“The photographer is Taylor Richards. He's done work for various magazines.” She glanced at me. “He'll probably want some shots of you in team gear, maybe some more casual athletic wear. Nothing too revealing.”
I felt my jaw tighten. “Define 'too revealing.'”
“Probably just a team polo. Maybe a workout shirt if they want to show the 'training regimen' angle.” She paused. “Hartley will likely be in less. He's got the endorsement deals to think about.”
From the backseat, Hartley snorted. “They want me shirtless because that's what sells magazines.”
“That's not what I—” June started.
“It's fine. I know how this works.” His voice was casual, unbothered. “Put the pretty player in front of the camera, make the sponsors happy. I've done like twenty of these.”
The resignation in his voice made my chest tighten. Like he'd accepted a long time ago that his body was part of the job, just another tool to be marketed and sold.
We pulled up to a warehouse in the arts district, all exposed brick and industrial windows. June parked and turned in her seat to look at both of us.
“Ground rules. Professional at all times. This is about the charity, about the team, about good publicity. Smile. Be pleasant. Do what Taylor asks. Don't make my job harder.” She looked directly at me. “And Grant? Try to look like you don't want to murder someone.”
“I don't want to murder anyone.”
“Your face says otherwise.” She smiled, but there was steel underneath it. “Relax. It's just photos.”
The studio was biggerthan I expected, with high ceilings and bright lights set up around a white backdrop. Equipment cases were stacked against the walls, and a handful of assistants were adjusting reflectors and checking cameras.
Taylor was exactly what I’d pictured—mid-thirties, stylishly dressed in all black, expensive glasses, the kind of effortless cool that probably came from years of photographing beautiful people. He smiled when we walked in.
“You must be Coach Sutherland and Jace. Perfect. June, always a pleasure.” He shook our hands, his grip firm and confident. “Thanks for doing this. The hospital's going to love it.”
“Happy to help,” Hartley said easily, already slipping into that public persona he wore like armor.
Taylor gestured toward a side room. “Wardrobe's set up over there. We've got team gear, some athletic wear, a few options to choose from. Take your time, get comfortable, and we'll start with some simple shots.”
The dressing room was bigger than my office, which felt like a personal insult.
There were two wardrobe racks, a wall of mirrors ringed with bulb lighting, and two people who moved with the specific energy of professionals who had absolutely no patience for athletes who didn't know how to stand still. The wardrobe stylist introduced herself as Priya. The makeup artist was Theo, who had paint-stained hands, paint-stained jeans, and the unsettling ability to assess your bone structure within three seconds of making eye contact.
He assessed mine. I didn't love the pause that followed.
“Sit,” Theo said, pointing at the chair in front of the mirror.
“I don't need?—”
“Sit,” Hartley said, from the other chair, already leaning back while Theo's assistant worked on him. He looked completely at ease, the way only someone who'd been doing this since he was nineteen could look. “It's not negotiable. I tried to skip it once. June found out. Never again.”
I sat.
Theo tilted my chin up with two fingers, studied my face in the mirror, and made a sound that I chose to interpret as neutral.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing. Just thinking about undertones.” He reached for a brush. “You've been under fluorescent lights for how long?”
“I work in an arena.”
“I can tell.” He started applying something to my forehead and I went rigid. “Relax your face, please.”
“My face is relaxed.”
“It really isn't,” Hartley offered helpfully from his chair.
