Chapter 14 BALLS Charity Calendar Photo Shoot #2
The photographer blinks. “Your cat?”
“Yeah. Valor.” Nash nods toward his gym bag, where a sleek black cat peeks out with an expression of pure judgment. “He’s got a little straw hat. We practiced last night.”
There’s a long pause.
Then Margaret Anne stands, one hand on her hip, the other over her heart. “That cat’s about to be Miss May, too.”
“Surprised you didn’t bring Leif,” Brewer points out, referring to Nash’s beloved house plant.
“I would never subject him to this.”
“But you’ll subject the cat?” Brewer asks.
“He owes me. Just wait till you get home and see what he did to your heating pad.”
Mr. June:
JUNE is McCormick’s personal Super Bowl. The theme? Cookouts. Fireworks. Freedom. Patriotic meat. In other words: his natural habitat.
He shows up thirty minutes early with a duffel bag full of costume pieces no one asked for, including a glittery cowboy hat, red knee socks, a sparkler that may or may not be legal, and two hot dogs mounted on dowel rods for “dramatic handling.” He’s already shirtless.
Already oiled. Already grinning like a man who knows he’s about to ruin the photographer’s day.
McCormick’s prosthetic leg gleams with chrome polish and custom red, white, and blue detailing—a bald eagle decal across the shin.
He props it up on a small charcoal grill for the opening shot, flexing dramatically while someone blasts “Born in the U.S.A.” through a Bluetooth speaker.
He’s got ketchup on one nipple and a mustard smear down his ribcage. It is intentional. It is art.
“I swear to God,” the photographer says, lowering their camera. “This looks like if Uncle Sam opened a fetish food truck.”
“This is heritage,” McCormick declares, brandishing a hot dog like it’s a saber. “This is sacrifice. This is grilling for freedom.”
Someone from the peanut gallery (probably Rhett) mutters, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
Stiles just leans against the wall, sipping a soda, watching McCormick with the kind of fond exasperation that only comes from knowing exactly what’s under that flag-print swimsuit. “You’ve got relish in your hair, babe,” he calls.
“Good!” McCormick shouts. “It’s my war paint!”
And the thing is, beneath the ridiculousness, he owns it.
The prosthetic leg isn’t something he hides or downplays.
He jokes about it, poses with it, even uses it to hold an extra hot dog in one shot.
He’s not trying to inspire anyone. He just wants to make people laugh and maybe sell a few calendars for BALLS while doing the full-frontal patriotic wiener tango.
When the shoot wraps, McCormick starts loading hot dog props into a tote bag.
“You can’t take those home,” the photographer says.
“I can and I will,” McCormick replies. “We’re having a themed night.”
Stiles groans. “God help me.”
McCormick grins, holding up a condiment-streaked bun. “You’re gonna.”
Mr. July:
July is firecrackers, sweat, and patriotism. Which makes it perfect for Brandt, who shows up to the set with aviators already on, chewing gum like it’s a personality trait.
“This isn’t a costume,” he says. “This is a lifestyle.”
Brandt’s wearing a sleeveless flight suit that clings to his chest like it wants to be more than friends.
The zipper is pulled down to mid-ab territory, showing off enough pec to legally qualify as a hazard.
His dog tags slap lightly against his skin every time he moves.
There are patches sewn on that say things like ROOSTER, CALL ME DADDY, and AUTHORIZED FOR TAKEOFF.
Nobody knows where he got them. He refuses to say.
He’s oiled up and glistening, posing in front of a fog machine and an American flag, straddling a vintage motorcycle that Margaret Anne borrowed from a Korean War reenactor named Earl.
She keeps adjusting the flag behind him with the same proud focus as someone watching her grandson win the Heisman.
“Is the flight suit supposed to be that tight?” Nash asks.
“Absolutely,” Brandt replies, popping his gum. “I Googled ‘aviator thirst trap’ and this was the look.”
McCormick whistles. “Somebody’s been jerkin’ it to Top Gun again.”
“Damn right,” Brandt says. “I’ve watched Maverick seven times. I’m method acting. Get ready for a flyby, boys.”
Margaret Anne sets down her clipboard, raising her voice. “Pharo, darling, could you get out of the shot, please?” He’s checking out the motorcycle, blocking the camera.
The photographer begs Brandt to stop biting his lip like that. Brandt refuses. He grabs the handlebars of the motorcycle and leans forward, flexing one arm and arching his back just enough to make the lighting crew collectively forget how to breathe.
West snickers, eyebrows raised. “He’s not even in character. That is him.”
Stiles mutters, “If he says ‘need for speed’ one more time, I’m unplugging the fog machine.”
Brandt finishes the shoot by tossing his aviators at the camera lens, blowing a kiss, and whispering, “Permission to land… denied.” He struts off, absolutely convinced this is going to unlock something for half the zip code.
Later, he asks Margaret Anne if he can have an extra print to hang in his bedroom.
Margaret Anne nods and says, “Only if you autograph one for me.”
He does. Underneath it, he writes:
brANDT — JULY 2025 — RED, WHITE, AND RUINED YOU.
“Look,” West starts. “You’re smoking hot, but I’m not hanging that shit over our bed.”
“It beats the Dolly Parton pic I have hanging over my bed,” Mandy complains.
Mr. August:
Riggs is a man of few words and exactly zero tolerance for nonsense.
He didn’t sign up for this calendar shoot because he wanted attention.
He didn’t even agree to it, technically—Margaret Anne just put his name down under “August: Gym Theme” and handed him a folder with a costume, saying, “You’d be doing a real kindness, sweetheart. ” And that was that.
So now he’s standing shirtless on a yoga mat in front of a ring light, arms crossed over his chest, glowering like someone told him foam rolling was a government conspiracy.
He’s wearing compression shorts, gym socks pulled to the knee, and a pair of fingerless gloves that make him look like he’s about to both fix your form and snap your spine.
A resistance band is looped across his thighs.
He’s holding a kettlebell in one hand like it’s a prop from a hostage negotiation.
He is not enjoying himself.
“Can you just… flex a little?” the photographer asks cautiously.
Riggs raises one eyebrow. The kettlebell creaks slightly in his grip.
“I think that’s a yes,” Stiles mutters from the sidelines.
Despite his expression—stone-faced, jaw locked, looking like he’s mentally sanding a piece of lumber—Riggs is cut like a marble statue. His body does the talking. Which is unfortunate, because Rhett is standing just out of frame, visibly sweating.
“Jesus,” Rhett whispers. “He looks like prison sex and a Bowflex had a baby. We’re keeping all of this. The gloves. The band. That mat. All of it.”
Riggs grunts. Doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t move.
But the photographer gets the shot—him crouched in a low lunge, biceps flexed, head tipped forward, dripping sweat like a reluctant god of punishment. It’s intimidating. It’s terrifying. It’s weirdly hot.
As soon as they yell “cut,” Riggs stands, rolls his shoulders, and grabs his towel.
“You done?” he asks Rhett, voice low.
Rhett fans himself with a protein bar. “Absolutely not.”
Riggs sighs and walks away, mumbling something about this being the last time he listens to “that damn clipboard grandma.”
But later, when Margaret Anne slips him an envelope of proofs, Riggs tucks it into his gym bag without a word. Doesn’t throw it away. Doesn’t deny it. Just…keeps it.
And maybe—maybe—the gloves end up on Rhett’s nightstand.
Mr. September:
Rhett walks onto the set like he owns the damn airspace.
He’s wearing the leather bomber jacket Riggs gifted him, unzipped to the navel to show off a golden tan and the kind of chest that should come with a hazard warning.
The sleeves are pushed up to the elbows.
A pair of black aviators hang off his collar.
Below the waist? A jockstrap. Nothing else.
Except for lace-up combat boots that thud against the set floor with authority and at least a little sexual menace.
It’s absurd. It’s erotic. It’s American military cosplay dialed to eleven.
He just stands in the middle of the set, one hand on his hip, chin tilted slightly up like he’s waiting for you to break protocol and beg for clearance to climb aboard.
Tex walks past with a bottle of water and mutters, “Jesus Christ. You look like Maverick’s evil twin.”
Rhett smirks. “Good. That’s the vibe. Take notes, Brandt!”
West gives his partner side eye. “I swear to God, Reaper, if you get hard over him, I’ll kick your fucking ass.”
The photographer can barely speak. “Can we… can we get one where you’re straddling the duffel bag?” she croaks.
“You want top gun, baby,” Rhett says, easing down into a crouch, legs spread, jockstrap doing God’s work. “I’ll give you full throttle.”
Off to the side, Riggs is watching, arms folded across his chest, jaw tight. The jacket fits Rhett too well. He’s not saying anything. But the way his eyes track Rhett’s hands, especially when they disappear behind the jacket? It’s saying everything.
“Y’all want this for charity,” Rhett calls out, casually slicking his hair back with one hand. “But don’t come cryin’ to me when people start demanding this be a year-round calendar subscription.”
Someone throws a protein bar at him. It bounces off his thigh. He doesn’t flinch.
Margaret Anne is clutching her pearls and whispering, “Oh my stars, he’s gonna need a pilot’s license for that thing.”