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twenty-one

. . .

Viv

When Birdie Sportswear wanted to host an event for their influencers, I was expecting something low-key. Maybe a yoga day on the Common or brunch at a crunchy hipster café in the trendy part of Cambridge. Am I surprised a holistic-focused company is taking us to dinner at an upscale, Michelin-starred steakhouse? Yes. Am I going to turn it down? No. Hell no.

I get all dolled up in a real bra and a nice dress, my hair and makeup done, and post an enigmatic selfie to Instagram.

The restaurant is in the North End of Boston, a half hour Uber ride from my place in Weymouth. The host of the restaurant looks me up and down with a snooty glare, disapproval written all over his face. I don’t know why. I’m adhering to the dress code. I don’t have the energy to play his game.

“Can I help you?” he demands.

Lifting my chin, I meet his glare with one of my own. I’m not going to make myself smaller to make him more comfortable.

“I’m here for the Birdie team dinner.”

With a put-upon sigh, the host leads me to the back of the restaurant, where a cluster of tables are arranged.

Olivia, Birdie’s creative director, stands and greets me with a firm handshake and a wide smile. “Viv. So good to see you again.”

“Thanks for thinking of me. I’m so excited for the spring line.”

Fashion companies work ahead, so their winter campaign is already shot and getting ready for release, and they’re full steam ahead in preparation for the spring launch. Lucky for me, the ad campaign will hit right as my season is starting, boosting my visibility and hopefully driving new fans to the team.

Thank goodness for Alycia. Without her guidance over the last few years, I’d have never put all these pieces together. I’m more of an impulsive, do it right now type person. Sitting on content is such a strain; I just want to release it out into the world right then and there.

Olivia gestures to the table, handing me a name tag. “Come, sit. We’re still waiting for a few more.”

There are a few people at the table already. I recognize Charlotte Kent, a social media activist, and Courtney Wright, a yoga influencer whose online videos I follow. The rest of them are strangers, but because I was given a dossier with all of their social media handles—they want us all to interact and follow each other—I’m sure their faces will become familiar soon enough.

“Hey, I’m Viv,” I say, giving the table a wave. The other women give me a range of polite to cheerful smiles, nods, and waves.

The restaurant’s host is coming back toward us, a woman in a wheelchair following him. He removes a chair from the table with an aggrieved sigh.

Through it all, the woman’s face is carefully blank, but I can see a fission of tension in her brow at the micro aggression. I can’t blame her. I’d probably try to punch the guy if I were her, but that would probably get me into trouble. Assault charges aren’t something I want to deal with, even if he deserves it.

“Nicki, I’m glad you made it,” Olivia says. “How was your flight?”

“It went well, thank you,” Nicki says. She speaks with a British accent and I instantly fall in love with her. “I can’t wait to see what you have set for us.”

Looking around the table, I see a range of body shapes and sizes. Some of the women are short, others are tall. Some are thin and petite, others are heavier. For a fitness fashion company, I half expected all of their models to be petite, blonde yogis with brilliant smiles and perfect lives where nothing ever goes wrong. Plastic dolls rather than real people.

Seeing them now, real women with real bodies… it makes me feel like maybe I made the right call signing on to this campaign. Sure, Charlotte is blonde and petite—she’s a former Team USA gymnast—but she’s also been open about her disordered eating struggles.

Hm. I wonder if she knows Tony. That would be a small world.

There’s a clamor behind me, and as I turn, my heart starts pounding. Because it’s as if I’ve summoned him. Just seeing him again brings a smile to my face. He’s so freaking gorgeous in his black button-up and his dark hair swept back. Butterflies erupt in my belly.

He’s not smiling. His eyes are wide and unblinking as he gapes at me. A black apron is tied around his waist.

Shit. Does he work here?

He clears his throat a few times. “Welcome to Quentin’s,” he finally says. “I’m Tony, I’ll be your server tonight. Our specials are?—”

Blood rushes in my ears as he speaks. What’s he thinking? Does he think I’m stalking him? I didn’t know he worked here. He mentioned working at a fancy restaurant in the North End, and those are a dime a dozen in this neighborhood. We’ve gone on one date, but we’re already talking about public appearances and commitment. Maybe it’s too much for him. Fuck, we haven’t even had sex yet. What if he changes his mind and I’m too much for him? He might decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth.

Taking a deep breath, I try to recalibrate and calm my racing thoughts. Of course, he doesn’t think I’m stalking him. That’s an extreme thought to a completely rational behavior. When I get a chance, I’ll pull him aside and explain everything. It’s going to be fine. It will all work out.

As everyone goes around and places a drink order, I wait for Tony’s eyes to land on me. He’s calm and collected, distantly professional. He’s acting like he doesn’t even know me. I can’t decide if I want him to acknowledge me or if I want him to pretend like we’re strangers.

We’re so not strangers. But I also don’t want actual strangers that I have to work with to know all of my business. My personal life was blasted all over social media without my knowledge or consent. Yes, it’s part of what I signed up for with a semi-public career path, and working on brand collaborations like this only makes me more visible. But is it so wrong to want a little bit of privacy for the things that matter most to me?

Olivia launches into a small speech, thanking us all for attending and talking about the company’s vision. What started as a yoga apparel company has expanded into a full on athleisure empire. They feature plus-sized women as well as women of color and women with disabilities, and they do it without the models looking like a diversity checkmark. I have to admit, when I first heard about the offer, I was skeptical. At five foot ten and as many muscles as I have, I didn’t think I fit their profile.

Hearing her talk now about what the company has in store… I think I believe in their mission.

Growing up, women like me didn’t land on the cover of Sports Illustrated. We were told to make ourselves smaller, more palatable for everyone else. We were told our muscles made us unattractive. No matter how physically strong we were, they made us weak.

It’s taken a lot of work to unlearn all of this. Going to a therapist regularly helped with tackling some of the body dysmorphia and self-esteem issues. A sports psychologist helped me get my head into the game, where it needs to be, instead of up in the clouds worrying about things that don’t serve me.

I’m never going to be that bubbly girl who has a bunch of friends and is always in a good mood. There’s nothing wrong with her. It’s just not me. I thrive on competition and hard work. I’m focused on my rugby career, on performing at the highest levels in my sport, and outside friendships fail when the team has to come first. My resting bitch face tells people to fuck off without me having to do it verbally. Although I do enjoy telling people to fuck off.

The conversation flows easily throughout the meal. Nicki is a hoot, Navaeh has been to a few of our rugby matches, and Blake is adorable. We might not ever be best friends. We might not see each other in person again. But as colleagues and coworkers, I feel comfortable around them in a way I don’t usually experience outside of people I know well. Even with other sponsorship opportunities, I typically don’t feel so at ease. I feel like I can be myself, grumpy bitch face and all.

Although… I might make an effort to smile in the official campaign photos.

Tony flits around the table, making sure we have everything we need. At one point, he leans between me and Nicki, his fingertips brushing against the back of my neck. I shiver, and he smirks, a satisfied glint to his eye.

Nicki nudges me with a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “The hot waiter has the hots for you.”

“He’s my… we’re seeing each other,” I admit, my face heating. I don’t know that I’m ready to announce him as my boyfriend publicly, which is silly if we’re going to do a social media campaign together. He’s not my dirty little secret.

She lets out a low whistle. “Damn. He’s fit.”

I nod. “He really is.”

Dinner winds down and Olivia and the team give us each a personalized gift bag with two outfits and some accessories. This is on top of all the apparel they’re going to send us for promotion and separate from what we’ll wear at the photoshoot next month.

It’s rare to find a brand that I wholeheartedly believe in their mission and they follow through on their beliefs. Even though I may have had my doubts at the beginning, I am now one hundred percent on board with Birdie. I’m actually looking forward to working with them.

We say our goodbyes and see you laters . I delay putting on my coat as long as I possibly can. There’s a busboy clearing our table—not Tony. I don’t know where he is.

With a sigh, I pull my phone from my pocket. It’s not like I don’t have a way of contacting him.

To my surprise, I already have a text from him.

I’m working until ten , he’s written. Can I see you tomorrow? Coffee, same place?

You could come over after your shift , I offer.

That’s not a good idea. You have an early morning.

I like that he knows my practice schedule, that he cares about my routine.

We could just sleep.

We won’t be sleeping , he texts back immediately. Tomorrow. Coffee.

Shaking my head, I can’t help my smile as I text back, it’s a date.