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Reagan’s eyes are already beginning to fall shut when he collapses next to me in a sweaty heap. I turn my head and catch him watching me through his dark lashes, expression unreadable. “What are you thinking?”
He smiles tiredly. “Shoulda done this the first time I wanted to,” he rasps.
“When was that?” I ask as I push the wet hair off his forehead.
“The day you ran me over,” he mumbles. His eyes fall shut, and the smile I was holding down gets loose. I don’t think he realizes what he said.
We get only a few restless hours of sleep that night. The rest of the time we spend lips to lips, pelvis to pelvis. One body worshipping the other. Making up for lost time.
Chapter 25
Alice
“Hey, Bailey?” Dallas calls out. I glance up to find him sprawled out on the outdoor bleachers next to some of the other guys who are still hanging around.
The team just finished their last practice before the semifinal round of the championship tournament this weekend and Coach asked me to meet with him after I finished shooting some extra stills. There’s a lot riding on this meeting and to say I’m more than a little nervous is an understatement.
“Yes, Dallas?” I intone while I break down the tripod and put it away in my equipment bag.
“I’m still the most photogenic guy on the team, right? You’re not going to play favorites now, are you? Because that would be unethical.”
Chuckling, I ask, “What exactly do you mean?”
He sits up and rips his sunglasses off, his expression one of great resolve. The blond curls falling carelessly around his face kind of kills the fierce blue stare, though. “What I’m getting at here is––am I still the star of your movie?”
I bite back the urge to laugh at the pout. If he wasn’t such a wild one, Dallas Van Zant would be a total catch. “It’s not a movie, Dall. There are no stars. But you do have a star-making moment in it.”
“That’s all you had to say.” He slams his sunglasses over his eyes again and gives me a big toothy grin. “Do you need any more shots of me? ’Cause I have some time now.”
“I think I’ve got enough.” I wink as I head to Becker’s office.
Ten minutes later, sitting on the other side of his enormous desk, I’m sweating bullets.
“This is excellent work,” he says as he watches the video with undivided attention. I finally exhale the breath I’ve been holding since he pressed play. Fingers crossed he likes it enough to buy it.
“This is what a fully produced product should look like,” I explain. “As you can see it’s really fast-paced and colorful. Lots of action. Geared to appeal to my generation.” The video makes the guys look like action stars. Dallas included. It’s also sexy as all get-out, but I can’t very well tell Coach that.
“Frankly, I only agreed to this arrangement because Reynolds said he’d assume the cost if I didn’t care for it. I’m glad he talked me into it. This is exactly what I need to get an upper hand on UCLA and Stanford. Everything is about optics these days. And as you said, this speaks to a younger generation in their language.”
Coach Becker’s face breaks into a small smile that I would be able to appreciate if I wasn’t currently in shock over the bomb he just dropped in my lap.
Reagan agreed to pay for the film if Becker didn’t like it…
He would’ve forked over two grand and I would’ve been none the wiser…
Even more vexing––I’m so confused. I don’t know whether to be upset or grateful. But business is business, and boyfriend problems are something else. So casting aside by mixed emotions, I start my pitch.
“This is a mockup. I have all the raw material ready for you on a flash drive. You can either hire another production company to put something together. In which case, it will not resemble this one whatsoever. Or you can buy this one and I’ll finish mixing the sound on it. It still needs to be cleaned up a bit.”
Coach shakes his head. “No question, I want to buy it. Send me a bill and I’ll submit it to the head of the athletics department.” Turning off the film, Becker sits back in his chair and examines me closely with what I would describe as a fatherly expression. Under his scrutiny, I start to fidget.
“I’m not guaranteeing anything, mind you, but…If he likes it, he may even hire you to produce one for the other teams.”
At what is undoubtedly a look of barely contained exuberant gratitude on my face, Coach says, “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” I croak. “Better than fine.”
Now all I have to do is figure out how I feel about what Reagan did.
