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“Fine,” she says. “Then I guess we're done here.” She turns to pack away her camera, her actions jerky.
Guilt slams into me, but I can't let unsanctioned photos out. Not anymore. Not even Mitch knows why.
Mitch puts his hands up. “Wait a minute. I don't want to waste our time here today. How about this? We start with introductions. Let's get you both introduced to the kids. Show them what a great guy you are, Drew.” I'm sure he mumbled, “even though you're acting like an ass right now,” under his breath. “Then we can sit down with the staff and devise a plan for the next few weeks.”
“No photos,” I state.
“No photos.”
Roni shrugs and purses her lips, her hands on her hips. “Fine by me. I'm still getting paid for my time.”
I look around at the crowded room and feel a wave of exhaustion wash over me. I suddenly realize how tired I am and wonder how I’ll make it through the next couple of weeks. Not just because of my injury, but because I've now pissed off a pretty woman, I had no intention of caring about. I'm not sure how to salvage this.
I take a deep breath and turn back to my agent. “So, what do we do first?”
Chapter3
Roni
He doesn't remember me. Or that he called me pretty.
And why would he? I'm not that memorable. And I'm not his type.
I've seen pictures of him with another woman. Beautiful women. Women who like to be in the spotlight, seen on the arm of somebody as good-looking as him.
I don't want that. I don't have time for that.
But he is handsome.
Big, bulky, like you’d imagine a football player to be. His dark hair is thick with a slight wave near the ends, but he's got it styled in a short around the ears cut. His eyebrows are well-defined and sit prominently above his dark brown eyes, which have a focused intensity, especially when he's doubling down on contract details. A strong, square jawline and chiseled chin, add to his rugged good looks.
It's no wonder women want to be seen with him.
Or why my camera loves him. Yes, my camera. I’m all about the photos, not the subjects. I feel the need to remind myself of that little fact.
Today he's wearing a jersey with his team's colors, and his number is emblazoned on the back. It fits snugly against his body, accentuating his muscular form. His arms and legs are powerful and toned beneath his blue acid-washed jeans, and his chest is broad. I'm a sucker for a man with a wide shoulder span.
When his agent called, to say I was surprised would be an understatement. He said he saw me at the game and liked that I didn't hound Drew and that I kept a respectful distance. He also said he's seen my work and was impressed.
We've done the meet and greet with staff and said hi to the kids, some of whom recognized Drew and were quite excited to be in his presence, judging by the looks of awe and wonder on their tiny faces. I had my camera in hand the whole time, desperate to take pictures. I wasn't sure if Drew knew I sneaked a couple, but he didn't stop me, so I went for it, keeping my attention on the kids rather than him, but I might admit that I snuck a couple of him in there, too.
The kids were ecstatic, and he seemed astonished by their enthusiasm. His smile appeared genuine, but when I looked closer through my lens, there seemed to be something else just below the surface. A tightness in his jaw, a haunted look in his eyes. I wonder what he’s holding back.
When I casually pulled him aside and asked if he was all right, he shrugged it off saying, “Just enjoying the moment.” His forced smile told me otherwise. The urge to comfort him was strong, but I only give him an understanding nod.
However, when he finally let his guard down, he came alive and seemed to forget whatever worried him. He became enthralled by the kids around him. They all chattered at once, battling for airtime as they eagerly sought his attention and approval. It was incredible to witness how quickly his aura changed from somber and contemplative to bright and vibrant—energized by these small people who looked up at him.
Even the young girls are drawn to him, surreptitiously stealing peeks in his direction, their cheeks bright pink when he gives them attention. He does a great job dividing his time between the boys eager to talk sports and the girls who want to learn and be near him.
They're currently on a lunch break, so Mitch, Drew, and I also step out to grab some food. We find a tiny hole-in-the-wall diner with cracked red vinyl bench seats, old-fashioned soda fountain portraits hanging on the walls, and probably the best burger I've ever eaten. The meat is cooked perfectly and juicy—the grease is dribbling down my chin—and I don't care. The cheese is warm and gooey, and so fresh. The buns are soft, like homemade bread. And the strawberry banana milkshake... just... wow.
Meanwhile, regardless of how distracting his good looks and engaging personality may be, I'm still peeved about his request for a contract and biting my tongue. I'm entitled to do what I want with photos that belong to me. I have no problem selling exclusive rights to his public relations team. Still, his insinuation that I would sell the other images... Okay, it hit a little close to home. I am a freelancer; that's what I do. I sell the pictures I take. It's how I eat and pay my rent. And if it will help advance my career, thenhellyeah.
Mitch excuses himself to take a quick call with the lawyer about the contract and steps outside.
I stick a thick salted fry in my mouth, chewing slowly while I decide how to approach this. Best to go straight for it.
“So, what's up with the need to have exclusive rights toallthe photos? Normally my clients buy the ones they want, and that's it.”
