Page 14 of The Rookie's Sister

I stand in front of my closet, staring hopelessly at a collection of pencil skirts, blazers, and other nondescript business attire. Not a single dress that fits the bill for a glitzy charity function. And definitely nothing that will make it look like I deserve to be on Xavier’s arm.

With a sigh, I run my fingers over the neat row of hangers, as if an elegant gown might magically materialize among the sea of grays, blacks, and navy blues. But unless Xavier’s taste runs toward pantsuits, I’m fresh out of options.

I chew my bottom lip, a nervous habit ever since childhood. How does a small-town girl like me transform into a leading lady on the Chicago social circuit overnight?

My eyes land on a modest blue shift dress I wore to a cousin’s wedding back home. While lovely, its simple lines and muted color scream “bridesmaid,” not “superstar’s date.” I need something bold. Glamorous. Roused from its Midwestern hibernation, my inner fashionista spreads its wings with a vengeance.

I snatch my phone off the dresser and fire off a text to the one person I know who can help—Holly Jones, Thunderhawk’s effervescent assistant offensive coach. The team’s resident fashion plate. Ten seconds later, my phone chimes with her enthusiastic response.

Oh, honey!! Say no more. I’m taking you shopping!!!

Relief floods me. If anyone can help this wallflower blossom into a showstopper, it’s Holly. I quickly text back my eternal gratitude, along with a place to meet. Time to put my pride, and credit card limit, to the test.

An hour later, I step into Ellie’s Corner Boutique downtown. A charming hole-in-the-wall compared to the glitzy high fashion stores that line Michigan Avenue. The bells above the door tinkle sweetly as I enter. A middle-aged woman behind the counter looks up from her paperwork and smiles.

“I’ll be right with you, dear.”

I turn my gaze to the racks, scanning for the perfect dress for a woman on Xavier Johnson’s arm. No pressure.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a text from Holly.

Where are you?? I’m circling the block but don’t see you. Don’t tell me you bailed!

I quickly reply:

I’m inside Ellie’s on Walton. Come on in!

Within minutes, Hurricane Holly blows through the front door in a streak of Emilio Pucci and Marc Jacobs.

“Emma!” she squeals, as if we hadn’t just seen each other at the office a couple of hours ago. “You found this place? I love Ellie’s.”

Before I can respond, she bombards me with questions about how I’m holding up, if I’m nervous about tomorrow night, and whether Xavier gave me any juicy insider details about his ex. My head spins like a bobble toy.

“Whoa, slow down,” I laugh, putting my hands up in mock surrender. “Let’s start with finding something for me to wear first.”

Holly squeezes my arm, her brown eyes sparkling. “You’ve come to the right stylist, babe. By the time I’m done with you, Xavier’s jaw will drop to the floor.”

I feel my cheeks flush and make a noncommittal noise. This whole situation still feels surreal, and tomorrow night will determine if I’m cut out for the role of celebrity girlfriend or destined to make a fool of myself. I remind myself that it’s pretend. I’m not a real celebrity girlfriend and I never will be.

That doesn’t mean I can’t look good.

I push aside the thought that pops into my head, wondering what Xavier will think when he sees me.

Holly seems to read my uncertainty because she loops her arm through mine and steers me toward the evening wear section. “Ignore the nerves. You’re gonna rock this.”

I squeeze her hand gratefully as we peruse the options. The racks are neatly organized by style and color. Blues, silvers, nude—all lovely but too safe. I need something bold. Vibrant. I want to be a knockout, not a shrinking violet.

My hands travel across silk, chiffon, lace, fingers assessing each texture. I pause on an emerald number with a plunging neckline. Holly tilts her head, assessing.

“That emerald green would look so pretty with your eyes and hair,” she muses. Still, I hesitate.

“I don’t know...isn’t it too much?” I ask.

Holly gives me a pointed look, lips pursed. “Emma Thompson, when are you gonna stop dressing like you’re auditioning to be a librarian?”

I bristle slightly, even though her criticism isn’t totally off-base. I spent most of my life in a rural Midwest town where the height of fashion was yoga pants and fleeces. But Holly has a point—if I want to walk with Xavier into Chicago’s elite circles, I need to ditch my safe neutrals.

So over the next hour, I try on dress after dress, each bolder than the last. The silk emerald. A sultry red number with a low back. An electric cobalt wrap dress that clings in all the right places. Holly assesses each one like a drill sergeant, barking critiques and adjustments. I’m starting to lose steam when she spins me around and fixes me with a serious look.

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