Page 14 of Best Year Ever
I don’t hate that she flushes a little at my words. “See you out there,” she repeats robotically.
Within ten minutes, my own hair and makeup crew is working on me in my dressing room. As soon as they get in their groove, my thoughts immediately return to Rori. No shock that she looked beautiful, but she also felt unapproachable, untouchable. Like her walls were up. Very different from our first conversations on New Year’s.
No lie, I’m thrown by the dynamic with her. I’ve never had a woman that I hooked up with ignore a text afterwards, leaving me uncertain of where we stand. I’m always the one in control of the pace of “relationships.”
Granted, I don’t dotruerelationships. And despite the reputation that Rori enjoyed teasing me about, it’s not about being able to fuck who I want.
It’s simply that the emotional risks are not worth it.
My attitude is a direct result of my parents. A total cliché, but it’s the truth.
Everything changed for me at age fifteen when Mom and Dad split, after they both had affairs. Mom fell for a married partner at her office, while Dad ended up sleeping with our neighbor on and off for a year.
They constantly fought, including over time with us kids, and I coped by becoming numb to any situation where my own heartbreak could be on the table. As the oldest, I also had to help my siblings navigate the situation. I was a kid myself but had to step into a parental role way too often.
Coming through that experience, my siblings and I share a fierce loyalty to each other. I used to tell them, when our parent’s marriage first fell apart, that us Battle siblings are “better together.” It became our rally cry.
So yeah, I’ve closed myself off from serious relationships. I have so much love in my life between my siblings and friends that, on the flip side, I have zero interest in exposing myself to hurt from anyone new.
My sister’s said more than once that I need therapy, as she’s watched me shut down anything real with woman after woman. “Not everyone is out to hurt you, Landon. And you’re living less than a full life by closing off any meaningful connection with the women you meet.”
But let’s be real, most of the women I interact with at parties, bars, industry events—they aren’t interested in getting to know the real me anyway. Whether it’s press, money, or sex with a football star that they are after, none of it has anything to do with a “meaningful connection.”
The situation with Trinity only reinforced my mindset on this front. Call me cynical. Call me an asshole. But my approach has kept things easy, light, and fun, with no drama.
Until Rori. Nothing feels easy or light when I think about her. It’s almost like some need within me is still unmet. And I’m confused by that.
“Okay, everything is ready, Mr. Battle. Time to get on set,” says the photo assistant responsible for shepherding me around.
Well, let’s do this.
I walk onto the set and its minimal aesthetic is marked by a grayish backdrop. I guess Rori, the outfits, and I will stand out as the stars of this show.
Rori enters one minute later as I’m wringing my hands in anticipation of getting started.
To my surprise, she comes straight to me, and as she approaches, she looks me directly in the eye.
“I do appreciate you stepping in, Landon. I just want to say that.” She looks calmer than when I crashed into her dressing room.
“Absolutely. I, um—congrats again on all the success so far this year, you deserve a campaign like this.”
“Yes, it’s the first time I’ve been asked to do one this high profile outside of the tennis world. It’s surreal.” She smiles briefly in response.
She then looks up and down my outfit. “Those shorts match this peach set I’ve on, but not that yellow shirt. I wonder what they are thinking.”
I start to explain, but a photo assistant is nearby and interjects, “Oh he won’t be wearing that t-shirt once we start shooting. Shirtless for Mr. Battle.”
“Better to see all those muscles,” Rori quips quickly, before realizing what she said. “Oh, I didn’t mean—“ she says with her eyes wide, a little guilt trickling in.
“Don’t worry, you can objectify me, Miss Reilly,” I retort, unable to resist the chance to flirt with her a bit. I take the yellow t-shirt off in one swift move for emphasis.
A loud male voice clears his throat. It’s Nick, the head of Triumph. “Rori, Landon, thanks again for doing this today. We’re so excited to have this campaign start strong with incredible young stars like you two. John, why don’t you take it away from here.”
John, the photographer, steps forward and starts giving everyone directions. First, he places me in position on the set, with a football in hand. Then he leads Rori to stand two feet away from me, facing my direction, holding a tennis racquet.
“Okay, this campaign’s going to be about fierce competitors pushing to ‘triumph,’” John explains. “So, first things first, we’re going to put on some tunes and let you move with your equipment with only one assignment. Namely, never break eye contact with each other, keeping up a competition-like intensity of expression. Rori, pretend you’re looking at one of your opponents, and Landon, you do the same.”
“Sounds good, Rori would look great in some pads,” I tease.
