cupid shuffle
“Holy… did I not say a pair of jeans? How long are you planning on living here, you mooch?” Becky laughed as Ali stood on her front step. The bag on her left arm contained three different pairs of skinny jeans (who knows if ripped jeans are appropriate) and a variety of shirts to wear under the jersey. The bag on her right contained Dallas’ belongings (and he did not pack lightly, especially for a dog).
“Well, I wasn’t sure okay? These clients might be picky!”
“Soccer players. I said we were going with soccer players. They wear shorts and sports bras for a living.”
“Becky, might I remind you that I was well on my way to wearing a sports bra and shorts for a living?” She mocked her with a smile, “but you never know, some of us liked to be classy off the pitch.”
“Classy? Please, Ali, define classy. If your idea of classy is hooking up with a girl from the other team at every after party we ever went to, then damn, you would be the classiest out there!”
“Hey Becks, you know what they say. University is for experimenting! And don’t act too innocent sweetie. ”
“You haven't done anything but experiment, you ass,” she giggled, “want anything?”
“Whatever you're having goes, girl.”
“Great, two mojitos coming up. So I was thinking about clothes. I have a red jersey and a white one. I was going to wear the white one with pale jeans, maybe a few innocent rips? I assume you must have brought black ones with you,” she gestures to the bag, “and they would look good with the red. Not to mention your ass looks good. At least if you try to be antisocial, then someone will probably sacrifice their time to try to get you home with them.”
Ali rolled her eyes, completely ignoring the last part of Becky’s anecdote. “Sounds good!” Ali squealed, mostly down at Dallas, who she was playing tug of war with.
“So Kriegy, how about them lovers, eh? Any potential courtships coming up?”
“Why can’t everyone piss off about my love life already?”
“First of all, what love life are you speaking of, my dearest German, and secondly who is everyone? Do you mean that there is more than one person-which is me - who cares about your habits in bed?”
“Ew, oh god, I just meant Kyle. Why are you two so dramatic?”
Becky slides a mojito across the counter and motions for Ali to grab her stuff and follow her to her room. Becky grabs the bluetooth speaker and Ali sets up shop in the bathroom, like they have done countless times before.
“Curly or straight?” She yells to Becky, who is presumably buried in clothes in her closet.
“Curly, you aren’t straight, remember?”
“Yeah, you’re so funny, that’s so original, never heard that one before” Ali rolls her eyes and laughs, plugging in her curling wand and the flat iron for her counterpart. The two have always sang and danced and tried to do their hair without burning each other (which is a task attempted by many, in which few can be successful, they have learned).
Becky carried her bluetooth speakers into the bathroom, so both of them could dive into their performances.
“They got a brand new dance, you gotta move your muscle,” Ali belts out, turning 90 degrees and pretending to twerk on Becky, who watched her in the mirror.
“Brand new dance, it’s called the cupid shuffle,” Ali laughs as Becky tries to twerk, only to get herself with the flat iron and fail miserably.
“It don’t matter if you’re young or you’re old,” they manage to get out in unison.
“We gon’ show you how it go.”
.:.
As the two entered the suite in the 400s level of the arena, Ali was suddenly thankful for tagging alone. It was the Capitals home opener, so the crowd was enormous, loud and energetic. Maybe this is what she needed to get her mind off of them.
There were several others in the suite, none of which Ali knew. Becky tried to introduce her to everyone, but Ali’s mind was (obviously) in other place. Somewhere, she heard something about a Diana something, who played on a national team (Ali didn’t even know what sport she played let alone what countries national team she was on) and a Crystal something (she thinks her last name sounded like Done, but at this point, God only knows). At this point, it’s two minutes away from the anthem and Ali has already knocked back a glass and a half of Merlot, to which Becky regrets offering her in the first place.
“Your next is going to be water,” Becky tapped her glass with a shellacked nail. They had only been there for 15 minutes (at best) and she could already sense that her best friend was well on her way to the land of tipsiness.
“Mom, leave me alone,” she playfully whined, but Becky just groaned, turning to talk to the national team girl. Ali scanned the seats near the edge of the suite and found two at a bar height table, overlooking the rink. As the players below her warmed up, Ali picks Ovechkin’s jersey out of the red blur and follows him with her eyes, thinking about the promo that they had to do with him. When she arrived, she hadn’t cared for hockey (being a soccer player through and through), but after meeting most of the team and staff in person, she quickly becomes engulfed with the game, realizing the intricacy that it has. Well, that any professional athlete has, actually. She’d spent her whole life caring about soccer, and only soccer, but coming here had changed that, even if it was minimal.
Something in the back of her mind sparks as she thought about professional athletes and she internally moans at the thought of one of the Washington players she had slept with in her sophomore (or junior, maybe) year. The amount of press at that game had been astounding, for everyone had wanted to catch a glimpse of this superstar. Her endurance had been surprising for a goalkeeper, but her long fingers and her hands - Ali stopped herself, as her train of thought drove right off PG tracks and crashed into an R rated wall. She shot one apologetic look in Becky’s direction, before knocking back the rest of her wine and heading to the bar.
“Krieger, come here!” Becky called out, noticing how Ali tried to escape. She groaned, but ultimately complied with a (fake) smile, heading towards the group of people. “Crystal went to University of North Carolina, have you guys ever played each other?”
Ali scanned Crystal’s face, trying to recognize her, but eventually coming up blank. “Well, we played UNC a lot… and partied with them a lot, so I think I would recognize you if we did,” Becky smirked, raising her eyebrows.
“Just partied, eh?”
“Cool it, Broon. What years did you play, Crystal?”
“2010 to 2013, how about you?”
“2003 to 2006, you’re a lot younger than me,” she laughed, “seriously though, we did play them a lot.”
“Maybe you’ll recognize some of the girls who are coming later! I know a lot of the girls from the National Team played for them, but only two of them will be here tonight. Did you play all four years?”
“Was supposed to,” she looked over to Becky, who just stood there stoically, “broke my leg in my junior year and had six heart attacks, which threw a wrench in the plan. Recovered, went to Germany and signed with Frankfurt.” She tried to smile in Crystal’s direction, but overtime she talked about what could have been, it hurt. It hurt more than she cared to admit.
“And you’re in Washington now because…” Crystal prompted.
“Tore my ACL while I was there, then decided that soccer wasn’t worth literally dying for. My body had gone through so much that I decided to call it quits, so Becky hooked me up with a job and here I am; head of communications for these dudes,” she gestured down to the rink, where a few players circled the ice.
“Oh, that’s quite unfortunate. Really unfortunate, actually, but I’m glad you ended up here! You should come to one of our games one time! I’m sure it wouldn’t be-”
“Chrissy, what’s up babe!” The suite door slammed shut between two women. One of them had a red leather bag with matching heels and the other had Washington’s black jerseys (they were the team’s alternates) thrown over a pink dress shirt.
For the love of God.
“Oh hey, you!” Crystal pressed a fake kiss to the side of her face. “Ali, meet the two biggest aspects of Washington Spirits backline,” she gestured to the two girls, one of which had tucked herself into the other, “Ashlyn Harris of North Carolina and Kelley O’Hara, the smart ass from Stanford.”