Page 36 of Endgame

DAKOTA

The driveinto the stadium is intimidating. I realize my job is not as extensive as, you know, playing ball, but it’s still important to me.

I can’t help but reflect on the hustle I’ve poured into photography over the years to end up here. This is, without a doubt, an opportunity of a lifetime and one after much contemplation I couldn’t pass up. Establishing yourself as a well-rounded photographer is a challenge. It took a lot of trial and error to nail down the side of photography where I found my passion.

There’s still this gut-wrenching feeling that often comes over me when I pull out my camera. This is my chance to invite goodness in and make capturing moments fun again.

I think the idea of potentially having what my previous clients were choosing to capture was a dream I could one day count on to come true for me, making photographing those moments more rewarding than I imagined.

That part of me died a little inside after my parents’ passing. The end of my long-term relationship with Trevor might have also influenced my pullback.

I feel almost like I lost my space in this world.

I can’t recall a thing in my life other than Navy, which, while I love her, she has a life of her own, but something that motivates me to wake up in the morning—something to live for. I never got to a place where I wanted to end it all, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t question whether anyone would even notice if I was gone.

It’s sad but true.

Although, as of late, the prospect of a future with someone seems a littlebrighter.Does Callaway bulldozing into my life have anything to do with that? Possibly.

My brain is shut off from the idea of commitment. There’s a chance of it opening up one day, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon. I’d probably even consider entertaining Callaway’s request for a date if we weren’t working together, and he wasn’t my best friend's brother.

Except he doesn’t know I work here—yet.

If only he would have fucked me last night. We could have tested out the intense chemistry between us. I could have taken arendezvouson his “disco stick” and moved past our chemistry.

I’m feeling apprehensive about seeing him today. It’s clear my confidence from last night only likes to show up when my vagina is in need,not when it’s socially acceptable.

I think my nerves come from the fact that he has yet to realize the new team photographer is me. Logically, I know it wouldn’t bother him I didn’t say anything; we’re not close like that, but me taking this job for the Strikers will most definitely be a test to both of our abilities to practice restraint. I don’t buy his pledge to be friends, or so he says. One man can’t be that strong, right?

Although I’ve already put myself out there to him and was rejected, I’m no longer offering my services. I’m out ofcommission. This shop is closed, Callaway. You had your chance.

As the stadium entrance comes into view, I’m immediately greeted with murals showcasing close-ups of the starting players. Callaway’s face is acting as the focal point of my wandering vision. Lightning bolt statues line the steps leading to the glass-paned six-door entrance. Stadium workers are scattered across the expanse of the property, acting as security clothed in team memorabilia.

After sorting through my initial perusal of the facility, I see that everyone looks happy to be here—working. Every staff member I pass in the parking lot has a smile on their face and looks genuinely excited to be at work. It throws me off a little.

I decide this is a healthy change, one that will challenge me, and I’m in need of a good challenge.

I drive Chevy into the Makers Park parking garage. Looking ahead, I see my designated parking spot with a bright yellow sign labeledTeam Photographer. The giddiest squeal escapes my lips, this moment feeling like a dream I didn’t realize I had.

That’s me—Team Photographer.

Entering the main gates, I head straight to human resources to take my company photo and receive my stadium access badge. With my photo and badge secured, I’m led by a kind older man named Brett, a security guard at Makers. Brett patiently escorts me to the building where, I’m assuming, the staff offices are located.

As we enter the building on the far side of the stadium, I notice nothing but cubicles that run down both sides of the hall parallel to each other, concealed by soundproof glass walls. My eyes find the end of the hallway, leading to what I’m assuming to be the office of Striker’s manager, JackLeggins. Jack’s office is the only cubicle with enclosed walls, providing the privacy I would imagine a manager of his caliber would need.

Surprise hits me as I’m ushered to enter, and I examine the man behind the large wooden desk. Jack Leggins is nothing like the image I pictured in my head. Although I had heard stories about his level of attractiveness, my mind couldn’t help but construct him with balding hair, short in height, and a wiry frame. That’s the farthest thing from reality because Jack is a thing of beauty, more or less what I’d describe as a resemblance to Thor.

Jack owns his shoulder length dark brown hair. It’s pushed back in a soft motion with the front neatly tucked behind his ears, accompanied by a backward Striker's ball cap. His jawline is sharp and lined with a five o'clock shadow. I notice it’s not as clean cut as Callaway’s, but the disheveled caveman look works for him. His caramel-colored eyes stand out against his smooth tan skin, drawing my attention to his large frame. He takes up the whole damn desk. Estimating him to be well over six feet, I’m immediately struck with intimidation. Not that I’m short or anything close – coming in at five-six—I'm average height for a woman, but I have a feeling the intimidation will linger working in a territory of titan-sized men.

He’s not what I expected, and I find that strangely comforting. The casual vibe he radiates settles my nerves. I stand back as Jack raises his large frame to greet me. He extends his hand, and my eyes immediately lower to his wedding band. Why do I sense this man has a story to tell?

“Dakota, it’s great to finally meet you. Come on in and have a seat. Can I get you anything to drink?”

There’s that Southern hospitality.

“I’m fine, thank you. This place is incredible.” I’ve onlygotten a small glimpse of Makers Park, and I can already tell there’s much to uncover. I can’t keep from fidgeting with my camera in my lap, hoping he doesn’t sense the nerves I’m most likely failing to disguise.

“We are very fortunate to call Makers Park our home. Once we get your paperwork squared away and show you to your office, I’ll personally give you a tour around the stadium. The team finished their practice scrimmage, so they will have some free time afterward—it will be the perfect time to introduce you.”

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