by Virna DePaul
“I said that one night when I was tipsy.”
Oh, how she wished she’d never told Sheila that little tidbit. Even more, she wished it had been any other team she’d been asked to photograph. It was a big opportunity for her, but her excitement about the job had been instantly tempered by the knowledge that the Bootleggers’ wide receiver was none other than her arch nemesis Heath Dawson, the man who’d left Peachtree ten years ago for UCLA, then played for a team on the West Coast before joining the Bootleggers two years ago.
It had been bad enough that her daughter loved him, mostly because he did a ridiculous dance each time the team scored, which meant Camille had had to endure Emma never missing a game, Emma talking about him incessantly, and Emma putting up posters of him in her room.
Oh, the horror!
“Oh my God. You’re going to finally sleep with him.”
“What? Are you crazy! I haven’t seen the guy in ten years and the last time we talked, he mistook me for a boy. Not to mention you always thought he was a jerk. Of course I’m not going to sleep with him.” Hand hovering above her underwear, she finally grabbed several of her prettiest panties; not that anyone, let alone Heath Dawson, would be seeing them, but if she was going to faceoff with Heath at some point, she wanted to feel her most confident; not like the skinny tomboy he’d humiliated all those years ago. Of course, she didn’t look anything like a skinny tomboy anymore, but inside, that’s how she’d always feel, at least where Heath was concerned.
“Never say never,” Sheila teased.
“Oh, I’m definitely saying never,” Camille shot back. “Heath Dawson was a cocky jerk back then and from what I can tell from all the press he gets, he’s still a cocky jerk today.” Well, at least cocky; the press actually went out of its way to point out that even as the league’s top wide receiver, Heath was extremely well-liked by everyone, especially the ladies.
“Who cares if he’s all cock as long as he can do the walk. And he most definitely can. Besides, you say that now, but then you’re going to get a good look at him, and he’s going to get a good look at you, and… Lordy lordy, can I go with you?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Fine. But I want details when you get back.”
“There aren’t going to be any details worth sharing. But I should go. Rich is picking up Emma in about an hour and I need to finish packing.”
“Take something sexy!”
“Goodbye, Sheila. Love you!” Camille hung up the phone, then started folding blouses and pants into her suitcase. Should she take the white blouse or the purple? The white was boring but standard, but the purple brought out the green in her eyes…then again, they were both serviceable, straight-forward button-up shirts.
She decided on the purple just as her seven-year-old daughter Emma walked in and sat on the bed.
“Can you get his autograph for me?” she said, her face lit up with excitement. “You know he’s my favorite!”
“I’ll try, honey. But he’s a busy guy.”
Emma’s bottom lip pushed forward, and Camille had to hide a smile. She looked so much like her ex that it was almost disconcerting. Camille sometimes wondered if Emma had gotten any genes from her or if she were just a clone of her father. Thankfully for everyone, Camille and Rich had split up fairly amicably (well, as amicably as possible given Rich had cheated on her), co-parenting Emma with only minimal bumps for two human beings trying to raise another, smaller human being. She had to admit the fact Rich spent plenty of time with Emma when he wasn’t on the road had gone a long way toward healing old wounds.
Camille reached forward and poked that pouting, bottom lip. “I told you I’d try. But you know I have work to do, so it’s not going to be my number one goal, okay?”
“But you will try?”
Camille smiled wider—at least Emma got her stubbornness from her. “Yes, I’ll try.”
Emma squealed and began bouncing on the bed, but when her bouncing almost bounced the suitcase right off, Camille gave her daughter The Look. Emma was smart enough to know what that meant and settled down—as much as a seven-year-old could settle down at any given time—only bouncing lightly as Camille finished packing.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t stop thinking about the last time she’d talked to Heath. She’d hidden it from Sheila, but now that she was going to come face-to-face with him after not seeing him for over a decade, she was a mixture of anxious and…excited? No, she told herself, rolling her panties and placing them neatly inside her suitcase. She just didn’t want to have some awkward conversation about high school and yearbook photos and waterboys…
She cringed inside, telling herself that had been a long time ago. Still, it hadn’t been so long that the memory didn’t occasionally rear its ugly head and make her feel the humiliation all over again. At least she’d gotten her revenge.
After that horrible night, she’d avoided Heath for the rest of the school year. She’d taken great pains to make sure she never got within twenty feet of him, not caring if she wracked up tardy slips or detentions given they had math class together and classrooms close to one another for three other subjects. She consistently arrived late to math, heading directly to Sheila, who always saved her a seat on the other side of the room from where Heath sat. She stayed behind to talk to the teachers or took the long way to classes just to avoid him. Her grades had actually started to suffer as a result, but that hadn’t stopped her.
She’d also gone through with her plan to publish that photo of Heath in the yearbook, Sheila egging her on. When Camille had first opened the printed yearbook and saw the photo, she’d laughed and laughed. And she’d laughed even more when the entire school laughed at football star Heath Dawson, nicknaming him and Jason “Crotch Buddies.” To her surprise, Heath had taken it in stride, although she’d thought he’d looked at her with a small amount of anger more than once. Jason hadn’t taken it as well and had tried to get the yearbook reprinted, but at that point, it was too late. Trevor, the student yearbook editor, had tried to find out who’d done it, but Camille had refused to spill. Just after the school’s graduation ceremony, Camille had seen Heath walking toward her with a determined expression on his face, and she’d practically run away.
“Do you think his girlfriend will be there?” Emma had stopped bouncing and was now attempting to help Camille fold the rest of her clothes.
“Whose girlfriend?”
Emma huffed, like Camille was the dumbest person in existence. “Heath’s! She’s the blond cheerleader, you remember?”
Ah, right. The latest blond cheerleader who looked pretty much identical to the one Heath had been photographed with last month. And the one six months before that. Blond, tall, thin, built, and gorgeous. Certainly no one who could ever be mistaken for being a boy whether she was wearing an old jersey and jeans or not.
“Honey, I think all of the cheerleaders are blond.” Camille went to the bathroom, rummaging around for her toiletries. She gathered everything she’d need—shampoo, face soap, lotion, contact solution—then placed her bag of toiletries on one side of the suitcase, her bag of makeup on the other. Should she bring her own hair dryer or would the hotel’s work? She mulled it over, as her hair dryer could dry her long hair faster than most hair dryers. Then again, she’d probably put her hair up when she was working…
“Do you think he loves her?” Emma asked abruptly, with the guilelessness only small children possessed.
“Do you mean does Heath love his girlfriend?” Camille was about to give a noncommittal answer, but seeing the hope on Emma’s face, Camille softened. “I’m sure he does, honey. He seems like a good man, despite the ridiculous dancing.”
Lately, Emma had been asking if certain couples loved each other—did Bill and Sandra love each other? Did Tim and Felix love each other? Did Daddy love Michelle? Or Bettina? Or any of the other women he’d dated through the years—and Camille couldn’t help but wonder if Emma were trying to figure out why her own parents didn’
t love each other anymore.
The thing was, Camille had never loved Rich and he hadn’t loved her. They’d had fun together in the beginning, but Emma had been a surprise discovered the summer after their freshman year in college, just after Camille’s father had died. He’d instantly offered to marry her, and she’d been too afraid to go it on her own to refuse. Somehow, with the help of Rich’s parents, they’d managed to finish college, and she’d done her best to be a good mother and wife, one that supported Rich’s dreams of being a professional hockey player. And even though Rich had attained his dream, the harsh reality of being married to a professional athlete who traveled so much had quickly led to the demise of their marriage. Rich’s cheating hadn’t devastated her, but it had taught her a painful lesson. Or rather, it had reinforced the lesson she should have taken to heart after her run in with Heath so long ago: she needed to resist her attraction to athletes and focus on herself.
Her career. And Emma. Those were the only things that mattered.
She zipped up her suitcase, glancing at the time. She had a half hour to kill before Rich picked up Emma. She spent the time chatting with her daughter and making sure she had everything she’d need for the week. When Rich arrived and parked his flashy sportscar at the curb, she waved to her ex, then hugged Emma tight and gave her a kiss. “See you next week, baby, but we’ll talk every day. Lots of birthday party planning to do. Have you thought more about a birthday party theme?”
“Still thinking. Bye, Mom. Have fun with Heath!” Emma said even as she skipped to meet her father. After they drove away, she stood on the front porch to get her bearings and give herself a little pep talk. She could do this. She could have fun.
Not with Heath Dawson but in spite of him.
She could take her photos and chances were he’d never know she was the waterboy who’d made his life hell during senior year.
Then she’d come home, collect her paycheck, land her dream job and hopefully never think about him again.
* * *
Two hours later, Camille arrived at South Beach on Tybee Island, about thirty minutes outside Downtown Savannah. As she watched, several members of the Savannah Bootleggers played an impromptu game on the sand, tossing a football back and forth as the cheerleaders watched.
“Going wide!” one of the shirtless men yelled—Camille recognized him as Kyle Young, the Bootleggers quarterback. He was the superstar of the team, featured on shows and magazine covers and even appearing in a movie or two. Kyle was tanned and muscular, and Camille couldn’t help but appreciate his six-pack, even from yards away.
Heath was nowhere to be seen. She frowned, wondering if he had heard who was taking the photos and had bailed.
“You’re the photographer?”
She looked up to see Alec LeBrun, tight end, jogging up to her. He was huge, shoulders broad and muscular, but his warm smile gave him a boyish air. According to the tabloids, he’d just gotten engaged to his gorgeous girlfriend a few weeks ago.
“Yep, that’s me,” she replied, gesturing to her camera hanging around her neck. “How’d you guess?”
Alec laughed, flashing bright white teeth.
“Okay, okay, let’s get everyone together,” a pretty redheaded woman yelled, her hair pulled into a tight bun.
“Heath’s not here yet,” Alec said.
The redhead smiled tightly and though she looked in Alec’s direction, she seemed to focus on something over his shoulder rather than meet his gaze straight on. “No, Mr. Dawson has yet to grace us with his presence, but we wait for no man. Or woman.” She turned to Camille, holding out her hand. She had the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen. “I’m Ruby O’Brien, publicist and football player wrangler. I’ll be keeping these lunatics in line today.”
Camille glanced at Alec, who frowned before he turned away and rejoined the others. Turning back to Ruby, Camille shook the woman’s hand, smiling at her no-nonsense approach. “Camille Pollert. Your help would be great.” She was about to ask that they begin with groups of five, mixed gender, when she saw a man and woman walking up. The man was tall and tan and Camille could tell he was attractive even from a distance. But it was when she heard his voice that she realized who it was: Heath Dawson.
“Sorry I’m late, everybody! Traffic. You know the drill.” He slapped his buddies on the shoulder, and they heckled him for his tardiness. The woman at his side—a tall, leggy blond, probably the same one Emma had been talking about—hung onto his arm like a barnacle. “Did I miss anything?” Heath asked.
Camille bit her lip, annoyance filling her. Leave it to Heath to be late and to interrupt her without even noticing she existed. He hadn’t changed one bit since they were in high school. But as she watched him make his way to the group of people, she couldn’t help but admit that some things had changed: he was more muscular, a five o’clock shadow on his cheeks and strong jaw. Teenage Heath had been handsome in a boyish kind of way; adult Heath was gorgeous in a rugged, overtly masculine kind of way that caused Camille to flush all over. Of course, she’d seen him on TV. Magazine covers. Emma’s posters. But it had been easier to blow off his appeal when he wasn’t standing in front of her, his smile as bright and wide as it had been when they’d been younger, but now enhanced with a spark of sensuality. Heath knew he affected women and he used that to his advantage.
Annoyed with herself for letting Heath affect her again even after all of these years, she called out, “Yes, I was just about to get people into groups.” Looking at Heath, she added, “I’m glad you were finally able to join us.”
Heath turned his attention to her, his eyebrows raised. Camille instantly felt over-exposed, and she cursed herself for her sharp tongue. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself and possibly give Heath a reason to recognize her.
But how could he? She’d gained weight in all the right places and even some not so ideal ones since high school, mostly thanks to giving birth to Emma, and she’d learned to wrangle her dark hair so it was now long and glossy. She wore makeup and nice, feminine clothing, although nothing flashy.
Camille looked away from Heath, who seemed to be assessing her even more closely. “I’ll be taking action shots at the game on Sunday, but right now we’re going for a fun vibe. Happy. If everyone could get in groups of five, with three men and two women, that would be great,” she said. The group hardly paid attention to her, though, and continued talking and laughing. Ruby was a few yards away now, talking on her phone.
About to call out her directions even more loudly, Camille was surprised when Heath cupped his mouth and shouted, “Hey, you assholes, quiet down and listen to the lovely lady here or I’ll dump sand down all of your shorts!”
The group laughed and quieted down instantly, Camille couldn’t help but be impressed. She stood back a bit and repeated her directions. Men grabbed women’s wrists, a few play-fighting over a cheerleader, before they finally formed into suitable groups. A couple of groups had four men with one woman, but Camille could work with that.
“Okay, I’m going to start with this group, take a few photos, and move this way,” Camille said as she pointed. “Remember, lots of laughter and smiles. No serious model poses or super sexy stuff either.”
The guys guffawed, a few saying dirty things to some of the cheerleaders.
Camille fell into the zone, taking photos and directing people. She knew what she was doing here, with the camera in front of her face, the sound of the shutter and the play of bodies across the screen. She’d fallen in love with photography as a young girl, and she’d only gotten more talented in the intervening years. She freelanced because the flexible schedule gave her more time with Emma, but her daughter was in school and staying with Rich roughly half-time, which meant she had more time to devote to her career. She’d always wanted to photograph for the NFL and now that dream was so close she could practically taste it.
Several minutes later, she paused and reviewed what she had. Pleased with the shots she’d al
ready gotten, she moved to the group with Heath in the middle.
“Okay, give me happy! Smiles and laughter, please!” She raised her camera, but she realized that Heath was staring at her again. When she caught his stare, he grinned.
“I’m feeling the need for some inspiration. Do you know any jokes?” Heath asked.
“I’m not really the type for jokes,” Camille said shortly.
“That’s too bad. You look like you could use some loosening up.”
There he went, making his unsolicited observations again. She placed a hand on one hip. “I suppose you’ve got a bunch of jokes you’re just dying to tell me?”
“I like to make the ladies laugh as much as the next guy.”
She flashed him a tight smile, determined not to let him get to her, when what she really wanted to say was, Yeah, but usually they’re laughing at you, not with you. Of course, that wouldn’t be very professional of her, so she simply said, “Go for it.”
More people laughed, although the leggy blond with Heath looked annoyed, pushing her bottom lip forward.
Heath held up his hands to quiet his friends. Then he studied Camille from head to toe, taking his time, making her flush, before he said, “How do football players do it?”
God, why had she challenged him? She could tell by the teasing glint in his eye, and the type of joke, that the punch line was going to be sexually charged, but she’d been around ribald football players long enough to know if she gave the slightest hint of being uptight, it would only go badly for her. “How?” she asked gamely.
“For over two hours in eleven different positions.”
Delighted in spite of herself, Camille had to fight hard not to laugh. Instead, she shook her head, as if he exasperated her, and waved a hand. “Okay, now that that’s out of the way, can you guys give me the shots I need, please?”
