Page 9 of Lavender and Linebackers

But then again, maybe she’s not. Maybe I’m the only one having a hard time with this arrangement. A huff leaves me, and internally, I shake my head. Wouldn’t that be fitting—just like old times. Me worked up over her, while she couldn’t care less.

For years, I’ve had Alice blocked on social media. It wasn’t necessarily that I didn’t want her to see me. I just didn’t want to see anything to do with her or her with someone else. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t go down the rabbit hole after our meeting earlier in the week, starting with the Mighty Monarchs. Of course she would start a nonprofit youth cheerleading team. I read every word on every page of the website, lingering on the mission statement, “The Mighty Monarchs’ mission is to provide inclusive cheerleading opportunities that build character, confidence, sportsmanship, leadership, athleticism, and community involvement for local youth.” The pictures are filled with happy youth, all wearing lavender T-shirts with a teal butterfly and the Monarchs logo and black compression shorts. There’s happiness and laughter, cheer formations, and even one where a high schooler is holding a large scholarship check for five thousand dollars.

Pride did diffuse through my walled-off heart. How could it not? She’s out there making a difference. She and this other girl I don’t know, who is clearly her business partner and friend.

It’s weird that she and I don’t know the same people anymore. Being thrust back into her life, it’s strange to me that she has friends at all. I never really saw her with other people, only me. But there the two of them, Alice and this girl, were again the night after our meeting, toasting their secret new sponsor. One they couldn’t wait to announce.

I went home and had a horrible evening, and she went out and celebrated. It just figures.

My gaze follows her sight line, and I see she’s staring at a series of mock-ups, which have her and me in different poses. Poses that make my entire body seize up. Why? Why do I need to be photographed with her on my back or me holding her bridal style? People don’t want to see this. Heat climbs into my cheeks. I know they’re red. It’s the Scandinavian in me, and always my flashing neon sign about my emotions.

My heart aches that I’m being forced into this, but more than that, I’m angry too. Angry that this dream I’ve had my whole life has now been hijacked with the one person in the world I never wanted to see again.

Alice’s gaze cuts to me, and my entire body feels like it’s been electrocuted. This makes me even angrier, and the stress radiating from me forces two wrinkle lines to strike between my brows as my eyes narrow in distaste. Why do I still have to react so strongly to her?

“Alice!” Gretchen says, breaking away from her entourage and pulling me out of my internal meltdown. “We have a surprise for you, and Ryder, I’m glad you’re finally here. It’s time to get this shoot started!” she says, full of enthusiasm.

Finally here? I showed up ten minutes early.

Alice hops out of the makeup chair, and I watch as Gretchen leads her over to the two changing rooms and to a rack of clothes that I didn’t notice before. My eyes damn near bulge, and I have to keep my jaw from coming unhinged. I didn’t see the rack because the clothes are so small they’re almost nonexistent.

“I spoke to the uniform department and had all of yours brought over for today.”

“Oh, wow,” Alice exclaims, completely in awe, as she gently looks through at least six different sets. “These are so pretty,” she gushes, looking at Gretchen like she’s Santa Claus on Christmas morning. She pulls one out. It’s silver with some teal embellishments, and my teeth grind together. “Is this one new?” she asks.

“Yes, and I love how they made the large sequins on the top look like fish scales. It’s elegant, yet you’ll be able to move around with no problem.”

While the top looks like any normal athletic girl top, my eyes zero in on the shorts. How can those even be called shorts? I understand girls wear boyshorts, but those look like a strip of fabric that I would wear as a sweatband on my head. How could those possibly cover enough to keep her decent?

I growl and then realize that was audible as Stephen looks at me strangely.

“Ryder, you’re already familiar with yours, if you wouldn’t mind, go ahead and change into the home game uniform.”

I make my way over, grab the uniform, feeling everyone’s eyes on me, and go hide inside the tiny changing room. There’s a single folding chair, and I drop down on it and hang my head. I’m grateful for the reprieve, but I can still hear all of them.

“Alice, Ryder has three uniforms for today: home, away, and throwback. You’re going to be changing more frequently than him. We want to make sure that any idea we might come up with during the season, we’ve got our yards covered. Get it, yards not bases?” She laughs at her own joke. “Let’s go with this one first. While he’s getting individuals, we’ll put you back in the chair for hair.”

Individuals? Don’t they already have enough of those? I let out a deep sigh, kick off my shoes, and pull off my clothes. I wonder how many times I’ve put on a uniform in my lifetime? And for the first time, I dread it.

Socks. Girdle. Compression shirt.

Pants. Shoulder pads. Jersey.

Cleats. Gloves.

Once I’m dressed, hair and makeup spend about three minutes on me, and I’m directed to stand in the middle of the drop cloth. The poses are mostly identical to the ones I took before, and unfortunately, once Alice is dressed and ready, she’ll be moved to stand directly in front of me. Discreetly, I watch as they finish with her and spray her curled hair, which is longer than I remember her ever keeping it.

Slowly, she gets out of the chair and drops the robe covering her. Underneath is this season’s home game uniform, the teal one. Again, it’s so small, but she’s so small, and there’s so much skin showing. My fingers curl in and clench into tight fists.

“Where exactly are these photos going?” she asks as she walks over. I desperately want to look away, but I can’t. I was right. The shorts are tiny, they barely cover her ass up to her hip bones, and this top, it ties under her boobs and then looks like a sports bra. If my tongue were permitted to wag out of my mouth, it would. Instead, I can’t help but scowl at how much I hate this.

Fuck my life.

“The plan is to launch the two of you across our social platforms, then follow it up with expressway billboards, wrapping the sides of two dozen Hart transit buses, and placing a few outside the stadium.”

I swallow hard.

Basically, what they’re saying is I should plan on her invading all areas of my life. Wherever I turn, I’m going to see a picture of us together, a picture of her.