Red: easy for you to say. youve done this before.
Joel: once or twice
Red: show off
Joel: always
I put the phone down and picked it up again. The ice pack was still on the floor, condensation pooling on the hardwood. I should pick it up. I should put it back in the freezer and stretch my hip and do any of the things that made up a normal afternoon.
Instead, I kept staring at the screen, waiting for him to say something else.
Joel: youll be great
Red: you dont know that
Joel: i do
Red: how
Joel: I believe in you Red
I read that last message three times. Then I put the phone face-down on the table.
AUGUST
The beach was private, rented for the day, and the light was already going gold when I stepped out of the SUV.
Natalia handed me my call sheet, and I didn't look at it. I knew my marks. I knew my angles. I'd been doing this since I was seventeen.
"They're running behind," Natalia said. "The other talent's still in his solo shots."
Red was somewhere on this beach in swim briefs, trying to figure out what to do with his face while a photographer circled him. I'd known he was part of this campaign for weeks, had seen his name on the contract, and said nothing. Let him discover it on his own.
The talent tent was white canvas, open on one side to catch the breeze. From inside, the beach spread out in full view without requiring me to be obvious about watching it.
Red was maybe fifty yards away, standing in the shallow surf.
The water came up to his calves. He was wearing white briefs, the tie-side kind that sat low on his hips. His skin had gone pink across his shoulders. Freckles everywhere. His hair was dark with salt water, curling at his temples, and he stood with the particular stillness of someone who had no idea what to do with the photographer's instructions.
"Relax your jaw," she called. "You're clenching."
He was definitely clenching.
His shoulders tried to unknot, tried to find the ease she wanted. He looked like he was waiting for a hit, every line of his body braced for contact that wasn't coming. This wasn't hockey. The skills that made him extraordinary on ice were useless here.
The photographer, Diana, was patient with him. Good. The brand rep observed from a canvas chair, linen pants and tablet in hand, assessing Red like inventory. He had the look of someone who'd never been hit in his life and didn't know how easy it would be.
A makeup artist dusted something across my cheekbones and my collarbones. I changed behind a partition and pulled on the black briefs, cut low and tight. The tape was in my bag, where I always kept it. It was medical grade, flesh-toned, the industry trick that nobody talked about on camera. You taped yourself down so nothing moved, nothing showed, nothing betrayed you.
I did it quickly and efficiently. The discomfort was familiar.
Out on the beach, Diana was calling Red in for a break. He waded out of the water, and someone handed him a robe, and he pulled it on too fast, like he couldn't stand another second of exposure.
I dropped my robe on the chair and walked out of the tent.
Diana waved me toward the waterline. I walked across the sand without hurrying, letting the crew track my approach.
"Joel. You look incredible,” Diana beamed.
