Page 2 of Body Check

Eleven years ago, I married the man who swept me off my feet during my first semester at Cornell University.

A year ago, we sat opposite each other at a wooden table, our feet locked on our respective sides instead of tangling together the way we’d always done, nothing but our signatures standing in the way of a divorce.

The cry fest with the Chinese food and wine came later that night. No matter how alone I’d felt prior to finalizing our divorce, spending that first night in our house—empty but for the select furniture I’d kept—had been a hard pill to swallow. Accepting the fact that we’d failed at thetill death do uspart of our vows was even more difficult.

Camera feeling heavy in my hands, I lift my gaze from Jackson’s mouth and return silently: “Blackmail.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, and my pathetic heart dives into an incessantthud-thud-thudthat could rival the quick-paced tempo of an EDM song.Dammit. Those creasing laugh lines are more attractive than they have any right to be. Hell, the fact that I still find Jackson attractive at all feels like unjust punishment, doled out for some unknown bad misdeed I’ve committed in life. Considering my worst transgression of late is accidentally tossing half a burger into a recycling bin, the unyielding attraction seems a bit unfair.

He drags his thumb across his bottom lip, in that revealing way of his that tells me he’s trying to wrestle back a grin, and I nearly hurl my camera at his head in retribution.

I can just imagine the newspaper headlines now:Ex-wife of Famous NHL Player Interrupts Wedding of the Season by Flying Camera—Updates to Follow.

Once upon a time, I’d made it my mission to make Jackson’s infamous steel resolve disintegrate in inappropriate places. He always got me back—generally in bed with me fisting the sheets and his tight body powering into mine.

Now, I swallow hard at the memories and divert my attention to the bride.

Zoe radiates warmth and happiness. When her lips turn up behind the gossamer fabric of her veil, I readjust my grip on the camera and rise to my haunches. Knees cracking, I scoot back to avoid blocking someone’s view. The five bridesmaids to my left all smile, as if on cue, and I catch a shot of them, too.

The light streaming in through the stained-glass windows paints them in a mural of jeweled tones, and I know—even if I make my living taking photos of professional athletes—that the picture will be one that’s kept on their walls for years to come.

I get Zoe next, just as she steps up to meet Andre and her father gives her away.

Whether or not Andre is still sporting wood, I’ve got no idea. I keep my gaze above the belt, so to speak, as I step into the dance that’s become as familiar to me as breathing over the last number of years: finding the best angles for the best photos.

Beaumont looks down at his bride like she’s his greatest gift, and then he throws tradition out the window by lifting the veil and smoothing it back over her head with a mammoth-sized hand.

The Blades’ toughest son of a bitch grins, looks at the priest, and announces, “Sorry, Father, I’ll always be the worst kind of sinner.”

“Andre—” Zoe’s hands flutter upward.

He promptly cradles her face with one hand, binds an arm around her back, and, without giving anyone the chance to object, drops a heady kiss onto her mouth.

“Hell fucking yeah!” shouts one of the guys from the groom’s side. “Get it, man. Get. It!”

Someone in the pews follows up with an equally boisterous, “Don’t get her pregnant in the church, dude!”

The guests roar with laughter, palms kissing with thunderous applause.

I capture it all on camera:

Zoe’s wide gaze as her fiancé steals a kiss before the ceremony officially begins.

The top of Andre’s dark head as he glides his mouth over his bride’s, his hand flexing at the small of her back, as though he’s desperate to strip her out of the gown and touch her bare skin.

The bridesmaids whistling.

Father Christopher’s red face and twitching lips.

My lens finds Jackson.

Click.

His hands dive into the pockets of his well-tailored pants.

Click.

He grazes his teeth over his lower lip.

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