You win

Sofia - im in

I probably set a new record with how quickly I finished my end laps at practice, racing to my car, and then speeding to Jordan's place to get ready. She has a decent shower, unlike my underwhelming dorm living situation, where the shower sucks and the space is cramped. So, here I am, drying my damp hair with a towel as the hot water fogs up the bathroom mirrors, with either Jordan or one of her roommates in the background. 

"Sofiaaaa!" Jordan's voice echoes through the apartment, and I step out with my white towel draped around me. I'm greeted with the sight of her still in her soccer gear and holding a green drink.

"Mmm, you smell good. Vanilla?" she remarks, walking over to grab the blow dryer.

"How were your last laps?" I ask as we head towards her bedroom, where I can sit on her vanity while she does my hair.

"Considering you finished yours so fast, Smitty made us run an extra one," she laughs. Although I hate to leave my team hanging, it's not a usual occurrence for Sofia Delezar to go on a date, if that's what we're calling this.

She finishes up my hair, leaving it in beautiful waves that you'd see in magazines or on a salon inspiration board. If there's one thing Jordan Alo can perfect, it's hair.

"Chef's fucking kiss!" Jordan exclaims dramatically, kissing her hand and waving it outwards.

"You have at most thirty minutes if we get you out of here in the next twenty," she informs me, wasting no time as she scrambles through her closet to pick out my outfit. I hustle to do my makeup; it's not often I wear it with practice almost every day, so when I do get the chance, I make sure to do it right. I add a touch of bronzer for a natural glow, some concealer to cover any imperfections, a pop of blush on my cheeks, and brush my eyebrows to perfection before finishing off with a killer lip combo and mascara. By the time I'm done, Jordan is standing there with the outfit she's chosen.

+++

"Do you think it's too much boob?" I scrutinize my reflection—the ankle-length red dress clinging to every curve of my body, the low neckline making my chest more pronounced. Even though I don't have large boobs, the dress does a good job of emphasizing them, especially paired with my gold butterfly pendant.

"I think you look hot, and so will he," Jordan says proudly, taking a seat on her bed landing with a bounce and a satisfied grin.

"Hurry up; you have ten minutes to get your perfect ass out of here. Wear the black strappy sandals and take that sweater in case it's cold."

"Love you, bye." I give her a quick kiss on the forehead, leaving behind a glossy residue as I grab the black knit sweater and race for the door after shoving my toes into the sandals.

+++

I arrive at Laxton Hall with five minutes to spare. I'm all about breaking records, though it doesn't matter since the usher won't let me into the theatre until the current performance is finished. And, of course, they're playing the longest song on record. I stand impatiently, tapping my heel on the marble floor, uncomfortably close to the door, staring at the windowed walls and observing the nightly parking lot. Even though I'm not inside the theatre, the music spills out through the open door, momentarily louder each time it opens and closes.

"Hey, Sofia." The door opens, and the loud music beams. I turn to see Max Popov walking out, dressed nicely in a button-down and high-water plaid pants.

"Hey, Max," 

"Are you here with anyone?" he asks, but I catch the faint trail of his eyes on me. Probably wondering who I'm dressed up for.

"Yeah, I'm actually waiting on Peter Marcus," I reply, wrapping my arms around myself and pulling the sweater tighter as the cool AC circulates.

"Oh." I notice the glum expression on his face.

"He's crazy talented." He recovers.

"So, how's the team?" I quickly change the painful topic of conversation.

"Great, actually. We're going away for the break to Spain, some exhibition tournament," his blue eyes light up just thinking about it.

"Really? That must be expensive."

"Right, but it's covered."

"By who?" That must be one big sponsor, someone the girls could afford to talk to, considering this school is no help.

"UFN." He responds.

"What?"

Im momentarily taken back, honestly confused, but almost immediately the confusion is washed away and replaced with rage. The numerous meetings and discussions I've had, my plea for new uniforms, locker upgrades, and better travel for exhibition tournaments—and here they are, going to Spain.

Fucking Spain?

Our record is better than theirs. We only lost one game last season. If anyone deserves to go to Spain, it's us.

"You can go in now, miss," the usher interrupts, opening the door, the distant applause ringing in my ears.

At this moment, I don't care. Not about Peter Marcus, not about staying true to my morals and ethics. I've never been so pissed or so riled up in my life. Normally, I'd find myself on the field, running until my legs gave out, riding out the frustration in my body. Yet this time, my legs take me somewhere else.

I swing the door open to the holy grail of athletes' hangout spots: Cherrys, the lighting is always tinted red, and there's never the same genre of music playing unless someone's Apple paying for the fake jukebox in the corner. It's a diner turned bar turned macho men meet sorority sisters. I hate it here, to say the least. It's not a bad spot during the day, but come 9 p.m., it flips. Jordan spends her time here when she's looking for "fun." If that doesn't send a message about this place, then I'm not sure what will.

I scan my eyes around the room, spotting many familiar faces—those I've seen previously in the gym and stat profiles I've stalked. It's pretty packed for a Sunday, although how would I know? I never hang out here. I notice some of the football team at a booth and make my way to the group, their chatter quieting as I approach the table of six guys, one of whom I'm using all my strength to avoid a particular burning stare, one that would've stopped me from walking over here if I knew it was the back of his head. 

"Where's Westerman?" 

I watch as they eye me, some freshmen nudging each other as if I'm trying to find Stephen for sexual advances, a couple of other eyes lingering over my body—not that I feel special about it their eyes ogling at anything in sight, and one gaze I refuse to make contact with.

Eventually, one points to the corner where he's standing and talking to Alix Russell, of course. I make my way over, and he almost immediately notices me. He says something to Alix, and her eyes snap to me with a pissy scowl before her arms cross and she walks off.

"You looking good for me?" he says, his dimples deepening in the dim lighting, his smugness palpable.

"You wish," I retort, refusing to satisfy him.

"Just as it was my wish for you to consider a certain proposition, that is, if you're here for that," he says, his tone dripping with arrogance.

I stay silent, my stubbornness bubbling to the surface.

"Just say it, Del; it'll put you out of your misery," he insists, stepping closer to me, and I hate how my body instinctively reacts to his proximity, immediately getting hot. In response, I lock eyes with his. Arms crossed, holding onto my last shreds of dignity.

"I'm in,"

"So you want to seal it with a kiss?" He looks around at the packed bar before his eyes softly meet mine—the type of look I know works on any girl, the type of look that, against my wishes, makes me feel weak in the knees, the type of look that lets me know he's an asshole that gets whatever he wants. 

And yet here I am, in the palm of his hand, making a deal with the devil.

"Nice try, lover boy, but if we do this, there will be rules to play by."