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)
“Don’t lie,” Marcus said. “I know it was killing you to be on the sidelines. It’s okay to admit it.”
“Fine. I hated it.”
Darcy laughed. “I would have, too. But you’re back now, baby!”
“Not fully,” I reminded her.
“You’ll be shaking that fine ass of yours next to us,” Marcus chimed in, threading his arm through mine. “And that’s all that matters.”
We all nuzzled together in a group hug, and then Darcy frowned, pulling away with her eyes roaming the room. “What’s with all the noise? Is something happening?”
I followed her gaze, noticing various groups of people huddled together around phones. I frowned. “That’s odd.”
Suddenly, eyes started drifting to me, one pair after another, until practically the whole room was looking at me.
“Shit, did I bleed through or something?” I popped up to stand, turning my ass toward Darcy. “Check me.”
“You’re fine,” she said, inspecting my ass. “I don’t know what—”
“Fuck.”
The curse came from Marcus, who had his phone in hand.
“What?” Darcy and I asked in unison, already bending over his shoulder.
My heart fell to the floor when I read the headline on his screen.
Seattle Seahawks Cheerleader Slams Franchise Over Pay, Alleges Gender Double Standard
My entire universe snapped to the size of a pinpoint, the noise around me fading, my body tingling, heart beat the only sound I could make out other than the distinct drags of my breath.
Beneath the headline was a subtitle: Viral podcast interview sparks backlash and renewed criticism of NFL cheerleader pay.
Darcy was at my side, asking something, but it didn’t register. And when Marcus scrolled down and tapped on the video, I knew before he played it what clip it was. I stood straight, tearing my eyes from the screen.
Which left me staring at the rest of my squad.
Okay… Okay, this is not the end of the world. I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true. I didn’t say anything that was scandalous.
But even as I tried to assure myself it would all be fine, the sharp truth cut through my denial: It didn’t matter what I’d said.
It mattered that I’d said it out loud.
To the wrong people. In the wrong place. Where it could be clipped, twisted, passed around until it didn’t belong to me anymore.
If I had a problem with my pay, I should have taken it up with Claire — quietly and professionally and behind closed doors.
I hadn’t been thinking. And now, I’d become a liability.
This was the kind of thing that could get me benched again, or cut altogether. It could get me blacklisted.
It could follow my name long after I hung up my uniform.
“Hey!”
I jolted when Marcus snapped his fingers in front of my face. He must have been saying my name and I hadn’t registered.
“Take a breath,” he commanded. “It’s fine. Everything is fine.”
Darcy nodded. “I mean, hey, maybe this will wake up the owners. You didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.”
The words didn’t soothe me, even when they came from one of my best friends. Because I knew exactly how the Seahawks would see it.
Not as truth.
As disloyalty.
As bad press.
As a problem.
“Who posted the article?” I managed to ask. My voice sounded thick and unfamiliar.
Marcus dragged a hand through his hair, looking around at the rest of our team who was watching from afar. “WSO.”
Women’s Sports Organization.
The most well-known and respected news source for women’s sports.
I shook my head. “I didn’t realize the clip had gone viral. I mean, they tagged me in it and I think I commented saying something about being thankful they had me on the show.”
“Apparently, it blew up over the last couple of days,” Marcus said, thumbing through his phone. Then his eyes bulged. “Holy shit. Twenty-nine-million views.”
My vision tunneled.
Somehow, I found a wall and slid down it, collapsing into a heap on the floor. It was as if that sent the team into action. Dancer after dancer surrounded me, some rubbing my arm, some telling others to clear space, some still standing at the edges and just watching.
Twenty-nine million.
That wasn’t viral.
That was everywhere.
Every fan. Every coach. Every executive.
Every person who already thought cheerleaders were expendable, replaceable, lucky to be here at all.
My breaths came sharp and uneven, like my body had forgotten how to do it right.
How had I not seen this coming? How had I not realized what it could turn into?
I knew the answer before I let myself say it.
Braden.
I’d been so wrapped up in him — the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, the way everything else in my life seemed to blur when I was with him — that I hadn’t been paying attention to anything else.
My chest tightened.
Braden.
Oh, God.
This wasn’t just about me. This was about the possibility of us that we’d been flirting with ever since my birthday, since we’d both floated away on a glitter cloud of bliss and pretended like nothing could touch us, like we were safe.