Chapter 2: The Makeover and the Mortification

01

Derek, the campus heartthrob. Not only is he top of his class, he’s the crush of half the school! He walks around with the kind of confidence that can make you believe he invented blue jeans. Three years at Boise State, never had a girlfriend. Broncos gear fits him like it was made for him, he’s rumored to be in the Honors College, and people swear he’s turned down half of sorority row. Someone even said he chairs a student government committee and leads a lab team between pickup games.

I’m not immune to his looks, but as someone who’s trained in shot put since I was a kid, I know all too well: besides being strong, I don’t have much going for me. Chalk dust cakes my palms, I live in the ring drilling stand throws and South African drills, and I’ve learned the hard way not to toe-board foul. I can deadlift half my body weight and throw a metal ball farther than most guys can throw a football, but when it comes to flirting, I’m a total rookie—and the 6 a.m. practices and ripped calluses don’t come with a dating handbook.

How could I possibly seduce him? Princess-carry him? Pretty sure campus policies—and my dignity on the Blue Turf—wouldn’t survive that.

To catch his eye, I racked my brain, scrolling through endless TikTok tips and Pinterest boards. Finally, I begged my roommate for a major beauty makeover. It was late afternoon, fluorescent hallway lights buzzing, communal mirror chaos in full swing, someone blasting Olivia Rodrigo down the corridor like it was our dorm’s unofficial soundtrack.

The whole dorm banded together—not only did they painstakingly do my makeup, but my floor mates cobbled together a wild outfit. The girls brought out their makeup kits, the guy across the hall contributed a borrowed jacket that smelled like Axe, and someone even used duct tape for a fashion emergency fix.

I wore three-inch heels, a skirt so short it barely covered anything, a cropped top that showed off my waist, and a wig that made my scalp itch. Looking in the mirror, I could hardly believe it was me. My inner monologue tried to hype me up: Come on! Natalie—like that YouTuber from the glow-up channel—wait, wrong name. Come on! Aubrey! But obviously, today’s seduction plan was a bust. The nerves were building up like pre-game jitters.

Right then, my long-admired crush grabbed my wrist with one hand and picked up my embarrassing wig piece with the other. His grip wasn’t tight—more a steadying touch—and he lifted the edge of the wig gently, murmuring so only I could hear. He looked almost amused—like he’d stumbled onto a hidden blooper in a movie.

“Hey, your wig’s falling off.”

I’d never been in such a situation, so I desperately tried to break free from his grip. My heart was thumping so loud, I wondered if he could hear it. One hand clamped to my hair to keep it from falling further, the other covering my face to hide my shame.

Mortified, I had a flash of inspiration. Tottering in high heels, I bolted back to the dorm, yelling, “It’s your wig!” My heels wobbled, my tote smacked my thigh, somebody dropped a Hydro Flask and it clanged like a gong—if there was a medal for awkward exits, I’d have it gold-plated.