I hung the shirt and clipped the tiny skirt to the hanger and scowled at my uniform. I hated it. Sometimes I didn’t want to even look at myself in the mirror when I had it on. Then there were the boots. Who wore gold metallic knee-high boots? I had wiped the scuff marks from them and placed them under the dance ensemble.

Calling it dance was a stretch. It was basically a stripper’s outfit. I didn’t know how anyone could feel Warrior pride wearing that thing, but the other girls on the squad did. They loved it. They loved the W on their chests. They loved the mini stars on their skirts. They didn’t care that half of the shirt was missing and the only reason they got attention was because of their bodies. It didn’t seem to bother any of them. Except me.

And I would have to put it on again tomorrow night for the game. I’d parade around showing off my toned thighs and stomach. I’d wave my hands in the air and dance to the techno music with a huge Texas-sized smile on my face. After all, I was a Warrior Goddess.

I was trained to be a professional dancer, but this wasn’t what I had in mind. I could win a Tony for the acting performance I gave on the sidelines.

I let my fingers trace over the satin ribbon dangling from my pointe shoes. They were on the second shelf of my closet. I hadn’t tried them on again since the accident. I was tempted to slide my feet into them and pirouette around my living room, but it wouldn’t help my mood any. It would only remind me I wasn’t doing what I loved. The knots in my stomach wound tightly.

It had been nine months since I had worn them, and I didn’t know when I’d be ready to try them on again. I hesitated for a second, thinking this could be the moment, but I stopped myself. I didn’t want to face what it might mean if my leg gave way. The shoes I loved had made me a prisoner to fear. I was scared my supporting leg would never hold me again.

It was one thing to shake my hips and do kicks toward a crowd of Warrior fans. It was something completely different to put all my trust in the ability of my hamstring to withstand the intense pressure of dancing with pointe shoes. My entire body relied on my right leg to work in perfect unison, and right now I didn’t have that trust in myself. I couldn’t try on the shoes.

Instead I turned off the closet light and pretended there wasn’t a dance squad uniform hanging inside. I would trade it out for a hundred tutus any day.

I was thinking about taking a walk to the park near my condo and picking up a salad on my way home for dinner when I heard my phone ring.

I grabbed it from the kitchen island. “Hello?”

“Natalia, what are you doing, girl?” It was Heather from the dance team.

“Not much. I was just headed out to pick up dinner.”

“Good. Then you can meet the rest of us for drinks.”

“Oh no, I’m not up for that. It’s Sunday night.”

“You’ll be the only one not there. You have to go. It’s a Goddess tradition.” She sounded bubbly and excited.

I rolled my eyes. “And what tradition is that?”

“We always go out the night before the first game of the season. Just the girls. It’s so much fun.”

“We’ve already had games,” I protested. “It’s not the first one.”

“Those were pre-season and totally do not count.”

I was tired of the constant lectures on football terminology and rules. I didn’t know anything about the sport. I didn’t really like it. I didn’t understand why thousands of people paid two hundred dollars a ticket to watch men try to bash each other’s brains in. For me, it was only a paycheck and a way to get me back on stage where I belonged. I tolerated as much of it as I could.

I knew I didn’t make much per game. No one would be able to survive on a salary as a dancer. We were never paid for the amount of practices we had to attend, but the pay out came from the promotional events. Warriors fans knew no limits when it came to reserving the Goddesses for birthday, bachelor, or retirement parties.

I was promised a substantial bonus for appearing in the two calendars the squad printed each year. There was the holiday edition as well as a summer swimsuit collection. There was a rumor floating around that we were going to start wearing patches on our uniforms for advertisers. I didn’t know that I agreed with being a dancing billboard, but if that happened, each dancer would make a small percentage each time we wore it. The only way to make sure I profited as a Goddess was to dance at every game.

“I might have to sit this one out, Heather. But I appreciate the invitation. Call me next time.”

“Oh no. You are not going to be the reason the guys lose tomorrow night.” Her voice lowered an octave. It was her mother hen tone.

I huffed. What was she accusing me of? “Of course not. I always want them to win.”

I was praying she wasn’t going to tell me about some crazy powder puff tradition where I’d have to run on the field wearing a set of shoulder pads and a helmet during the halftime show.

“Then you have to go. You have to be there or they’ll lose. This is what it means to be a Goddess. You have a duty to the team.”

It was absurd. The traditions these girls came up with, or maintained for however many years, were ludicrous. It was completely illogical that the Warriors would lose if I didn’t go out for one drink.

Out of the forty girls on the dance squad, Heather was the one I had spent the most time with. We had been paired together at summer training camp. Sharing a room with her hadn’t been all that bad. She took dancing seriously—we had that in common. It just wasn’t the same kind of dance.

I learned quickly that the other girls didn’t want to hear about my training in ballet. They didn’t care who I studied under. They were here because it was a lifelong dream to be a Goddess dancer. Some of them were third generation legacy girls. Unlike them, I wasn’t trying to get a modeling contract or snag a spot in a player’s bed.

I had bills to pay, and when no one would take an injured ballerina, the Warriors took me in. I did appreciate the money. I couldn’t shake the rest of it. When I took the job in May, I thought eventually I’d wrap my pride around the concept of being on a dance squad, but my pride never backed down. I was a ballerina, and a respectable ballerina wouldn’t do what I did, even if it meant not getting evicted.

I sighed. If I didn’t go tonight, the girls would blame me. They would glare at me in the locker room, and every time I walked in the practice studio, they would hold me accountable for the game’s outcome. I wasn’t ready to start off the season that way. We didn’t have to be best friends, but we did work together.

“Fine,” I agreed. “Text me the bar’s address and I’ll meet you there.”

She squealed. “Awesome!”

“But one drink,” I warned. “I want to be home before ten.”

I wasn’t going to bother changing out of my workout clothes. I liked the fitted yoga pants and the lavender top. It reminded me to always move through space with graceful intention. One of the skills Madame Collette had drilled into me.

“That’s all you have to do. I promise. One drink with the girls, and there’s no way they can lose. And you know how they like to win.” I heard the giggle in her voice.

Again, this was silly, but I had joined silly. I was a part of team silly. I grabbed my bag and walked out the door.