“Nothing.” I shrugged. “You’re a bad liar is all.”
I turned and walked away before he could reply.
The moment we stepped inside, a woman with a headset greeted us like she was operating air traffic control and not, in fact, managing a morning shoot for a natural energy drink. She directed us toward wardrobe and hair and makeup with all the enthusiasm of someone who’d had three Buzz shots before sunrise.
I was handed a crop top and leggings that looked like they were made to be worn by people who didn’t have my thigh dimples, curves, or insanely long legs. Sure, they served me well on the pitch, but in gym wear? I sometimes had to be particular.
Which was probably why I looked mildly unhinged when I emerged over an hour later from wardrobe squeezed into the set. The makeup was a lot more than I’d usually wear, and I couldn’t wait to wash it off already. I gave the waistband a tug, trying to figure out how much of my torso was about to be in this ad. Then another, as if that would magically make them longer or more supportive. Or different in any way, really.
They didn’t yield and no amount of my sparkling personality would help either.
It wasn’t that I didn’t like my body; I just had certain clothes that I preferred more than others. My stomach was toned instead of curved and womanly, and while I didn’t have an issue with my own image, I had an issue that women were constantly told to wear what would make them more feminine and desirable instead of their performance ability and skill. The idea that sex sells still haunts women’s sports, and that itself is a scary notion. Being here in leggings and a crop top, I felt every ounce of that weight and pressure.
I was adjusting them when Connor walked out of the opposite dressing area. He had the audacity to look awake and clean and fully at ease in his own skin, like showing up for an early morning shoot wasn’t throwing off his entire day. His shorts fit better than mine did, and those damn thighs that would send all the humans in our vicinity feral were on full show. Of course.
His eyes dropped for half a second to the exact place I was tugging at, and a smile threatened the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t say it,” I warned.
He mimed zipping his mouth shut, and I was glad.
Turning the corner to the empty studio, a few people flitted around us, fluffing my hair, patting his nose. When I’d pulled at the crop top for the fourth time, Connor said, “Are you uncomfortable?”
My head snapped to his, with a brow so low, I knew I was scowling at him. “It’s fine.”
His shoulder brushed mine as the photographer called for lighting checks. “It doesn’t look fine,” he murmured. “You don’t like the crop top?”
I don’t like any of it, I wanted to shout but swallowed the words.
Connor’s expression shifted. A second ago, he was concerned, but now his nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. “They should’ve given you something you feel good in.”
“Yeah, well,” I said quietly, “that’s not usually the priority, is it?”
“What does that mean?”
I huffed. “It means that as much as I want to be in an oversized sweater right now, rotting on my sofa with my favorite reality TV show, I’m not. I’m here. Wearing this.” I flicked the hem of the crop top like it had personally wronged me. “Because someone in a boardroom, probably someone with a dick, decided femaleathletes sell better when we ‘look the part,’ translating to wearing less.”
Connor didn’t say anything. His jaw ticked again, that deep-set muscle flexing the way it did when someone pissed him off on the pitch. Not that I’d ever admit I noticed. I tried my hardest not to.
“Half the time, the marketing still feels like it’s stuck in the nineties. Less ‘strength’ and more ‘can we get a little more ass in that shot?’”
Something sharp and protective streaked across his features, and I chose not to read into it. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen that look, but it was the first time it was directed at me. “Feckin’ hell, I’m going to find someone from wardrobe.”
He turned before I uttered another word, already stalking down the hall with the kind of purpose that made people get out of his way on instinct. “Connor,” I hissed, reaching out—too late. He was gone, all long strides and righteous fury and absolutely zero concept of boundaries.
“Dammit,” I muttered to myself, planting my hands on my hips. Someone I hadn’t met yet gave me a nervous smile and shuffled away, like I might bite her.
It took Connor all of sixty seconds to come back. Sixty seconds of me debating whether I could physically drag him back by the collar before he embarrassed us both. Sixty seconds of me searching for the emergency exits.
He reappeared with a tank top in one hand, looking way too pleased with himself. “Here.” He held it out. “Put this on.”
I stared at him. Then at the top. Then back at him.
“You did not just bully wardrobe staff.”
“I didn’t bully anyone,” he said, scandalized. “I asked nicely.”
“Oh, please.”
