Page 16 of The Grumpy Defenseman
I had done my job. Brilliantly. I had handled eighteen players, one media crisis, and a direct challenge from the most photographically hostile athlete I had ever encountered. I had produced images that would make the organization look exactly as authentic and aspirational as theywanted to look.
And none of that was what I was thinking about as I walked to my car.
I was thinking about one-quarter of a second. A single frame. The look on a man’s face when he realized he had been seen and could not take it back.
My phone buzzed again before I reached the driver’s side door.
Bella: You are typing and deleting. I can feel it.
I looked down.
I was not typing and deleting.
Me: He looked at me.
Bella: Men do that. They have eyes.
Me: Not like that.
Bella: Oh no.
Me: Don’t say ‘oh no’ to me.
Bella: I am invoking legal authority to ‘oh no’ you.
Bella: Was it a hot look or a feelings look?
That was the problem. It had been both.
Me: It was a photographically significant look.
Bella: That is the worst lie you’ve told me this month.
Me: I’m blocking you.
Bella: You’re not. Drinks. This week. I want exhibits, testimony, and motive.
Me: You make friendship sound like a felony trial.
Bella: With better shoes.
I dropped the phone into the cupholder and stared through the windshield at the parking lot.
I started the engine.
I laughed despite myself, pulled out of the parking lot, and did not look back at the building.
Samantha
Iblame the sunset.
San Antonio sunsets did not play fair. They did not do the polite pastel thing coastal cities got away with. They came on heavy: copper, gold, and the kind of orange that made even a parking lot look intentional. And when that light hit my windshield just as I was trying to talk myself out of doing something stupid, the universe tipped its hand.
I sat in my car outside the training facility, camera bag in the back seat, phone in my hand, a text drafted and deleted six times.
Here’s the thing, Sam. You could go home. You could open your laptop, edit forty photos, and wake up tomorrow having made no decisions you would need to justify to Bella or to whatever therapist you eventually hire.
Or you could send this text.
