pledging Phi Mu Phi took up every inch of spare time I had.
I didn’t know Cove Style existed.
But I do now, I think, a fire igniting within me.
Writing for a fashion magazine is something I’ve never thought about. It’s been drilled into my head that I’m to write literary novels. Works that would be reviewed by top critics, according to my mom, for the profound meaning of messages I’d woven into the pages.
It’s a path I’m following because I’m told I have the talent to do it, not because my heart is burning to write great works of fiction. Mom pushed it, and I simply followed it. Partly because I know how much she believes in my talent.
Partly so I don’t disappoint her, like I already have with my pursuit of artistic swimming.
But now the potential to write for a fashion magazine is right in front of me—if I dare to grab it.
Mom would be disappointed if I did this. She would consider it a waste of my time.
But I do not.
“I’ll go with you,” I say determinedly.
“Really?” McCall asks.
“Yes. What time?”
“The meeting starts at seven-thirty. We can grab an early dinner downstairs and then head over to Wilson Hall.”
“I’ll get you in a half hour for dinner,” I say, smiling at her.
“I’m so excited you want to come,” McCall says happily. “I mean, I could have gone alone, but it’s so much better sharing this experience with you.”
“I’m so grateful you told me about it,” I say. “Now I’m going to think about what to wear.”
“Okay. See you in a bit!” she says. Then she moves back across the hall to her room, and I step into mine, shutting the door behind me.
I can’t believe I’m doing this. I’m going to see about writing for the OCU fashion magazine.
I put my backpack on the floor next to my desk, then glance down at the phone in my hand. Before I can do anything else, I need to read Wyatt’s message.
I sit down crisscross on my bed, take a deep breath, and open my phone, bracing for him to tell me how crazy I am. I open my Snapchat and tap on his message and immediately drop my phone with a gasp.
Wyatt has sent me a picture of himself in the OCU hockey dressing room, wearing a gray “OCU Hockey” T-shirt and no baseball cap, so I have a full view for the first time of his thick, dark brown hair. He’s sitting in front of a stall, and I see his name, “JACOBS,” and his number, “92,” behind him.
I pick up my phone again and stare down at his smiling image. God, he is so hot. I read the message he’s sent me:
Here’s a pic of your new boyfriend.
My pulse quickens and I stare at his words in disbelief.
Wyatt didn’t tell me I’m crazy. He didn’t tell me he wants out of the plan.
In fact, this picture tells me Wyatt Jacobs is all in.
I feel butterflies form in my stomach. Once again, the fact that Wyatt is willing to do all these things for a girl he barely knows—exposing the bet, telling me Rob is a dickhead he wants to punch for what he’s done to me, now committing to fake dating me for a month so we can put Rob in his place, leave the frat—says so much about the kind of guy he is.
I like these things about him.
I also like that he remembered that I like espresso-chocolate muffins and tried to find them for me, and when he couldn’t, he brought me something based off things I had said because he listened.
I swallow. I’m going to have to be very careful that I keep my feelings about Wyatt in the friend zone. I don’t have time for anything else in my life, especially if I take on writing for a campus magazine in addition to an already busy schedule.
I mean, Wyatt also made it clear that he doesn’t do girlfriends, anyway. My guess is that he does hookups, so he has no complications.
And I don’t do hookups.
I bite my lower lip. Maybe I just take the next month and enjoy fake dating him.
And make sure I don’t let any feelings develop in the process.