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Chapter 10
Briar
"Absolutely not," I say, staring at the skirt Ducky holds up.
"Absolutely yes." My teammate shakes the fabric at me. It's black and stretchy, and it would hit about four inches above the knee on a normal-sized human. On me it's going to be a belt. "You have incredible legs, and you're going to show them off for your enormous boyfriend."
"He's not looking for —"
"Briar." Tate appears over Ducky's shoulder, waving a makeup brush like a weapon. "Put on the skirt."
I'm in Ducky's apartment, which smells like hair cream and looks like a clothing bomb went off. Half the Uprising roster has been through here in the last hour, swapping jeans, borrowing earrings, and picking up WAG shirts. It’s wives and guy-friends for us, though thinking of Cameron as a “guy-friend” feels woefully inadequate.
The event starts in two hours, and apparently this requires a full production setup.
"My thighs rub together in a skirt," I moan. This is a common issue for big girls. I don’t quite understand how anyone here gets away with wearing a skirt, to be honest. We all have thick thighs, but Ducky is always dressed to slay.
She walks to her bathroom and returns with a tube. "Thigh Five. Anti-chafe gel. It's a game-changer." She tosses it to me. "I use it between my cans, too."
I look at the tube. It smells like eucalyptus and promises hours of protection. I look at the skirt. I look at Tate, who is already advancing with concealer.
"Fine." I strip off my jeans and pull on the skirt. It's a little loose at the waist but tight across my quads and hamstrings. The hem hits mid-thigh. The girls all tease me, and I flip them off before squeezing a line of Thigh Five along my legs. I take a few tentative steps and gasp. “Oh wow. This stuff works.”
“Mmm hmm,” Ducky is smug. “Like butter, right? Do not actually use butter, by the way. Ever.”
I look in the mirror.
My legs look ... powerful. The muscle definition from the quad down to the knee is visible, and the black fabric makes everything look deliberate rather than accidental. I like how my calves look above my high-top sneakers, too.
"Let me see," Ducky calls.
I walk out, and Tate whistles. "BB, come on."
"It's just a skirt with my jersey.”
"It's your ass in that skirt," Ducky corrects. “Someone is going to have to hold Joey back, or she’ll be throwing quarters at you. Sit down and let Tate do your eyes."
I plop onto Ducky's bed while Tate smudges dark shadow along my lash line and brushes color onto my cheekbones. I'm not opposed to makeup — I just never learned the skills, and my morning routine doesn't include a twenty-minute artistry session. My routine is coffee, hair tie, go.
A lot of the players like wearing lipstick when they play, though. We all have a sense of being pioneers in professional women’s hockey, and everyone has a different approach to being seen by the crowds. I tend to pretend it’s not happening…
"You look hot," Tate says, spinning me toward the mirror. “Mayhem is going to lose his mind."
"That's not the goal."
"Sure." Ducky grins. "The goal is college hockey outreach and community engagement." She pulls her Uprising jersey over her head and adjusts her ponytail. "That's definitely why you shaved your legs this morning."
I throw a pillow at her, and we all pile into Tate’s car.
The university hockey teams play at a rink on Neville Island, outside the city. It’s one of those places that used to be an industrial hub and is now home to roller rinks and indoor tennis domes that would take up too much real estate in the city proper.
The organizers have set up the Uprising in a large room off the lobby, with banners, a photo backdrop, and really loud music. I’m uncomfortable in my skirt, especially since most of my teammates are in jeans, but I try to relax as the Wives and Guy-friends arrive, and Joey shoves matching shirts at them all.
Her wife, Carrie, models the bedazzled garment, sparkling in black and gold. Each WAG has their lady’s last name on the back of the shirt. Carrie’s is fitted and tucked into high-waisted mom jeans.
Cameron was … a last-minute addition, and I’m nervous as I hand him the largest size available. His mouth twitches when he sees the glittery shirt, and I nearly faint when he pulls off his Henley.
I’m not going to last long in this skirt if I keep ogling his arms. And then he tugs his WAG shirt into place and … it stretches across his chest and shoulders like it’s painted on his body.
