Page 8 of Chosen Boy

But the more I’ve thought about everything with my parents lately, the more I’ve realized one thing. I can decide for myself how I’m going to make money from here on out. And how I’m going to do it is by being a stripper.

Sorry, Ryann. That’s what it’s called.

Exotic dancer might sound nice, but at the end of the day, it’s the same damn thing. Andstripperjust rolls off the tongue much easier than taking the time to sayexotic dancer.

I’ll admit, doing something that would make my parents so angry that they’d probably burst into flames, it brings me joy, just thinking about it. And after a lengthy lesson from Ryann last night, I’m ready for my first shift next weekend. I think so anyway.

I arrive in my driveway with only a few minutes to spare before I need to leave again for dance. Only this kind doesn’t involve a bunch of pervy men and I get to cover up my boobs and ass.

Heading straight to my room, I change into my leotard. Pulling some sweatpants and a loose T-shirt over it, I toe my sandals on.

“Slutty Sutty, you riding with me?” Ryann chants, but I know she’s just being herself and means no harm just by the tone of her voice. Plus, it’s Ryann. “That was a good one, you have to admit.”

When I swing my door open, she’s standing just outside it.

“I’m ready. But unless you want to meet my Taser, come up with a different nickname, dink. We’ve known each other for, like…five seconds. Don’t call me a slut.”

“Geesh, fine. But take it from me—there’s nothing wrong with being slutty. It keeps life interesting.” She shrugs. “Let’s go. The other two already left. Poppy was determined to beat you there.” Looking at her Apple Watch, her eyes widen. “We have to go! You’re going to make us late.”

Trudging behind her down the stairs and outside, I pull the car door open. “Sorry. I lost track of time at the library. I ran out of ink.”

“Dude, I have ink. Next time, just use my shit and save yourself the walk.” She shoots me a look as we pull out of the driveway. “Poppy’s in a mood today. Consider yourself warned.”

“Awesome,” I groan.As if this day hasn’t already been filled with enough assholes.

The drive to campus only takes five minutes, and before I know it, we’re pulling into a parking spot and booking it into class. We aren’t late, but as a trained athlete, I think we all like to arrive early to most things. It’s a blessing and a curse. Pulling the doors open, we head down the hallway to the dance studio and walk inside. Quickly setting our things down, we grab our shoes and take our positions.

Our instructor, Jolene—who is a tall, slender lady with her salt-and-pepper hair that is almost always in a neat bun—looks around the room to make sure we are all there.

“Ladies, before we begin, I have an announcement. Brooks is doing a fundraiser to raise money that will go to the One Wishprogram. The goal of this program is to provide resources for less fortunate children in the community. It helps provide financial support for them to participate in sports and take lessons in something they are interested in. This foundation was started by Brooks’s very own Brody O’Brien last year, and it has taken off immensely.” She looks around, her eyes widening. “This is completely unorthodox, but after speaking to Coach LaConte, I’ve decided on something. Given that Brody was a huge part of the hockey team, we’re going to team up with the hockey team and put on a show.”

She can hardly contain her excitement. Me? I can hardly contain my disdain.

“Each of you will be matched up with a hockey player, and the two of you will perform a dance together! You’ll have six weeks. This will give you time to come up with a routine and practice together. The main event will involve dinner, followed by a show, featuring you and the hockey player dancing!” She looks around. “How awesome is this?!”

Ryann snorts. “I don’t—wait, so we have to basically teach these giant men how to dance? That’s what you’re saying?”

Jolene gives her a reassuring smile. “Everyone knows hockey players aren’t the best ballet dancers. So, your job is going to be to make them look good! But the hockey team is so loved that having them involved will already give this fundraiser an edge. Besides, it makes sense because of who started it to begin with. But I want to add, part of this will run into their season. One thing Coach LaConte stressed is the need to keep his players healthy. So, please, nothing too strenuous in your routines. You all are the dancers; they will be the entertainment. Make them look good. Heck, it can be comical even.” She sweeps her gaze around to each of us. “As more information becomes available, I’ll fill you in. But until then, let’s get to work.”

Most of the girls look thrilled. Others look scared. And then there’s me and Ryann. Both completely annoyed.

From the little time I’ve gotten to spend with Ryann since we met, I’ve gathered one thing.

She really,reallyhates hockey players. Actually, athletes in general, I think.

I have nothing against puck boys. In fact, a lot of them are stupid hot, and I wouldn’t mind getting an up-close-and-personal look at their abs. I just have to hope and pray that I don’t get matched with HunterfreakingThompson. Because that would suck balls. Big, smelly, wrinkly ones at that.

Hunter

The professor dismisses us, and I have to fight myself to not fucking cheer because I’m so excited. This might be my only class of the day, but this one class was too much. To be honest, I hate anytime I have to be in a classroom. If I’d had it my way, I would have entered the draft in hopes of being picked up from the pros as soon as I turned eighteen. But I made a deal with my parents. I’d wait until I was old enough to be considered a free agent, and if the time came and I didn’t get a call from the pros, I’d carry on with the five million years of school needed to become a doctor.

Now, that time is here. And if I play well enough this season, maybe, just maybe, I’ll get picked up. It’s now or never. If I don’t make it this season, it’s probably not going to happen, and I really,reallydon’t want to be a doctor. Even if it is my family’s legacy, that doesn’t mean it’s mine.

Obviously, I’m scared of being a failure. I know I have what it takes, but I’m up against the best in the nation. I also know not making it will mean a lifetime of feeling like I lost my shot by not entering the draft to begin with. All I can do is play my heart out this season and push myself harder than ever before. Which is exactly what I plan to do.

Walking by a large picture window, I stop when I see dancers. Until this moment, I didn’t realize the dance studio was even in the Finnigan building. I kind of assumed it would be…well, not in a building with regular classes, I guess. My eyes move around, searching for Sutton because I know she has to be in there. I find her after just a few seconds. The black fabric of the leotard hugs her delicate yet curvy body seamlessly. Practically becoming one with her skin. She moves, paying attention to nothing else around her, solely focused on whatever the hell she’s doing, and I find myself intrigued.

There’s a sadness in the way she holds her shoulders, though I’m sure no one else would see it. And her eyes look lost as she floats around flawlessly. She walks on her tippy-toes before leaping into the air and doing some twirly shit. I’ve never watched ballet. Never wanted to either. But Sutton Savage makes it look like a work of art. And a real, actual sport.

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