He was in.
Like the lone female who managed to sneak undetected in the University of Gallantry and Heroism every year, Drew had successfully infiltrated the Heroine Academy. Soon he would learn if his inevitable outing was greeted with Oh, haha, how cute or a newsworthy demonstration of hypocrisy and sexism.
He had experienced second thoughts at several points between conception of his scheme and his arrival at the Heroine Academy.
Since dressing like a woman was crucial to the execution of his plan, he overcame his knee-jerk manly resistance to the concept—at least until he actually had to try on the clothes. Every woman he’d ever dated had complained about the difficulty of finding clothes that fit, and he’d dismissed their whining as a cousin of the I don’t have anything to wear despite two closets, three dressers, and four laundry baskets full of clothes gripe. He quickly learned his personal size issues weren’t the only obstacle in finding well-fitting women’s clothes. The designers were engaged in a competition to outdo each other in the field of vanity sizing, making shopping with one convenient number in mind impossible. As a general rule, the more expensive the clothes, the smaller the size. He’d walked out of one frou-frou boutique when its sizing system declared him a two.
He’d played college football. He engaged in recreational hockey, soccer, and handball. He hit the gym twice a week. He was a strapping guy, a far cry from a half-starved, noodle-bodied Old Navy model, and there was something emasculating about being labeled a two.
