“No. I don’t want to go to the game.”
“Aw, come on. Both of us need a distraction. You need one from Reed and I need one from Tam. Everyone goes to the Riders’ games. We can inspect the man stock that’s available and pick one to ease our broken hearts with.”
“Can’t we just eat a barrel of ice cream?”
“We’ll do both. We’re going to eat our ice cream and get eaten.”
She waggles her eyebrows at me, and I laugh reluctantly, but inwardly my heart’s protesting. The only touch I want is Reed’s. The cheating bastard. Dammit. Maybe I do need a distraction.
“Okay, let’s go.”
“Get out of the car,” Val orders when she climbs into the passenger seat later that night. “I need to get a better look at this outfit.”
“You’ll see it when we get to the game.”
“Are you doing this to make Reed come in his football pants or to make the girls at Astor Park freak out?”
I ignore the reference to Reed. I definitely wasn’t thinking of how I wanted to make him burn with jealousy. Nuh-uh. Not at all.
“You told me I’m supposed to pick out a new man tonight. This is my man-hunting outfit.” I wave a hand toward my clothes.
I paired striped knee socks over black leggings topped with an old jersey I found at the secondhand store I hit after school. I couldn’t tuck the material into the top of the leggings without it looking like I had a bunch of socks stuffed down my pants, so I bought a big black belt and bunched the jersey around my hips.
Two loose braids and smeared eyeblack—which in my case was a load of black eyeliner over a heavy priming base so it wouldn’t budge—under my eyes complete my pinup football look.
“I suggested one man, not a whole herd,” Val says wryly. “But maybe this works for my benefit. You pick the one you want and you can leave the rest for me.”
“Very funny.”
“Seriously. I’m thinking we need to get the twins to escort us inside. I’m afraid of what the girls are gonna do when they get a load of you.”
Val’s prediction isn’t that far off the mark. The football girlfriends scowl at me when we walk past the area where the girlfriends and parents wait for the players to run from the locker room onto the field.
A few insults—“slut”, “trailer trash”, and “what do you expect”—trickle down the crowd from the other girls.
“These chicks are so jealous they won’t even have to shove their fingers down their throats tonight,” Val snarks. “Their jealousy will eat away at all their extra calories.”
I shrug. “I’ve heard worse and I don’t really care.”
“You shouldn’t. Next week we’ll be surrounded by a whole team of slutty football players.”
“I’ll have to up my game, then.” I don’t mind a challenge.
When we arrive at the student section, Jordan turns us away.
“You can’t sit with us,” she announces.
I roll my eyes. “Why, because I’m too trashy for your precious bleachers?”
“That, too.” She smirks. “But also because you’re wearing the wrong colors.”
I look up at the mass of students and realize she’s right. They’re all situated so that the color of their T-shirts spells out an A in gold against a black background. I’m wearing a white jersey and Val’s wearing a cropped gray knit sweater. Jordan’s in a black catsuit, and the only thing missing from her latex dominatrix gear is a whip and a chair.
“I guess we missed the memo.” Because there had to be one, seeing as how everyone else fits perfectly into Jordan’s scheme. I’m reluctantly impressed. It can’t be easy to wrangle a couple hundred students into wearing color-coordinated shirts depending on where you’re sitting on the stands.
“Maybe you should check the Astor snap stories once in a while.” She turns with a swish of her glossy hair.
I didn’t even know there was an Astor snapchat account.
“Come on,” Val says, tugging my arm. “We’ll sit with the parents.”
We find a place at the top where we can eat popcorn and pretend to cheer for the Riders. “What on earth is Jordan wearing?” I giggle. “Is she a part-time S&M Mistress?”
“Nah.” Val throws a few kernels of popcorn into her mouth. “The dance team performs at halftime before the band so I’m guessing that’s their costume.”
She’s right. When halftime comes around, Jordan and her squad put on a routine with so much boob and ass shaking that I feel like I should slip some of Daddy G’s business cards in their gym bags in case their trust funds ever dry up.
“They’d get at least the five dollar tips,” I whisper to Val behind my hand.
“Only five dollars? I’d want at least twenty per dude before I’d strip.”