27. The Fuck It Stage
THE FUCK IT STAGE
Leighton
Two weeks, four wins, two losses, and thousands of photographs of hockey players later, my savings account is finally growing.
It’s working, this plan to squirrel away money.
It’s working because I’m working nonstop most days—bouncing from photo shoots with the Sea Dogs, to freelance shoots for The Sports Network covering the Renegades, to Birdie’s shop for coffee art, to boudoir shoots at Hush Hush.
Word of mouth is my favorite thing, and since Cora and Aliza passed my name along, along with Katrina, who told her single mom support group, I’m booking boudoir sessions into December.
On Wednesday afternoon, I’m at Melissa Bergstrand’s house, AKA Cookie Melissa.
Since video is nearly as easy to shoot on my phone as photos, I’m recording her as she takes me through her husband’s walk-in closet.
Her nail art is pink and mint, inspired by unicorn cookies she made earlier today—she told me she always matches her nails to her cookies.
“Ooh, this will be perfect for the next home game,” she says, plucking the shirt from its hanger. “It’s a little team spirit without screaming, ‘Put me on the Jumbotron.’”
I nod, smiling, and ask—off-camera, of course—“And what will you pair it with? Inquiring fans want to know.”
She taps a nail against her lower lip thoughtfully. “We can’t go too literal—team colors can’t carry the whole look,” she says, pivoting to a rack of suit jackets. “This charcoal gray suit is the perfect finishing touch. It’s dark, so we can lean into his defender role on the ice.”
“And now the big question. Tie or no tie?”
“I’m a no-tie woman personally. He’s playing hockey, not presenting a PowerPoint.”
I stifle a laugh, and since she’s such a good sport, I toss out one more question. “And what about when he’s not playing hockey? Do you pick his clothes then too?”
With a confident smile, she says, “Of course. For the weekend when we take the kids to the farmers market for face painting, I’ll put him in a peach polo. It’s my favorite color, and he likes wearing my favorite colors. There you go.”
I stop shooting and meet her gaze. Her face is freckled and heart-shaped, a perfect match for her warm, open nature. “That’s so sweet that he likes wearing your favorites.”
“He’s such a great dad and husband,” she says, and these two are seriously couple goals with their affection for each other and their support.
“I love to be able to help him shine since that’s what he does for me.
” She pauses, her brow furrowing, and for a second, it looks like she’s about to ask me something.
But instead, she smiles brightly. “This is so much fun. What a great idea.”
“It was Miles’s idea,” I say, giving credit where credit’s due.
“But you’re the one who’s putting it together. Never underestimate that what goes into the cookie is just as important for its success as the idea for the cookie.”
That’s good advice there. “Thanks, I appreciate that.”
I shoot some B-roll of her in the closet, selecting clothes for the upcoming road trip, and on the way out, she stops me at the door, a curious glint in her warm brown eyes. “I’ve seen your photos…” she begins, her tone unusually tentative.
I wait for her to say more. I figure she means the pics on the team feed.
“And they’re so gorgeous. The lighting, and the sensuality, and the poses,” she blurts out, like it’s a relief to have said it.
“I’m so glad you like them,” I say, pleased she means the boudoir work.
Melissa exhales a little laugh, glancing at her nails. “I’ve thought about doing one of those shoots. You know, for him. But I don’t think I’d have the guts.”
That surprises me. She’s always so poised and self-assured. “You’d be amazing at it,” I say sincerely. “And if you ever decide to try, I’d make sure you feel completely comfortable.”
She brightens slightly, though there’s still a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Maybe someday. For now, it’s probably more my speed to offer cookies in the shape of bras or panties.”
“Sexy and sweet,” I say with a smile.
“Yes!” Then she gives me a goodbye hug since she’s a hugger, and I head on my way.
I edit the video that afternoon, tweaking every detail until it’s just right. Chanda posts it that night, and within hours, it’s racking up views.
My phone blows up with messages from Chanda, Everly, and even Zaire, all gushing about how great the video turned out. It hardly feels like my doing. Melissa is just…likable. Still, I reply with thanks and exclamation points to everyone.
The next evening as the team flies back from a quick trip to Chicago, I head to pole class with my friends. Along the way, a text from Miles lands.
Miles: Nice job, Shutterbug. We just boarded the flight, and Hugo is losing his mind over the video. He’s sent it to his family, his neighbors, his elementary school teachers—basically anyone he’s ever met. Also, Cookie Melissa is thrilled.
Leighton: I’m glad he loves it! She was easy to shoot, and you had a good idea.
Miles: You’re the one who made it happen.
That’s similar to what Melissa said, so I accept the compliment for what it is.
Leighton: Thank you. It felt good to contribute.
And truly, it did. I like being useful. I love being good at my job. And I absolutely adore having happy clients.
I turn off the phone when I arrive at Upside Down, grateful for the chance to spend time with my girl gang, working on new pole tricks at the studio Everly owns and dances at. I haven’t seen much of them since I’ve been working so hard, and I need the girl time.
I’m not a regular at pole like Everly or even Josie, but I like to go once a week. I’m not wild about the floor work—choreography isn’t my thing—but I love doing the tricks on the pole. They take strength, and that’s my jam.
As a new instructor named Jewel demonstrates a spin while blasting a sultry tune, I have to watch her moves more closely than usual. It’s hard to hear her instructions over the music. No, make that impossible.
I could ask her to turn it down, but this is a me problem. I don’t want to draw attention to it. Besides, this is an opportunity to figure it out using my other senses.
My eyes.
I study her every move carefully and then imitate her. On the first try, I nail the move. Yes! It feels incredible to be strong enough to pull this off, to hang upside down with my hair spilling toward the floor.
Briefly, I wonder what Miles would think if he could see me like this. A sly smile creeps across my lips, knowing he’d probably lose his mind.
He’d stare hotly, like he did at our boudoir session, his eyes locked on me, waiting patiently for the moment I’d finish—just so he could close the distance between us, claim my lips, and murmur that I’m incredible.
I feel kind of incredible—both from the thrill of this fantasy and the satisfaction of nailing this move.
Maybe it doesn’t matter that I can’t always make out the instructor’s words. I have a rich interior life, and really, that has to be enough.
When class ends, I leave with my friends, Everly praising us for the progress we’ve all made over the past year.
“Are you all still enjoying class?” she asks, clearly hoping we’ll say yes.
Nerves race through me. I could mention the music volume to her. This is my chance, but something stops me. I don’t want to make my issue someone else’s issue. I have a workaround, and that’s good enough.
“I’m loving the tricks,” I say.
“You’re so good at them. The dance stuff not so much?”
“Not really, but I do understand it’s the foundation.”
“I like the floor stuff since I’m least likely to break all my bones on the floor,” Josie chimes in brightly.
Everly laughs, and Fable nods toward our favorite diner at the end of the block. “Does anyone want to take this into Moon Over Milkshakes?”
“Anything to keep me out of my own apartment,” I say, jumping at the chance—even if the music is blasting there too.
Josie pats me on the back as we walk. “We love being your escape pod from your roomies.”
“What’s the latest with them?” Everly asks with some concern.
I sigh. “They either fuck or fight. The other night, I came home to Indigo giving a detailed, painful monologue about how running out of mustard reminds her of childhood loss.”
Maeve rolls her eyes. “I get that we all have emotional wounds, but you can’t use them as crutches for everything in your life. Sometimes you just have to deal when there’s no fucking mustard,” she says, yanking open the door to the retro-themed diner.
Exactly.
Which is why I don’t ask the pole instructor—or the diner—to lower the music. Sometimes you just have to deal.
After we slide into a booth, a server pops over.
“I’ll take a chocolate milkshake as big as my head and the large fries,” I say.
When everyone else orders, Josie shoots me a sympathetic look. “As big as your head? You really need to numb the pain of your roomies, don’t you, friend?”
“I do,” I say, but the time with them does the trick—eating, gabbing, playing with Maeve’s tarot cards, and catching up. When it’s my turn to share, I tell them about my growing business.
“Get it, girl,” Everly says with a shimmy.
“So proud of you,” Fable adds as I spoon the last dregs of my milkshake.
But Maeve holds my gaze. “And how’s it working with the Fucking Falcon?”
I nearly spit out my drink. She’s called him that before—after learning about our day together. But it’s been a while.
“Yes,” Josie says, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Are you stealing moments in the stairwell? Nipping off to the equipment room? Making doe eyes across the ice?”
“No,” I say pointedly. But there have been close calls.
Maeve snaps her fingers. “Dammit. I wanted some good tea.”
“I wanted tea and solidarity,” Everly adds with a pout. “Max and I did all those things before we were officially together.”
“We know,” Fable teases her, then turns to me. “I’m impressed with your restraint.”