Excerpt from The Jills by Karen Parkman, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Chapter 1

On Sundays, Jeanine and I got ready for games together. We'd trade off whose apartment we met at. My place had the smaller bathroom, but in my bedroom was a big vanity mirror where we could smear on makeup, outline our lips and eyes with slick crayons, and watch our faces brighten and sharpen without bumping elbows. Jeanine's apartment had the bigger bathroom, complete with double sinks to clutter with our makeup and appliances, the air growing humid and close from the heat of our curling irons. These were the conditions under which we labored, piling on products until we looked like we were supposed to, until we looked like Jills.

It was better to get ready together. We could laugh and fret through our pregame nerves, we could reassure each other and fix each other's hair, and exclaim about how hot we were becoming in front of our own eyes. Alone, I was more aware of the shakiness of my hands and the churn in my stomach. I'd been dancing in competitions or on football fields since I was four years old. I loved the fear, I cherished it, but I wanted to share it with another person. It was so astoundingly affirming to meet your teammate's gaze and see your fear on her face, too. You could fall in love with someone that way, you could fall in love with yourself, by sharing the fear of what you were about to do and knowing you were going to do it anyway.

But today, the only face in the mirror was mine. It was seven-thirty a.m., five and a half hours till kickoff. I grabbed my phone. I'm driving you, right? The screen turned grainy and slick from the foundation on my fingers as I typed. I sent Jeanine a picture of my hair. Do you see this volume? The hair gods are with me today.

I squeezed into my tights and typed again: Are you at your place? Getting a ride from Bobby? Have you been struck dumb by postcoital bliss? My body was alight with adrenaline, energy searching for an emotion as an outlet—annoyance, panic, anticipation, ecstatic glee. Jeanine's silence was making my nerves collapse in on themselves. I stalled, checking the contents of my monogrammed Jills duffel for the third time, waiting for her to respond. After five minutes there was nothing to do but leave.

When Jeanine went AWOL for a night or a weekend, it meant she was with Bobby Paladino. Bobby had a brownstone in Park Meadow, as well as a condo in Miami. He'd flown Jeanine down there a few times, as well as to Tulum, Los Angeles, New Orleans, and San Marco. Back in February, they went skiing in Lake Tahoe. This wouldn't be the first time she'd sprinted straight from the airport to a game or practice at the last minute.

On my way to the stadium, I stopped by her apartment, an impressive one-bedroom in a freshly built complex two blocks off Chippewa. The building towered over Main Street near the intersection with Pearl, all faux brick and gleaming windows absorbing the gray morning light. I double-parked and shimmied into the small glass vestibule to lay on her buzzer.

It was a damp fall morning and the vestibule was muggy, like a cooled sauna. I hit the buzzer again and practiced the turn from bar eight of our opening number, teetering on the business-casual pumps I wore to walk into the stadium. The temperature was perfect for dancing, but our hair would be deflated by halftime.

After four turns I teetered to a stop. I looked back at my car, illegally parked. At this point I had just enough time to drive to Orchard Park, navigate tailgating traffic, go through security, and make the winding journey through the stadium's inner corridors to the Jills' locker room. Not enough time, certainly, to ride up nine stories to Jeanine's unit to see if she was in there.

I tried not to be annoyed as I ducked back into my car, gesturing at a massive honking Ford truck to go around me. I almost texted her, Don't be late or Suzanna will murder you. The word murder glared up at me like a dare. Probably, she was rushing from Bobby's brownstone at that very moment, her phone tangled in the bedsheets or balanced on the edge of his sink. Or she'd swung home to pick up her uniform and I'd just missed her.

Excerpted from The Jills by Karen Parkman. Copyright © 2026 by Karen Parkman. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.