14. Multitasking is Hard
14
MULTITASKING IS HARD
Beck
Asher St. James is all charm and hair. He’s an in-demand fashion and sports photographer in town for a handful of jobs, including this one.
Asher already knows Jason. Because, of course. Jason always knows everyone. Jason’s friends with everyone. I’m always the outsider.
But Asher’s focused on making sure we’re comfortable as he lines us up on the grass with the bridge behind us. “This is going to look fantastic. I love it when I have such gorgeous subjects,” he says, then snaps shot after shot. Asher’s easy banter almost makes me forget how attracted I am to the quarterback next to me.
But the first round of photos is probably full of duds anyway. I have this problem where I don’t know what to do with my hands. I try them in front of me, then I let them hang at my sides, and could this shoot end right fucking now?
“Beck, do you want to perhaps put your hands on your hips?” Asher offers.
I try that too, feeling more ridiculous since it’s so obvious I’m uncomfortable in front of the camera. Which is weird—I play a game on TV before millions. But football doesn’t make me uncomfortable. The laser focus on me does .
Asher takes more pics, smiling as he goes. “And maybe now just tuck them into your pockets. Like Jason.”
Yes, Jason can pose and look good at the same time. He’s so easy with everything, including knowing when to touch me in the car and when to stop.
Ugh.
Thinking of the car is not helping.
Asher peers at the back of the camera and then gives a cheery grin. “Let’s try a different approach.” This guy must hate me for ruining every shot. “I’m thinking maybe if you’re both looking away from each other, we can get a different vibe.”
Yes, hopefully it’s the I’m-not-thinking-about-Jason’s-hands-on-me vibe.
“How about a little back-to-back action,” Asher says.
Jason tries to stifle a laugh but fails.
Asher rolls his eyes. “Not everything is dirty, McKay.”
“But some things sure sound that way.”
“To you, Jason, to you,” Asher deadpans, but it’s clear he’s entertained by the Hawks’ quarterback. My lips twitch in the start of a grin. Guess I am too.
Before I’m even fully aware of it, Asher lifts the Nikon and snaps a candid shot of us.
Asher doesn’t stop. I doubt Monday Morning Quarterback wants pics of us smiling. A grinning football player doesn’t sell much besides cell phones or fast food. Post-game shows require a little more grit.
Still, Asher keeps going, then he waves a hand my way, urging me to move closer to Jason. “Now, Beck, if you can slide just a smidge to the right. Your left shoulder should touch Jason’s right, and you’ll both be angled out a bit.”
I follow his orders, my shoulder bumping Jason’s, my heart rate kicking up. I ignore it like I ignore linebackers who want to annihilate me when I’m in the pocket.
“And Jason, cross your arms,” Asher instructs. “Give me that look that terrifies other teams.”
“That’s all my looks, Ash,” Jason says.
“Of course it is,” Asher says, then turns to me. “I’m sure you intimidate defenses too.”
“Yes, quarterbacks are known for being bruisers,” I say.
Asher’s eyebrows rise. “We have a sarcastic one.”
Jason chuckles. “Ash, you gotta watch out for Beck. He’s quiet at first, then he unleashes a snark bomb. And boom.” Jason mimes an explosion.
Asher takes over, capturing the moment. “Perfect. Yes. Just like that,” he says, and a minute later, he’s beaming as he regards the back of the camera. “These are fantastic.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, a loudly audible one.
Asher strides over, looks me in the eye, and says, “You did great.”
I guess it’s obvious I suck at being photographed. “Thanks. But I think it was all you,” I say. This guy knew how to get the best of me.
“Nah. Check these out.” He gathers us near him, Jason on one side, me on the other. Asher shoves his long, floppy hair from his eyes, then flips through the images on the screen. I admit, several near the end are pretty damn good.
We look serious and intense. That’s what Wilder will want from me. What my team will expect. What the fans love.
Asher flicks to the smiling shots next. “Can I post these on my Insta? If your teams approve, of course. I won’t send them on to the show, but they’re fun candids.”
Jason studies them carefully, his brow knitting. As he looks through them, I try to read what’s going through his head. I’d have expected him to say yes right away. That suits his easygoing and happy-to-please personality.
But he’s quiet, so I study the pics more. They feel too personal. The reason I’m smiling in them is that Jason made me laugh. Asher too. “I’d rather you didn’t,” I say. “Maybe something from the last set instead?”
Asher nods quickly, smiles quickly too. “Of course. That’s why I ask. Don’t want to put anything out there you don’t want.”
The smiling one feels like a secret I don’t want to share. “Thanks,” I say.
While Asher puts his camera away, Jason claps his shoulder. “Thanks for fitting us in. Always a treat to work with you.”
“Please. It was my pleasure. Mark even came to town with me. He had some time off, but I caught him working this morning at the hotel. On a spreadsheet, of all things,” Asher says.
Jason shudders. “I hate spreadsheets.”
“Once upon a time, I did too,” Asher says, and there’s a private smile in his words.
Jason catches on to it. “I trust everything’s good with you and your dude?”
“The best,” Asher says, shouldering his camera bag. The photographer turns to me. “By the way, nice interview last night.”
That’s all he says about it, but I feel like I’m in the out-athletes club now. And weirdly, I don’t mind. I sort of even like it. “Thanks. I appreciate you saying that,” I say seriously.
Then Asher hops into a fire engine red Porsche with the top down and takes off, aviator shades on, hair blowing in the breeze.
Jason points to the car peeling away. “That guy. I swear he does everything in style.”
“That’s a hot ride,” I say, shaking my head in admiration at the wheels.
“Aww, Caff. Is that your way of saying you want me to take you to the Porsche dealer now so you can get a car at last?”
I roll my eyes. “No, dickhead.”
“Same to you, jackass,” he says as we walk to his Tesla.
But the thing is—if I asked him to help me shop for a car, I bet he would. That’s just the kind of nice guy he is.
As we near my home, I’m antsy. Ideas whip through my mind. Risky ones.
I check the time on the dashboard. It’s a little past noon. My stomach rumbles. I could do it. Open my mouth and blurt out: want to get a bite to eat?
I tap my toe on the floorboard. I could tell him I spotted a new Vietnamese food truck over at Patricia’s Green, the park in the heart of Hayes Valley. You’d love it because I know you love food .
Ugh. That sounds so... awful. Who doesn’t like food? It also sounds way too much like a date.
But it wouldn’t have to look that way. We could blend in as two co-hosts grabbing some grub. Lunchtime crowds stream along Hayes Street, the sidewalks bursting with color—women in pink dresses, men in plaid shirts, cool cafés with mint awnings. It’s a lively neighborhood like Jason said. We’d have the work excuse to be seen together— we just finished our photo shoot and were hungry .
But, to ask him, I’d have to locate a box of courage inside me and rip it open.
His car cruises past the boba shop. Yes! That’s the perfect entree. He mentioned that shop. Want to grab a milk tea? I could say.
And . . . no.
That sounds weird too.
I point toward Octavia Street. “Take a right, and I’m about thirty yards down. Linden Street.”
He shakes his head, amused. “Of course you measure distance that way.”
“And you knew what I meant,” I say, buoyed by our common interests. I can still ask him. I just need to do it in the next ten seconds.
“Course I did,” he says, then drives past a pink bakery and turns onto my street.
I give him the house number, wishing I lived farther away. I wish this moment weren’t ending. I wish I had the guts to ask him to go car shopping with me right now.
I practice the words —want to come in and we can pick a Porsche dealer? I’m this close to trying out the question for real when Jason pulls over and clears his throat. “Thanks for that before.”
“For what?” I ask, curious.
“For saying no to those candid pictures going up,” he says quietly.
But my heart jumps so loudly in my chest I’m sure he can hear it. Jason saw the same thing in that photo I did—the way we let down our guard with each other, the way we dared to for a few seconds today with Asher.
And Jason needed me to say no for him. To protect that moment and keep it private.
“I don’t want people to be able to tell,” I admit, and the vulnerability is a little terrifying, but it feels so good too.
Jason grips the steering wheel tighter. “Me neither.”
I have to fight not to touch him. But it’s a battle. I let my hand move closer on the console. He stares at it like he did earlier. I slide another inch over, making the choice easier for him. Or maybe harder.
“You tempting me?” Jason asks in a low voice.
Nerves thrum through me, chased by desire. “I don’t know. Am I?” I hope he says yes.
Jason lowers his face, doesn’t meet my gaze. “You know you are,” he whispers, and it sounds like a warning.
He’s saying be careful .
But I don’t know if I can when tingles rush down my spine, hot and electric.
You could go to a food truck.
You could shop for a car.
You could tell him you can’t stop thinking about him and then wind up in his bed.
Like my pants are on fire, I point at my home. “I should go. Thanks, Jason,” I say, then grab the handle and fly out before I do something risky.
Or really, riskier.