Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
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.