Endgame (The Atlanta Boys)

31. Dakota

31

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 help settling 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 call The Village is 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 was not expecting, 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 be much more 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.

Now that would 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 a best moment of my life experience?

Spoiler alert—it was.

The boat ride to the island is no more than fifteen minutes one way, putting us in sight of the Sports Illustrated team 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 .

I’ve never been a violent woman, but she’s out of her freaking mind if she thinks she can get handsy with my man .

I’ve reached the point of no return. This feeling is so unlike me right now, yet I can’t find it in me to give a flying shit.

He’s not my man—at least not yet . But she doesn’t need to know that.

I’ll sit back and cut daggers her way. Surely, she’ll eventually catch on to the toddler in the corner of the boat claiming Callaway.

I’m kicking myself for not taking sooner what I very clearly want. Although now that I have Navy’s official blessing, if you will, I’m feeling a little more territorial over my future with Callaway, and I’m willing to do anything and everything to have it.

He doesn’t look like he’s enjoying her company, but he’s undoubtedly not pushing her away.

My anger must read like a skull without its crossbones.

“Oh, my goodness, you are hilarious, Cal. Sports Illustrated is so lucky to work with someone as handsome and talented as you.”

Gag me.

I wonder if anyone would notice if I pushed her overboard.

I bet she even looks perfect sopping wet and covered in seaweed.

Let’s test it and find out.

His deep chuckling makes my stomach plummet.

I hate this feeling. I am not this woman. I’ve never been the jealous type or compared myself to other women. I’m a “girl’s girl” through and through, but where Callaway is concerned, I don’t seem to do anything I typically would. Maybe I should take this as my sign that this will never work. We live entirely different lives. He’s the professional baseball player who dates Sports Illustrated models, and I’m the photographer who takes the photos.

We don’t make sense.

But he’s slowly become everything to me, and I’m finally feeling at a place where I know I deserve good things.

I want him in every way imaginable.

As if he senses me watching their encounter, Callaway raises his brows in my direction and runs his thumb across his bottom lip. The action causes Angela to follow his attention.

It’s me bitch.

She gives me a once over, almost immediately dismissing me.

Callaway must notice her dismissal because, seconds later, he interrupts her babbling. “Angela, have you met our beautiful photographer, Dakota? The Strikers wouldn’t have received this opportunity if it weren’t for her talent.” He’s pointing at me, and I’m blushing through my inner rage. “So how about we keep this thing professional, and you keep your hands to yourself?”

He stood up for me in front of a handful of his teammates and a supermodel.

He cares. How could anyone not fall for this man?

The other guys silently chuckle, and I take that as a sign of their advocating for me.

From rage to full heart. I’m perfectly normal.

Expecting Angela to take Callaway’s rejection harshly, she takes it in stride, pushing her overdone chest out. “Whatever you say, Cal.”

Cal? Like they’re on comfortable enough terms to use his nickname.

Her conniving smile sends cold-blooded chills coursing through my body.

How serious are the consequences of hitting someone in the face with a sunscreen bottle and causing serious damage?

I’m asking for a friend.

Thankfully for myself, the guys look away and ignore her. I have a feeling she isn’t used to being ignored.

As the boat captain leads us to the island, he anchors to shore and directs us one by one to gather our belongings and exit the side of the boat. I’ve been to Saint Simons Island more times than I can count, but I’ve never seen it privately like this. It’s absolutely breathtaking. The sand is pure white between my toes without any dirt or debris. The sun feels majestic on my skin, its rays blinding. The palm trees are the brightest shade of green, a contrast in color I can’t wait to see on film.

This is the feeling that centers me.

We hit the ground running the first fifteen minutes after arriving here. The guys are shuttled to the tented changing room for wardrobe and touch-ups, which I’m not sure why since the photoshoot calls for absolutely nothing.

The team directs me to the shooting set where I’m introduced to the Sports Illustrated director, Blair.

From what I've observed so far, Blair is an older man with a light-hearted personality. You can tell he loves his job and takes pride in the lengths to which the magazine has succeeded. Blair and his assistant, Devin, will work with the guys during the shoot, making sure they’re comfortable, adjusting the landscape setting if needed, and transferring props when appropriate .

Why do they get the fun job?

Waiting on the players to take their place at the shooting site, Devin sidles up next to me, clearly looking to flirt and get chatty, but I’m not accepting the bait on the hook. I won’t be rude and unkind, but my mind is in the work zone.

“So, how long have you been working for the Strikers?”

Okay, a friendly conversation I can do.

“About three months now. The job kind of fell into my lap.”

Devin actually seems to have a lot going for him. He looks to be close to my age and obviously has a great job working for Sports Illustrated . He’s pretty good-looking, too: dirty blonde hair, shaggy in the surfer kind of way, curling slightly behind his ears; blue eyes; and a tall, bronzed frame. He’s muscular with a swimmer's build.

“That’s incredible. So do you live here in Saint Simons or are you visiting for the shoot?”

Since I’m somewhat enjoying his company, I decide to engage. “I actually live in Atlanta, but my —”

“Dakota.” That voice stops me mid-sentence.

I’m not exactly sure where he’s coming from. I decide to turn towards the changing tent and collide with ocean eyes of fury. I expect to find Callaway looking at me, but instead, his eyes are piercing daggers into Devin.

His body is vibrating with palpable anger, the anger I’ve not once seen come from a man as gentle as him.

He’s jealous, and my brain is finally catching up to the gravity of it.

I love it.

Raising my voice slightly to break his trance, I call out to him, “Yes, Callaway?”

My tone is laced with humor; I’m sure he can tell I’m doing my best to get under his skin. I caught him in a jealous moment, and I refuse to let him get away with it.

I’d never take it any further. I’m relishing that he’s so protective of me—it feels liberating.

He looks at me, contemplating his next move. Devin and I are unmoving, staring at him in expectation; Devin, without a clue that he is, in fact, the target of Callaway’s annoyance.

Devin wants to die today.

“What’s his deal?” Devin leans in close to whisper in my ear.

Wrong move, buddy. Wrong move.

I’m not sure if I want to look at Cal. Not that I’m doing anything wrong, but he’s pissed. Most likely Devin attempting to get to know me, but he doesn’t know that, nor does he have any say in who I can and can’t converse with.

I have to admit, though, it’s strangely sweet.

Callaway’s eyes have yet to leave Devin. When I think he might do the unthinkable, he grunts so loudly the entire staff turns in the direction of his behavior.

His chest is puffed out, chin lifted, as he stands to his full height looking like the epitome of an Urban King. He’s unashamed of his brashness and ability to bring an entire production to a halt. He stands there for seconds, motionless and scowling like the caveman I seem to bring out in him. Without so much as another word, he saunters back into the tent.

In nothing but a towel and a stewing temper.

My body feels like a live wire. I didn’t think it was possible for him to get any sexier.

I’d imagine most women would run in the opposite direction of a man of his caliber, but the territorial side of Callaway makes me want to run closer, seek shelter in his shielding, and never leave. For a man so in control of his emotions and so genuinely caring, his jealousy seems to bring chaos to his calm mind.

The thought of being the woman responsible for his unraveling brings me more triumph than I care to admit.

After all, lately, chaos is all I’ve ever known.