They could have just told us right after auditions ended this afternoon who made the team. Instead, they’d made us stickaround for most of the day other than a quick break for dinner, and now, we were back to hear the names of the dancers who made the squad.
I’d made friends with some of them through the audition process. It was impossible not to, given the close quarters of it all. We all shared nervous looks and hand squeezes of encouragement as we waited for our fate.
And it wasn’t just a poster on a wall, either. Nope — there was the team drum line, a video crew to capture content, and confetti loaded and ready to blast from a cannon.
Also, we had an audience.
As if it wasn’t nerve-wracking enough to be stacked in rows of other cheerleader hopefuls, to know that only twenty-eight out of the forty of us left sitting here would make it, we also had to have our fate announced to a whole slew of people on the field.
There were the judges who’d helped decide our destiny, the director and coaches who taught us the choreography and ran the entire program, and, most unexpectedly…
A line of five very tall, very buff, very attractive football players.
I knew them all by name and knew most of their stats, too. I’d studied up on them, wanting to make sure I didn’t embarrass myself if I were to pass by them in the stadium. Besides, I loved football – and getting to know the players I might possibly be rooting for was more fun than it was homework.
In a way, it was sweet that they were here. After all, we’d be cheering them on all season long — the least they could do is cheeruson this once.
On the other hand, there was a very strict no fraternizing rule — one outlined in black ink in a contract we’d have to sign if we made the team. It didn’t matter how hot they were, or how hot we were, or how hot we all might be for each other.
There would be no dating, no kissing, and no hooking up.
So, having these delicious hunks of man candy all suited up and ready to hand us roses like it was the fuckingBachelorup in here?
Well, it felt a little unfair — like flaunting the world’s best cheesecake in front of someone who’s lactose intolerant.
And this was so classically me. Ofcourse,I’d be focused on the sweat in my bra and the row of off-limits football players on the field instead of the names being called one by one. My brain loved to spiral when I had something to lose. Any kind of distraction was welcome.
“Jamie Monroe!”
I blinked out of my haze, widening my smile a bit and numbly clapping as a girl two rows down from me jumped up with her hands covering her mouth and tears streaming down her face already. She was a veteran, one of the sweeter ones I’d encountered through auditions, and she skipped down to the field before hugging everyone and accepting a rose from one of the players. She then joined the small but building group of cheerleaders on the field — those who had made the team.
There were nine of them standing there.
Only nineteen more would join them.
“Marcus Rodriguez!”
That name had our group erupting with louder cheers. I screamed loudest of all, reaching down to pat Marcus’s ass as he trotted by in the row below me.
Marcus was a rookie, just like me, and he was the first one of us to make this year’s squad.
We’d hit it off the first day of auditions, instantly bonding through our mutual love of Bad Bunny and football. A lot of the dancers trying out couldn’t have cared less about the sport and simply wanted to be a dancer. Marcus and I, however, grew up in households where football was on the television everyweekend, where we saw the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders doing their famous dance to “Thunderstruck.”
Of course, once we realized our experiences were mirrored, we immediately broke into the choreography, landing in our split jump with laughs that I knew would cement us in each other’s hearts forever, regardless of if we both made the team or not.
He was gorgeous, too — lean and athletic with golden brown skin and a head of dark hair that was always styled in perfect swoops and lines. He had dimples on each of his cheeks, framing his magnetic smile, one lined with brilliant white teeth.
He blew me a kiss, grabbing the hands of some of the other rookies who reached for him as he shimmied past, and then jogged down the steps with all the swagger of a man who could do more flips than a dolphin at SeaWorld. I wanted to make the team even more now — if just to hang out with Marcus. He was the kind of guy who had infectious energy, who could make you laugh until you cried.
Evenmyblack, dead heart surged a little when he walked into the room and lit it up so effortlessly.
That detached haze fell over me once more as the next name was called — another veteran. I clapped and crossed my legs the other way, doing my best to smile and not cringe as the girl next to me grabbed my hand and held it tight. I knew it was a sign of solidarity, of sisterhood, but I was fucking sweaty and nervous and didn’t feel like being touched at the moment.
I squeezed her hand back, anyway.
Name after name was called, and each time it wasn’t mine, I tried not to panic. I tried not to overanalyze that the person called was younger than me, or that they didn’t have tattoos and piercings the way I did, that theylooked the partand I did not. I tried to calm my racing heart.
In an effort to do so, I let my eyes wander the field — from the faded white lines that would be painted bright before kickoff to the mega screens flashing the face of the last girl called down to the field. I scanned the benches and the banners, the judges and the staff, the row of pony tails and necks just as sweaty as mine.
