Camryn Quinn is finally getting what she wants...sort of. Moving into a dorm and away from her not so supportive father is a good first step, but like everything with him, it comes with strings. She must attend the college of his choosing for at lea...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Alyssa and I push our way through a sea of red and gray, somehow managing to only lose each once.. I death grip the ticket window when I finally make it and yank Alyssa's hand the rest of the way through the crowd.
"Good God, it's like these people have never been in public before!" She screams over the music blaring from a nearby tailgate speaker.
"Welcome to one corner of my own personal hell all filled with the same type of person carbon copied and pasted over and over again for miles." I leave out the part of the actual vision in my head where an overweight man in a "Kiss the Cook" apron repeatedly offers me hotdogs until he eventually forces me to play cornhole for six straight hours. All while the onlookers get shit faced to a balanced mixture of country and rock music.
We gather our tickets and field passes quickly from the Will Call counter. I didn't dare call my dad and ask for him to save me a ticket, although he has repeatedly offered to let me onto the field with the team. Alyssa instead, scrounges up the field passes claiming us as media which is a stretch. The actual tickets she waves in front of my face, however, are for the coveted WAG section. After very limited research and a very expansive overview from Alyssa, I've learned it's an exclusive box reserved solely for the wives and girlfriend of the players. It has apparently become Alyssa's assigned seating since making things official with Anderson.
She gracefully pulls me through the crowd now having found her footing inside the stadium. Alyssa leads me as if this area is nothing more than an extension of her home and she's leading me to the kitchen, but instead we head straight to the third level suites.
I already knew I didn't belong here, but it's a fact that is only solidified by the sign on a stand next to the door. It's a group photo with the acronym WAGs printed in block letters beneath it. It must be a recent photo, each girl is holding a bighead cutout of their respective players, because I spot Alyssa on the very end.
"Explain to me what we're doing here again?" I ask, for probably the hundredth time. The look Alyssa gives me could kill me if the speed in her step wasn't throwing off her aim.
"You call yourself a reality TV connoisseur," She tuts. "We are the wives and girlfriends of the players. We get this box because they get a lot of attention on social media. When we travel in packs, we get even more coverage. So the team just started giving us the box." She speaks as if she is a founding member of the club and not the newest member.
"Which players are married?" I ask, but she brushes right over my question as she opens the door for me. She pushes me in first and follows closely behind me. I know she's trying to box me in with no escape because I've entered a newfound corner of my own personal hell.
The box is filled with roughly twenty females all various shades of blonde or brunette. They're arranged around the room perfectly, as if it's a rule that you can't socialize in groups of more than five to ensure no girl is left out. My eyes bounce from small group to small group and it's like each one is just a slightly different version of the next. Aside from height and shoe choice, every single WAG is wearing a jacket similar to Alyssa's. Their jean jackets are some variation of the school's scarlet and gray colors. One in particular is literally split in half, red on one side, the other gray, as if they just couldn't choose between the two. But that isn't even the worst part. Each jacket has the same exact back. They resemble a jersey with a name printed largely across the top and an even larger number covering the middle. The denim has been the victim of a rhinestone gun with every square inch of font covered in little jewels.
