Page 11 of Rough Play

He waves my offer aside. “It's okay. It can wait until I get home.”

“Are you sure? You know what, let me get one.” I scamper to my bedroom, grab a pillow off my bed, and hurry back to him. I shove the pillow in his face. “Here.”

He sniffs it.

Granted, it wasn't the most polite offering. But he sniffs it?

He gets this funny look on his face but then shifts around to lean his back against the armrest and put the pillow at the opposite end, where he can lift his leg to rest. He shuffles his butt until he's comfortable.

Meanwhile, I'm standing there like an idiot, watching an injured man maneuver himself and a pillow from my bed, that he sniffed, to get the perfect positioning.

“I'm so sorry. I should have helped you.”

He glances up at me. “Really, it's fine. Thank you for the pillow.”

Not sure what to do or say next, so I walk over to my armchair and drop into it. The envelope with the contract is clutched in my hand. Damn it. I shake my head and open it, sliding the pages out. After giving Drew a quick, awkward grimace, I skim through them, trying to not overthink the implications of signing them.

When I’m done, I get up again to search for a pen. I'm prolonging this, I know. But it goes against my working brain. Finally, I settle back into the chair, the papers in one sweaty hand, pen in my other.

I chance a look in Drew’s direction and catch him watching me. His stormy gaze follows my movements.

As I put pen to paper, my hand wavers.

I can sense his tension, like he's holding his breath.

I don't sign it. Yet.

Instead, I look him in the eye. His are clear but unreadable. His jaw is locked. The muscles along his jaw line bunch as he clenches his teeth.

I nod toward the envelope on the table. The one that brought us together, if you think about it. If it weren't for those pictures I took that day, we wouldn't be here now. “Those are the photographs I took.”

He drops his gaze to the table and then looks at me again.

“Look at them.”

He cautiously leans over and picks it up. His hands tremble. He opens it, shakes it, and lets the multiple images inside fall into his lap.

I wait, still as a mouse, as he picks them up individually and studies each one carefully.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet, contemplative, and pained. “I don't remember any of this.”

“I'm not surprised,” I respond just as quietly. “You were hit pretty hard.”

He cringes at one—I'm guessing the impact shot.

“These are really good, Roni.” Is that admiration in his voice? “I didn't realize the sun was beginning to set, or that the trees were starting to change color.”

The lighting in the shots is natural and, he's right, they’re more beautiful than I imagined. But I wasn't focusing on the sky around us that day or the crowd of people cheering for their favorite team. I was focusing on the players, their faces, and their expressions. I was focusing on Drew Wylder in particular.

“Holy crap.” His voice is a whisper filled with awe. “I can almost hear us breathing, feel the pain, touch the ball.”

That's what I mean. The senses that those images caught is extraordinary. I've been a photographer my entire life, so I know I'm good. But even as I took them, I knew, deep in my heart, that these would be special.

“You've got skill, Roni. Serious skill.” He glances across the room at me. “These are exceptional.”

I nod. “They are.”

“You could get lots of money for these.”

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