Page 72 of Endgame

DAKOTA

“Gentlemen,this way, please. Watch your step before entering the boat. You all look incredible. An area on the island will be sheeted off for you to change. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need any helpsettling in.”

Not sure who this high and mighty woman is, but her presence is not exciting me in the slightest. I’ve seated myself in the rear padded seat of the bay boat transporting us to the private island.

Saint Simons Island is my favorite place in the entire world for many reasons. Palm trees line the whole coast; what locals callThe Villageis centered directly on the island with easy access by golf cart, bike, or vehicle. It is littered with small roads between coastal homes decorated with porch swings, plants, and the island's wave symbol. It’s the quaintest town with an atmosphere that welcomes families and tourists. The beach stretches a football field length in width, providing room to walk and explore the shore without being trampled by tidal waves. Cargo ships transporting goods and yachts leading to shore adorn the ocean. It’s majestic; well, at least for me, it’s paradise.

The team gathered around the island's lighthouse this morning to ensure everyone on staff understood the shoot. I woke up feeling confident and ready. I am settling on the fact that this is the opportunity of a lifetime, and I’m skilled enough to give the Strikers my full expertise. What I wasnotexpecting, though, was to be accompanied by Ms. Barbie for the ride to the island. I have noticed her attention to the guys. Despite feeling queasy over her possibly hitting on Callaway, I’m having an inkling of territorial annoyance when it comes to her putting moves on the team. They’ve become my best friends these last few months, and hell if I’m going to let Barbie come in here and distract them and what I’ve worked hard for.

Eat bricks, Barbie.

Since I was the first to enter the boat, my eyes follow Callaway, Gus, Jethro, and Davis as they step onto the bow. Our captain ushers everyone to their seats and drives the boat to the private island. I can feel my nerves slowly creeping up on me. I start fidgeting through my backpack, doing a quick run-through of my things to reassure myself nothing is missing.

Nothing like showing up unprepared.

Once I confirm the goods, I look at Callaway and find his bright blues already on mine. God, he’s stunning.

When I let myself really look at him, I get swept away with emotions at the sight of him. His black hair is disheveled and effortlessly messy, proving he woke up that way, and for that, I’m stupidly envious. He’s in nothing but a pair of board shorts, slides, and a Strikers practice tee. He’s underdressed for the first time, and I love that it brings me comfort to see him so casual, although, give him an hour, and he will bemuchmore undone.

I may never recover from seeing this beautiful man in all his glory.

Not entirely, but with his cock close to being exposed, I will have no complaints. I’m already imagining it, being the indecent woman that I am.

Hopefully, I can concentrate enough on the photo rather than doing something, truly anything sufficient to make him drop his glove in the water.

I bet he’s so big the glove will disguise very little.

Nowthatwould be a show.

It’s been a lot longer than I care to admit since I’ve had an orgasm. However, now is not the time to think about that happening, although every time I’m even remotely close to Callaway, the image somehow consumes my thoughts. I’m actually shocked I haven’t all but pissed on him to mark my territory.

We’ve been running circles around each other for months now, and he hasn’t so much as kissed me. He did tease me into oblivion in Joe’s bathroom, though, and that was…hot. Who knew that barely being touched would be abest moment of my lifeexperience?

Spoiler alert—it was.

The boat ride to the island is no more than fifteen minutes one way, putting us in sight of theSports Illustratedteam setting up. I never knew so many people were needed for a private shoot.

I expected myself to feel overwhelmed, yet the sight of the setup excites me. Ahhhh... I cannot believe this is happening.

It’s a dream come true. There’s no way this opportunity would have ever happened if I hadn’t decided to accept this job and take a chance on the unknown. I’ve been challenged and stretched professionally, and it’s paying off.

Looking ahead, a thrill rolls through me as I see the portion of the island we’re shooting at blocked off with studio light boxes shaped neatly around the site. Centered between them are the necessary props: one wooden bat and the forbidden glove. A professional tripod is placed in the center of the light boxes, clueing me in that the one I recently bought isn't necessary.

Sure, I’ll use your million-dollar tripod. Absolutely.

Placed directly to the left of the photo set up is what looks to be a man-made tent. Without access to much of anything on the island, bringing portable changing rooms is nearly impossible and too much work for the simplicity of this shoot. All we really need is the island's landscape, a quality grade camera, a naked ballplayer, and the props. The rest will work itself out. The changing tent is bordered with all white sheets, set up delicately in the shape of a square, the sky and trees of the island exposed through the top.

That must be where said nakedness takes place.

Aren’t white sheets see-through?

The sound of feminine laughter cuts through my ears from the other side of the boat. I learned that Barbie’s real name is Angela, and she’s giggling like she’s in the center of a tickle fight. It’s annoying. My ears might be bleeding at the sound of her audacity.

I hate being this petty, but a deep sense of possessiveness comes over me around Callaway.

The audible sound, however, has nothing on the rage I feel when I peer around Jethro to see her entire body turned towards Callaway, their knees touching each other, and her hand on his thigh.

I see red.

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