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KAYLA
I surveyed the crop of hopeful Ohio State cheerleaders. The herd of kids, most about to start their senior year of high school, had arrived for an intense, week-long camp that was supposed to prepare them for tryouts next spring. If they made it through the week without being cut, they’d land an invitation to interview with the coaching staff and bypass the grueling first day of auditions.
The seniors had promise, athletically speaking, but some of them were too green. It was like mommy and daddy dropped them off at the dorms this morning and the kids hadn’t recovered from severing the umbilical cord.
I swore I’d seen one of the guys walking around with a dazed expression, looking for his parents in the same way as the guy looking for his arm in Saving Private Ryan.
The prospects sat crossed-legged on the turf of the south end zone, most of them shielding their eyes from the bright July sun as they gazed up at me. I’d gotten approval to bring them into the stadium on the first day of camp, hoping to inspire them. Some looked around in awe at the horseshoe-shaped stands. A few tried to pick at the blades of grass, bored as I recounted the story of my mother.
Didn’t they know the grass was plastic?
I flung a finger up to the bleachers on the fifty-yard line. “My mom had me, right there in the stands, fifteen minutes after we beat Michigan. So, I can tell you I was literally born to be an Ohio State Buckeye.”
Beside me, Lisa Kuhn scrutinized the group like they were diseased, and I thanked God for the third time today the squad elected me captain and not her. She was an amazing performer and gymnast. She had a thousand-watt smile you could see from the nose-bleed seats, and she’d never under-rotated a tumbling pass in her life.
But, damn, her personality sucked.
I turned my focus back to what was important. “Be honest now,” I said. “How many of you are legit football fans?”
Less than half of the people before me raised their hand. It wasn’t surprising. At this level, cheerleading was its own sport.
I set my hands on my hips, feigning disappointment. “That’s it?” I joked. “The rest of you don’t want to make the team?”
The girl seated right by my feet looked panicked. “I love football.”
I blinked. “You didn’t have your hand up.”
“I forgot,” she blurted out.
“You forgot to put your hand up? Or that you love football?”
She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes.”
I wanted to sigh at her brown-nosing, but I pasted on a smile. It wasn’t like I could blame her for desperately wanting to be a part of this organization. We got to cheer for the greatest college football team in the world.
“Okay, good,” I said. “Ohio State has a tradition of being the best, and this is going to be our year. We’re going to the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, and we’ll bring home the—”
A hand near the back shot up. It was a guy whose shirt said, “If you think male cheerleading is funny, let me show you how high I can throw you.” I nodded for him to go ahead and ask his question.
His expression was hardcore. “How many spots are open?”
“We don’t have a specific number. We’ll take everyone who meets our standards.”
As he lowered his hand, he eyed the rest of the group suspiciously, even though I’d just told him they weren’t competition. I couldn’t let their anxious and hopeful gazes get to me. This was the part of being a captain I wasn’t looking forward to. By the end of camp, I’d have disappointed and discouraged quite a few of them, and I hated that.
“We have high standards,” I said. “Not everyone is going to be with us all week.”
Lisa grumbled under her breath. “Some of them won’t make it past lunch. Probably not that guy.”
My gaze narrowed as I shot her a what the hell look. Unfortunately, none of the other senior Buckeye cheerleaders were available for camp, and there were forty-three attendees. Since I couldn’t run the camp by myself, I was stuck with Lisa and her shitty no-filter mouth.
The brown-noser at my feet had the same expression I got when I was doing a stunt and realized my base’s grip was slipping. Trying to hold it together with a smile, masking the terror beneath.
“You’re making cuts today?” she asked.
The first day was more to wash out the people who had no chance of making the team, but I didn’t want to say that. “Don’t worry about it, let’s just have fun. After we’re done here, we’ll go up to the fieldhouse, and Lisa and I will show you the routine you’re—”
Another hand, over on the side of the group, leapt into the air.
“Yeah?” I said to the girl. She’d been one of the people trying to pluck at the blades of not-real grass.
“How many girls are you taking?”
Oh, good lord.
This was the fourth wedding I was attending dateless this summer, and not from a lack of trying, either. The rehearsal dinner last night had been a bust. Every time I tried to meet someone new, it collapsed faster than a human pyramid built out of fifth-grade girls.
Marcy had chosen slate blue dresses for her bridesmaids, and the color managed to look great on all twelve of us. The best part about the dress? It was cocktail length, which meant I didn’t have to pay a seamstress to chop a foot off the bottom.
Hashtag: short-girl problems.
The bride’s room in the church was more of a large corner closet with two sliding doors, and it felt even smaller due to Marcy’s wedding dress. She looked stunning, though. Eyes shining with unshed tears and an enormous smile, all packaged in a white, fluffy cupcake of a dress. I couldn’t wait to see her get married. She and Dave were so great together.
I scrolled through ESPN’s headlines on my phone while waiting to line up for the procession. There was nothing we needed to do to help the bride. Marcy’s mom had designated herself as head stylist and made it clear we bridesmaids needed to be hands-off.
She tugged at Marcy’s veil, and the bride swatted her mom’s hand away, drawing a frown from momzilla.
“Marcy.” Her tone was pointed. “I just want it to look perfect.”
“It does.” My friend’s voice wasn’t sharp, but I knew beneath her calm exterior she was a nervous wreck. We’d been cheerleaders together in high school, and I’d seen her look normal before competition plenty of times, right up to the moment she went running for a garbage can to upchuck her breakfast.
“How can you tell?” Her mother wouldn’t be deterred and tugged once more on the tulle. “You can’t see it. There isn’t a mirror in here, is there?”
“Kayla.” Marcy’s gaze locked on me. “Please, in the name of all that is holy, tell her it’s straight.”
“You look wonderful. Perfect.” I tucked my phone back into my purse, set it down, and picked up my bouquet. “Everyone’s going to be looking at your gorgeous dress. No one’s going to notice if your dad’s boutonniere is about to fall off.”
Marcy’s mom froze. “What?”
She scurried to the other side of the room and nearly tackled her husband, and I flashed a smile at my friend. “That should keep her busy for at least a minute.”
“Thanks.” Marcy laughed softly, then took in a deep, sobering breath.
I’d have to distract her from her nerves. I leaned in, dropped my voice low, and waggled my eyebrows. “Anxious about the wedding night?”
“Oh, yeah. Totally,” she said sarcastically.
My freshman year, the night after my first home game cheering as an Ohio State Buckeye, I’d raced back to my dorm, excited to call Marcy at Ball State and tell her all about it, only she hadn’t answered. She’d been out on her first date with Dave, and texted me the next morning she’d slept with him. I’d lovingly called her a hussy.
“Need me to give you some pointers?” I asked. “Tell you how it’s done?”
Her laugh was a little too big. “Do you remember how it’s done?”
I made a face. It hadn’t been that long.
Marcy latched a hand on my wrist, tugging me closer. “Which reminds me, I need you to do me a favor. There are a lot of eligible guys here. Dave’s friends. My cousins.”
“And?”
“None of them went to Ohio State. You need to hook up. Don’t scare the potential suitors off.”
“Potential suitors? I didn’t realize your reception was being held in the Victorian era.”
“I’m serious. No OSU football talk. Better yet, no sports talk at all.”
“Come on, I’m not that bad.”
Marcy looked at me like I’d just announced I didn’t care for cheerleading. “Hey, remind me. What happened with the guy I set you up with?”
I kind of wanted to slam my bouquet into my face at the memory. “It’s not like I knew he was going to start crying. And anyway, he said running a spread offense was the best way to—”
Her eyebrow shot up so high, it was amazing it didn’t go through her veil and knock it askew. Okay, Marcy, touché.
“In my defense, most guys like a girl who can talk sports,” I grumbled.
“Yeah,” she said, bobbing her head in a patronizing nod. “Talk. They’re less excited about being castrated by your ‘I know more about sports than you do’ attitude.”
I pretended to be utterly serious. “But, I do know more than they do.”
She laughed. “You gotta understand, men can’t handle being emasculated. They’re delicate little creatures, Kayla. So, I’m asking for one night. You can go one night without talking about sports, right?”
She threw the gauntlet down, knowing full well I’d accept it. My competitive streak was legendary. “But what if I run into someone and there’s no way to avoid it? I mean, let’s say one of them is a professional air hockey player. I’m going to have questions.”
She gave me a plain look. “You’re not allowed to talk to imaginary people either.”