Page 51 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
The three surrounding me back up a step and look me over. Even the wolf whistles from the crowd up in the soft sand and nervous laughs that follow don’t unnerve me. It’s a shame to waste my mental fortitude on a fuckingSIlayout, but in the here and now, that’s what I need to do. So I stare back at all of them, unflinching under their scrutiny, with my hands on my hips and every single molecule of my body showing, glowing in the sun, and uniformly bronzed thank to Ms. Bold-as-Brass Makeup Lady who worked on me as if she were a doctor and I were her patient, professional, impersonal, and thorough as fuck. If she wasn’t older than my mother and colder than my father, I’d have probably got a hard-on.
The director motions for the photographers and most of the rest of the crowd moves down to us on the hard sand. I take my mark ten feet away from the mini tramp and the production assistant hands me a football while he tries not to check me out.Whatever. If I were truly my old self, I’d be cracking jokes right now, but my distaste for the whole shebang only lets me go so far with the professional attitude. I can do civil and cooperative, but jokes are a step too far.
Not so for my agent.The prick.
“Can I guess where he’s going to hold the oversized puck?” he says. “Not sure it’s big enough to do the job.” Light laughter ensues. But I realize this is a good thing, because everyone’s been tense. Then I realize they’ve been tense because of me. Because I’ve been a tense bastard. That chills me the final degree, along with a cool breeze, and I know I need to do the job right.
“Another cool breeze and the puck will be plenty big,” I say, referring to my shrinking junk. This time the laughter is more genuine. The director gives me instructions and the photographers set up. Chelsea sets up back further to capture the photographers in her shot. I don’t realize I’m staring at her until she gives me a nod and a very small, barely noticeable smile.
Shit. The last thing I need is a smile from her or we’ll be taking porn shots because I can already feel my dick responding. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Turning away from her, I nod at the director.
“There any sharks in the water?” I ask. More laughs. My dick settles down. My heartbeat picks up because it’s go time. And I don’t care how indifferent I am about theSIlayout, I’m here to do a job and I need to do it well. It’s how I’m built. Cast in iron into my DNA. Right there with the hockey gene and the tall-and-muscular-with-chiseled-jaw genes. No help for it. All I can do is run with it.The man who has it all, as my dad would say in a less than happy voice. More like a derisive voice. And if I need any more motivation to do this right, or any more help deflating my dick, the thought of my dad does it.
Crouching slightly, I wait for the signal to go as if I’m waiting for a puck drop. The director raises his hand and I move. Running up to the mini tramp in three quick strides, I jump on and up into the air over the water with my legs spread as far apart as possible and the puck held with two hands between them. Holding the pose for a two count, as soon as I arc over and start to fall, I turn and land on my feet with a towering splash of water. The momentum carries me forward as I roll through the waves, tossing the ball onto the beach and relishing the refreshing cool of the ocean.
The applause is familiar and weird at the same time since I’m naked. Rising, I step out of the shallow water as the two production assistants run to me with a towel and my robe. One of the assistants starts toweling me off, but I snatch the towel from her hand.
“I’ll do that myself,” I whisper, feeling no guilt for her blush because I’ve seen that kind of eagerness before.
“Not bad for a first shot,” the director yells. “Go get your hair dried and we’ll do it again.”
My eyes automatically search for Chelsea as I trudge through the sand back to the trailer and I find her, taking photos. She doesn’t move the camera from her eyes, but I give her a good long stare, wondering what the fuck the camera is going to capture on my face at this moment. But who fucking gives a shit, right?I do. Because it’s Chelsea. And I trust her, don’t I?
After another dozen shots with various poses with and without the football, we move to the second location of the day and do a variety of more shots. With me still buck naked. Not that I’m feeling strange about it anymore. Now that the production assistant with the towel keeps her hands off me, it’s almost normal.
Even so, I can’t say I’m not happy to put my clothes on at the end of the day.
“Great job,” Ham says as we head back to our rooms at the hotel. “I mean it. You’re a tough bastard. Not many of my clients could have pulled this off.”
“Is that a good thing or bad thing?” What does that say about me?
“A good thing. It suits your goals. You’re executing the career plan to perfection.”
“Except we’re changing the career goals, remember?”
“I remember. But that doesn’t start until after this issue ofSIis released.”
“You putting feelers out yet?”
He nods, his smile fades. Fuck. “It’s too early to evaluate—”
“Let me guess. The National Dairy Association doesn’t want me for their Got Milk campaign?”
“Not yet. We’ve left the dialogue open.” He sighs deeply. “Look, if you want a full accounting, I’ll give it to you. I suppose you’re tough enough to take it. March of Dimes is out. They said hell no, so I won’t bother calling them back.”
That stings, I won’t lie.
“Children’s Hospital is skeptical but they won’t turn down your money so I’ll circle back after we do a couple of visits and present a check. We need them to use you as a spokesperson—as an endorsement of you. That helps change your rep and gets us in the door for other similar opportunities, the kind you’re looking for to change your image.”
“Kittens and orphans.”
He laughs. “See you at dinner.”
