Waverly hugs Paisley, then lets her go and slips to my side as we’re led to a set of tables near the back of the ballroom just outside of the VIP section. “Don’t disappear. You’re sitting with us, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Have I told you how much I love this color on you? You are absolutely sparkling tonight.”
I blush. “It’s my favorite,” I confess quietly.
As if liking the color pink is something to be embarrassed by.
Of course it’s not.
I love wearing dresses when I get the chance. I love wearingpinkwhen I get the chance.
But I don’t admit it out loud to other people.
The last time I said it—back in college, before a dinner with the athletic director and several talent scouts—my softball coach cornered me and warned me to never say it again.
If you’re going to be a woman in a man’s world, you cannot be feminine. Not yet. Prove yourself before you let them remember that you’re a girl.
Her advice offended me to the core.
And then I learned the hard way in my first few jobs after college just how right she was.
Wearing a dress to the Fireballs’ first championship dinner celebration was among the scarier things I’ve done, but everyone—players, fellow coaches, admins, board, and owners—treated me no differently than if I were in my baseball uniform.
It was surreal.
And while I’ve let my guard down regularly with the team since then, that paranoia still holds a grip on me.
While I’ve started wondering if this is ameproblem, if the Fireballs truly are different enough as an organization that I’ll be judged on my merits as a coach when I interview for Santiago’s position, I can’t fully drop my barriers.
I don’t want to set myself up for failure by ignoring all of the lessons life and my fellow lady coaches have taught me over the years.
No matter how much I want to believe what you see is what you get with the Fireballs.
“Loving what you wear is why you glow.” Waverly squeezes my good arm. “It just feels good. So how long ago were you and Duncan together?”
The way I want to answer that question so badly and ask her opinion on which of us was right and wrong all those years ago…
But instead, I take a swig of my drink.
“I still don’t know you well enough yet to know if that meansrecentlyora long time ago,” she murmurs.
“It means it’s irrelevant,” I reply.
“Hmm.”
“Nohmm. It’s irrelevant.”
“Was he a dick?”
“No more than any other man.” I slide a look at her, then add on a grumble, “Probably less than any other man.”
She squeezes again. “Did he hurt you?”
“I…I think we hurt each other.”
“Cooper hurt me once,” she says softly.
