I take off jogging, setting a pace I can maintain for a long time if necessary, and one by one, the team peels off to follow me. Demarius sprints ahead, doing a backflip into the end zone and landing his way into a snow-angel. I roll my eyes as I hold out a hand to help him up. He has a gleam in his eyes that I don’t like, and I’m proven right when I duck and avoid a snowball to the face. It hits Bo instead, who goes fucking nuts, chasing Demarius around the end zone. Demarius is tall and lanky and fast as hell, but Bo catches up to him and throws him down at the exact moment Coach’s whistle splinters the air.
“I told you to run, not have a fucking snowball fight! Callahan, do you call that a run?”
“No, sir.”
“Fucking run. Get your blood pumping. Ten laps. Fifteen for the dumbasses over there,” he adds, pointing to Demarius and Bo. If looks could kill, Demarius would already be six feet under the frozen ground. The guys around me burst out laughing, even Darryl. I bite my lip, giving Bo a “what can you do” shrug before taking off running again.
I lead everyone in a real run this time, feeling the wind sting my cheeks and make my nose run. By the time we’re done, I feel a lot more comfortable, although I’m halfway convinced the tips of my ears are going to fall off. I spot Bex on the sidelines and peel off to say hi before Coach notices.
“Hey,” she says as I walk over. “It’s so cold!”
I bend down and kiss her. She has on a thick knit cap that covers her ears—lucky—and a puffy white coat that makes her look like a marshmallow. A very cute marshmallow, mind you. I tuck her scarf into her jacket and tut when I see her bare hands.
“Can’t operate this baby as well with gloves,” she says with a sigh, holding up her camera. “Why aren’t you wearing a hat, at least?”
“It’ll fall off the moment I run a play. Did you see Bo and Demarius?”
“James!” Coach calls. “I told your girlfriend she could take pictures of the practice, and practice doesn’t start until you have a football in your hands. Get over here.”
I kiss her cheek quickly. “See you. Get my good side.”
“That’s his butt,” Fletch says with a wink. “Make sure you get plenty of butt shots.”
“He does have a nice butt,” she says, which of course makes half the squad hoot and holler.
“You’re gonna be in trouble later!” I call as I grab a football from one of the assistants and jog back onto the slushy field.
“What are you going to do, throw a snowball at me?” she calls back.
Not a bad idea. “With my aim, princess? Don’t give me ideas you’re not prepared to handle.”
It’s not the best practice I’ve ever had, but fortunately, it’s not the worst either. I like knowing Bex is close, looking so cute and squishy in her coat, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she walks the sideline, taking shots with her camera. It’s distracting, don’t get me wrong—I want nothing more than to challenge her to the snowball fight for real, and when she’s finally admitted defeat, kiss her senseless, maybe do something cheesy like call her my own snow angel—but I show off, too, even though we’re just running drills. I warned her before she came that practices are usually kind of boring, but she insisted she wouldn’t mind.
I glance over in between reps to find her chatting with someone on the staff. I’ve been keeping an eye on Darryl, making sure he doesn’t try to talk to her, and fortunately, he’s stayed away, although I’ve caught him looking. She holds up her camera, eyes lit up with that passion I love seeing on her. She doesn’t let herself have that enough. I’ve seen her at the diner, and sure, she likes it. She likes talking to the regulars and being in charge. Even now, with the fire damage limiting operations and the insurance company trying to undercut her, she isn’t complaining. But why would she want a future like that if she knows that when she has a camera in her hands, she comes alive in a whole different way?
I know better than to bring it up. The last time I tried, she chewed me out. The insurance company, the business—she doesn’t want my help with it, and I have to respect that.
Doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.
When practice finally wraps up, I head over to her. She smiles, accepting my kiss. An older woman with light brown skin and dark curls spilling out from underneath her cap stands next to her.
“This is Angelica, do you know her? She handles team operations.”
I shake her hand. Of course, she’s wearing a nice pair of leather gloves. “I think we met once, right when I first came here,” I say. “Thank you for all you do for the team.”
She smiles at me. “I was just telling your girlfriend that she ought to get in touch with someone from the athletics publicity department. They like submissions from student photographers, it ties together the arts and athletics nicely for the university.”
My eyes widen as I look at Bex. “That sounds incredible.”
Her cheeks are already pink from the cold, so they’re covering up the blush I know must be there. She fiddles with her camera lens. “Maybe. You know I’m already so busy.”
“But you’re so talented.”
“Maybe,” she repeats.
“Maybe that’s what you should do after graduation,” I say, glancing over at Angelica. “You could be a sports photographer.”
She laughs. “James, come on.”
“I’m serious.”
“And I am too.” She smiles at Angelica. “Thanks for the information. It was nice meeting you.”
There’s something hard in her tone, a clear dismissal. She busies herself with putting away her camera in its case. I give Angelica an apologetic look.
She presses a card into my hand. “Have her call my office,” she says quietly before she goes. “I’ll put her in touch with Doug.”
“Bex,” I say, looking down at the card.
“I’m not taking it.”
“Come on. I’m sure the photographs you took of practice are amazing. You could do this for a career.”
“I already have a career.”
“Oh yeah?” I say. “Making pie is a career? Arguing with suppliers because they brought you the wrong kind of bacon is a career?”
“Yes.” She slings her camera over her shoulder with way more force than necessary. “Don’t be a snob.”
“A career you’re excited about, I mean.”
She looks up at me with fire in her eyes. “We’ve been over this.”
“It’s not you, Bex,” I say, setting my jaw in frustration. “This? This is you. And forget the sports part, fine, don’t do sports. But you deserve to have a camera in your hands. You could have a photography studio. Or do weddings. Or—”
She snatches the card out of my hand and stuffs it into my pocket, effectively shutting me up. “It’s a hobby. I love it, but it’s just a hobby.”
“Would you say the same thing to me about football? Hey, babe, I know you’re super talented at it, but it’s a hobby, you ought to go get that real job now.”
“It’s not the same and you know it.”