Page 13 of Faking the Shot

She tapped back a reply, congratulating Jackie on her recent pregnancy photo, another moment when scores of Lincoln’s fans had gone into meltdown mode about how he could choose an ordinary woman like Jackie instead of someone like “an Ainsley.”

She’d seen those comments, knew how awful it must be for Jackie to see, so she did all she could to publicly and privately encourage the woman.

The world she lived in might be full of fakeness, but the longer she was in it, the more she sensed God was wanting to use her to bring a measure of real. Which was hard, when Rosie constantly warned Ainsley to tread carefully with everything from her clothing choices to a haircut. What she posted on social media. What roles she took. “You can’t damage your brand, Ainsley.” The brand that might be super-cute and nice and harmless, but seemed to pigeonhole her in a way that she was starting to writhe against.

Nice was just another word for pleasant, which felt awfully close to mild and bland. And while she could appreciate viewers wanting to switch on something that was innocent and safe, surely there was danger in pretending the real world didn’t exist, with all its challenges to negotiate. Like a woman’s struggle with forgiving an abuser. Like an aunt cursed with cancer. Like a brother who wasn’t walking the way Christians said he ought. Surely there was room for productions that showed how to treat others the way Jesus did, even those despised by others, like the prostitutes and tax collectors and lepers, instead of letting “the world” produce shows that instead often suggested—as Mack had said more than once—“there’s no hate like Christian love.”

Ugh. She hated the wrong impressions so many people had about her faith. And while she wasn’t about to make ungodly movies, she wished there was a way to walk a path where she could shine for God and not antagonize her viewers. This tension between how people wanted her to appear as and who she wanted to be was so hard to navigate. What would people say if she made a film about domestic violence? Or showed the effect of human trafficking? She’d likely lose her contracts, that’s what.

She exhaled, hands over her eyes. “Lord, show me what to do. I don’t just want to play nice, but I want what You would have me do.”

She stayed silent for a time, listening, sensing. But there was no noise except for the vague hum of traffic beyond her apartment, and Louie’s sigh in the warm pool of sunlight on the kitchen floor, as he made the most of the afternoon before the light and warmth faded in Vancouver’s late Fall darkness.

But even in the stillness, she knew her heart was hungering for this more. Which was why she couldn’t align herself with those who wanted to deny reality or play pretend. Loving her brother was real. He didn’t make it easy, either, but he was her brother. And more than that, he was God’s child. And sure, he mightn’t be walking like that right now, but he once had, and the book of Romans suggested that God’s love didn’t stop because of life or death, so that suggested it didn’t stop because of sexual orientation. But so many people seemed to believe it did. There were those verses about homosexuality being a sin, after all. How did Christians reconcile these parts of the Bible? She didn’t have answers, except that sheknewGod was a God who loved, and that surely Mack’s private business was something God could judge better than other Christians. Not that she’d ever say that to anyone. Except not saying only increased her internal tension. It had gotten so bad that these days she rarely owned up about having a brother, which only made her feel like she was living a lie. And this blending of fact versus fiction in her family’s life was hard.

“Lord, I know You want me to keep loving Mack. Give me grace, and help me love others too. Lead me into Your paths.”

She opened her eyes, glanced down at her phone. There was a message request. Huh. She didn’t check those too often. How long had it been there?

A tap on her phone screen and she opened it. Stared at the name. A verified name, at that. Then glanced at the message.

Hey Ainsley. I really enjoyed meeting you yesterday. Let me know if you’re ever free and want to catch up for a coffee. Or a meal.

What?

Her pulse increased. Was this a joke?

Why would Zac Parotti have messaged her this? Hadn’t he thought she was taken? Which kind of made him seem as sleazy as the other guy… unless he’d found out she wasn’t taken.

She pushed her phone away. Rubbed her brow. She should be studying lines for the Christmas mysteries series before they began indoor shoots next week, but this message had stolen her thoughts. Why? How? No.

“I don’t know what this is, God, but it seems weird. He’s not even a Christian, is he?”

Why don’t you find out?

Whoa. That thought couldn’t have come from God. Besides, how was she to do that? She wasn’t about to ask her dad—he’d freak out, in who knew which direction, so that was out of the question. Given Mack’s lack of interest in godly things these days she couldn’t ask him. Who did she know who was a Christian connected to the hockey world who might have a clue? Anyone? Anyone?

Cassie James.

She swallowed. Her phone lay within reach, the answer she needed potentially within her grasp. But asking that question was like opening a can of worms, and she wasn’t sure she could cope with what might happen should they wriggle out.

It was best to say no to temptation, so she pushed away from the table and returned to the living room where she tried to concentrate on learning her lines. But her mind kept flicking to her phone, to the question she could ask—should ask,wouldask—if she could only sense whether this was something God wanted her to do.

Her phone rang, startling her, so her papers fell to the floor. She rushed to the kitchen table, and grasped it without looking at the caller ID. “Hello?”

Was this Cassie? That would surely be an answer to an unprayed prayer, and a sign from—

“Hey, it’s Jason.”

Oh. Her stomach dropped. Okay, then. “How are you?”

“Good. Just checking on you, after all those articles and press from last night.”

“Thank you, that’s really sweet. I’m all good though. Just going over lines for next week.”

“Me too. Hey, want me to pick you up for our shoot next week?”

And give the impression to him and any photographers that they were an item? “I don’t know if that’s wise.”

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