Blonde Baller Novels & Stories

"I want to chop it off. Not bald but I want a nice, sexy, reborn type of short hair," "Color?" "Oh it's always going to be blonde," I smirk and I take my seat and she immediately gets to work. I was ready to feel alive and reborn again. I was ready to be happy again.

They ordered a round of beers, though none of them touched the glass. "This feels like a waste of time," Luca snapped. "We should be kicking down Delilah’s door." "We follow the leads, Luca," Nickie said firmly. "Dante is her right hand. He's the bridge." The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, theatrical and grating. "In this corner! Standing six-foot-six, the human wrecking ball—BLANCHE THE AVALANCHE!" The blue-clad fans roared. A pale, platinum-haired fighter with a missing eyebrow stepped into the cage, baring his teeth.

"So you are the mysterious ballerina of the city. Ms. Kimberly, am I right?" "I am" I answered hesitantly as I was taken aback by his suspicious tone. "A simple ballerina moved here and she lived in a simple apartment, but her school was surprisingly luxurious and she paid her workers well. She later moves in with a man who owns billions then suddenly he's involved in an accident." He narrowed his eyes at me. "That's a pretty interesting story, isn't it?"

That was when their eyes locked. Across the chaotic sea of red and blue in the VIP section stood a tall, stunning blonde woman. Her long golden hair cascaded down to her waist like molten sunlight. Her body was pure athletic perfection — full, heavy breasts straining against a fitted Barça jersey, a narrow sculpted waist, and long toned legs that seemed endless. Her ice-blue eyes met his with the force of a lightning bolt. The final whistle blew. Barcelona were champions. The stadium erupted. But Sergio was already pushing through the celebrating crowd toward her.

He was scanning every girl above the age of 18 and under 30 in the ball, man had no limits since he’s yet to find his mate. As Vincent and I started talking, the doors opened walking into the big ball was the Luna herself, looking stunning in her dress, Vincent let out a small whistle, "who is she" he asked dramatically. "That is Luna Valeria, and you better toned down a bit her mate can eat you alive" I replied. Then his whole presence changed, " the black heretic" he whispered venomously.

an unfamiliar female voice took Izzie off guard. Then she stepped out from behind Cassius. The blondie from before. She was ever more stunning up close. She was a vision in gold. Her beautiful ballgown nipping in at all the right places to accentuate her amazing figure. Her waves of platinum blonde hair cascading down like a waterfall and her bright icy blue eyes perfectly framed with long thick lashes. Izzie’s gaze couldn’t help but drop to her perfectly plump pink lips, the same ones that she had seen collide with Cassius’ earlier in the night. Bile rose in her throat again at the thought.

I take it off the rail and hold it up so I can see what it looks like. It’s an ice blue, off-shoulder, tulle ballgown with what looks like a cape around the off-shoulder neckline. It has flowers stitched into the bodice and scattering into the skirt. The flowers can look like snowflakes. I think it will be perfect for the Christmasqurade Ball.

One of them was the daughter of an Alpha who was even willing to join the pack warrior training to get noticed by him. All of them who want him are beautiful and have deep feelings for him. It’s not like I don’t find myself beautiful, but when you know there are other capable women fighting for his love, you get a little insecure. But Bronze made it clear that he only wanted me. Unlike those pretty girls, my features are rather odd. Especially my hair. I don’t have raven black, brown or blonde hair. I have dark blue hair. Bronze says he loves my rare hair color and calls me Blue. I love that because growing up with a rare hair color, I always felt like the odd one out.

Elena frowned at the sheer amount, but I caught the flicker of admiration in her eyes. "Oh! My goodness, is that the ballerina?" An elderly woman cried as I opened the back door for Elena. "That’s the ballerina from the magazine!" Three older women with arms loaded with shopping bags gawked at her, and Elena turned red as a tomato. "Yes! She’s the Prima Ballerina of New York," another confirmed. They scuttled toward her, excitement spilling from them. Elena’s face was quickly obscured by a mask, and I couldn’t read her expressions anymore but I could feel the tension in the air. Their excitement drew a small crowd who watched in awe.

“They’re just jealous of you, that’s all. You should get the dress—it suits you perfectly.” The following day was the day of the ball. I got the blue dress after all, along with a pair of strappy silver heels and a matching pair of elbow-length gloves. Lana helped curl my hair, letting it cascade down my back in soft waves, and dotted some sparkling silver eyeshadow on my eyelids. “There,” she said, leaning back to admire her handiwork, “a true Alpha in the making.” I blushed, but I couldn’t deny it; I really did look like an Alpha. Like the way I was meant to be before my life was stolen from me.