Page 52 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Chapter 14
Chelsea
Just when I think I can’t possibly feel more like an outsider, the two official photographers brush past me in the hallway, heading for the Breeze Restaurant. It’s where I’m heading too, but I slow down to reconsider as I notice several of the others from theSIshoot today also going that way, including the bold and pretty production assistant who I want to slap for her almost-towel action. I was never so proud of Ryan as when he stopped her cold before she could towel off his glistening body—right there in front of everyone. And believe me,everyonewas watching him.
The rippling bronze muscles dripping with salty water catching the sun, his hair wet and unruly, his eyes squinting and his chiseled jaw sporting a reluctant smile after a flawless performance of the requested circus act. Of course I took the picture. I’m human. But no way am I sharing it with anyone, let alone my boss. He’ll never know I ever took this picture.
What are you keeping it for, Chelsea? Lonely nights?Maybe. That’s how pathetic I feel now as I stop twenty feet away from the restaurant door. Like I don’t deserve to be there. I’m not part of that club. Not even part of Ryan’s entourage, let alone his personal circle. I’ve never felt so far outside of his world as I do now.
“What are you waiting for? Me?” He sweeps me up from behind, propelling me forward before I realize it, changing everything in a thunder-and-lightning flash. My world, my head, everything I’m thinking and feeling spinning a hundred and eighty degrees like a compass gone wild in a storm.
I laugh, sounding a little hysterical because maybe I am. But I let him sweep me up anyway because there’s nowhere else I want to be. And isn’t he the final arbiter of whether I belong?
There is the matter of reality and me being the poor little girl next door, my Olympian status notwithstanding. I can’t count that as a credential because I can’t stand thinking about it, about the disappointment, the wholesale disillusionment of all my dreams, the waste of all that hard work.
“Let’s talk about the elephant in the room—I feel so much better with clothes on.”
I look at him, knowing we’re both thinking the exact same thought.Except on that night we spent together, where we were both naked.Damn. I’m heating up inside and it has nothing to do with embarrassment.
“You know what I mean.” His voice is low and intimate and for my ears only.
“I do.”
We head inside and, with his hand on my back, firm and reassuring, he propels me to a table for two, eschewing the large round table where the managing editor, director, and Ryan’s agent sit. There’s a single empty chair and I know they’re saving it for him.
“Ryan, sit with us,” theSImanaging editor says, waving a hand at him.
He waves back. “Another time.” He turns away from that table and faces me. And just like that, the world shrinks down to the two of us because he’s shut everyone and everything else out. He focuses on me. The intensity burns, exhilarates me.
“Bold move,” I say.
He shrugs. “This shoot is a one-off deal and I’m counting on Ham to let them know. Besides, I haven’t seen my best girl in a while.”
“Who would that be?” I sit back in my seat, get myself some breathing room for this sparring contest, because no matter how much I want him to want me, he has a lot to prove before I believe a word that comes from his mouth.
“Touché.” He doesn’t bother smiling.
“Where have I heard that before?”
“I think I need a drink,” he says. And as if by magic, the waitress appears to grant his wish, the jerk. I roll my eyes at his grin.
“Two margaritas. Patron,” he says.
“You’re drinking heavily tonight, even for you, aren’t you?”
“You’ll join me,” he says. He’s right, but I’m not giving in. In fact, I’m enjoying giving him shit. I always have. It’s a comfortable role. It seems all my life when I wasn’t adoring him with innocent puppy dog eyes, or drooling over him with a lust-filled heart, I’ve been giving him shit, one way or another. Even in my job. Which reminds me.
“Want to see the shots I took today?”
“I don’t know—do I want to?”
I laugh for real. “It’s okay. I’m saving the good stuff for my private collection, under my pillow.” I wiggle my brows. It’s his turn to laugh for real. And something else. He gives me a bone-melting look, the kind with carnal promise, the kind I should no longer be susceptible to, but I am. Rummaging through my bag, I get busy finding my camera and flipping through some shots. I brought the station’s real camera, a Pentax that does videos and stills and has a kick-ass zoom lens that I’ve been practicing with all week. No way were they sending an official cameraman down to Nantucket. As it is, I had to pay my own way and my boss said he’ll consider reimbursing me when I file my expense report.
He’s a cheap bastard and we work for a second—no, third—rate station. It’s a truth I’m coming to understand more and more each day and I know I should put together a portfolio as a precautionary measure while I still can.
I show him the photos, all of them except that last one that I’m saving. I already put it in my personal Dropbox and deleted it from the camera, then deleted it from the trash folder.
“These are good. I like this one,” he says, pointing to one of anSIphotographer and Ryan in the background, falling into the water. He’s obviously nude, but nothing is showing except his chest, arms, and legs and that’s plenty to make 99% of women drool. And some men too.
