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Hockey man. As if that narrowed it down on a roster full of men whose job description was professionally large on ice.

Me: You are going to need to be more specific.

Bella: The emotionally constipated one.

Rude. Accurate, but rude.

Me: I refuse to answer on the grounds that you are enjoying this too much.

Bella: Confirmed. What happened?

I shouldered my camera bag and stepped outside into the San Antonio evening. The sky had gone pink at the edges, the air warm and smelling like mesquite smoke and summer.

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 they wanted 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.