What else do you talk about

“You need socials. Like, yesterday. Every WAG has Instagram and TikTok. You’re gonna be the hot new blonde on his arm—people are already gonna start digging once those reporter pics drop. You need content. Cute outfits, gym selfies, ‘supporting my man’ captions. Subtle thirst traps. Nothing too slutty at first—save that for the close friends story.”

She hands you her old phone—she upgraded last month—and walks you through setting up accounts. Username: @ashleyy.wag (she picked it; says “Ashley” sounds innocent but sexy). Profile pic: a quick mirror selfie she takes of you in the sundress, hair tousled, lips glossy. Bio: “future mrs. ⚡ supporting my king @tyrone_football”

She films a test TikTok right there— you doing a simple hair flip and smile, overlay text: “new chapter loading… ✨” Sound: some trending audio about “glow up.”

“Post that later,” she says. “When you’re ready. I’ll help you build followers. Tag him. Tag brands. It snowballs fast.”

By early afternoon you’ve got a small wardrobe of her hand-me-downs, new accounts with starter posts queued, and a crash course in “how to look expensive while being broke.” She even does your makeup—smoky eyes, glossy lips, contour that makes your cheekbones pop.

“You clean up nice, little brother,” she says, almost soft. Then she smirks. “Or should I say little sister. Whatever. Just don’t fuck this up for him. He’s about to be rich. You get to ride that wave—if you play your part.”

You don’t argue. You just nod.

Late afternoon, you pack a duffel with the new clothes and head back to Tyrone’s. He lives alone in the house—his roommates are all at the dorms or crashing elsewhere during draft prep—so it’s quiet when you let yourself in with the spare key he texted you.

You change into the black bodycon dress Nicole picked. No bra. Tiny thong. Heels. Hair down. Lipstick the color of sin.

When Tyrone walks through the door around 8 p.m., gym bag over his shoulder, he stops dead.

“Fuck,” he breathes.