The events may only span a few hours, but the work of editing, write-ups, and all that goes into putting up the best publicity for the PBR and its cowboys takes days.
All that tiresome work will have to wait till Monday, because this girl is exhausted.
Dumping my bag on my bed, I pull out my camera gear and laptop and set them on my desk before heading to the shower. Hours on the road have me feeling the need to shower and pass out. This time, at least I had company.
Hadley and I decided to meet up in Calgary. Apparently, Kayley has a supply run and offered a ride. Hadley should have the part he needs for his truck by then. We swapped cell numbers to keep things streamlined. It’s nice to know I don’t have to go all those miles by myself.
Turning on the taps, I wait until steam fills the small space. Once under the heated spray, every muscle relaxes as warmth sinks into my body. I sigh, letting the weekend melt away and swirl down the drain with the water.
Did I overdo it with the shots of Hadley?
I mean, it was Levi’s idea. I didn’t get carried away...
Did I?
Shit.
Shit shitshit.
I was trying to help. If other competitors pick up on the singularity of the last shoot, will Hadley be targeted?
My mind shoots to Knox.
I turn off the tap, fingers frozen around the hardware as I flip through the images from the last rodeo in my head. I can’tshake the feeling maybe we’ve made things worse for Hadley, not better.
Wet hair dangling around my shoulders, I step out of the shower. Toweling dry, I slip on my sleep shorts and a tank. I grab my laptop and fire it up as I sink onto the bed.
The last thing I want to do after hours of driving is more work, but I can’t let this all blow up in our—Hadley’sface. The website loads quickly and I navigate through the shots. Sure enough, the comment section is littered with comments about the photographer’s fascination with the great Hadley Jones.
One goes as far as to say that Terminator was a practice run for what I’m going to get when Hadley fuc?—
I slam the laptop shut.
“Oh no.”
I rush the desk, swiping my phone up, and dial Levi’s number. He picks up on the third ring.
“You saw the response, I take it.” His voice is rough, annoyance lancing the tone.
“I did. Can the comments be taken down?”
“We’re working on it. This is not what I wanted for Jones.” He sighs, and I can imagine him running his hand through his dark hair the way he does when he’s frustrated in the arena.
“Do we take down the images, also?” I ask quietly. “Did they do more harm than good?”
He mumbles something before, “No. Fuck them. Jonesy needs this. He can ride this out. Scouts have been calling me about him since Terminator. I have a good feeling about this, Maggie.”
I’m glad he can see the silver lining.
“When will you know for sure if he gets a draft pick?”
Oddly, I’m fully invested in this now. Like I’m waiting with bated breath for a friend to finally accomplish something big, something they’ve waited for, for years.
“By tomorrow morning. The website should reflect the change by the end of the day if they decide to take him on.”
“Can you tell me which team?”
“Possibly Alberta Bravos. But nothing’s confirmed.”
