Chapter 8
INSECURE
GRANT
“Absolutely not.”
Hartley stood in my office doorway with his arms crossed, and that stubborn set to his jaw that I'd come to recognize meant he wasn't backing down. “It's for charity, Coach. Kids' hospital. You can't say no to sick kids.”
“I'm not saying no to sick kids. I'm saying no to being in a magazine photoshoot half-naked.” I kept my eyes on my laptop screen, reviewing practice footage like this conversation wasn't happening. “That's what you have Rook for. Captain does the PR stuff.”
“Rook's got some family matters to attend to.
June already confirmed he's out. The photoshoot's in two hours and they need someone from the organization.” He stepped into my office uninvited and dropped into the chair across from my desk.
“It's you or me. And if it's just me standing there alone, it looks like the team doesn't care about the charity.”
“Then get Volkov. Or O'Rourke. Or literally anyone else on the roster.”
“June specifically requested coaching staff and a player. You know, to show the 'leadership working together' angle.” He made air quotes with his fingers. “Her words, not mine.”
I finally looked up from my laptop. “Why are you pushing this?”
“Because you've been locked in this office for days. You need to do something that isn't watching film or running practice.” He leaned back in the chair, too relaxed, too comfortable in my space. “Plus, the photographer's supposed to be really good. Could be good publicity for the team. For you.”
“I don't do photoshoots,” I said flatly.
“Yeah, well, I don't do team bag skates, but here we are.” He grinned, and I hated that it made something in my chest go warm. “Come on, Coach. Two hours. Smile for some pictures. Help sick kids. Go back to being a hermit tomorrow.”
I stared at him, trying to find an argument that didn't involve admitting the real reason I didn't want to do this. That standing next to him would make me look exactly like what I was: an aging coach who'd spent the last fifteen years behind a bench instead of on the ice.
“Fine,” I said, because saying anything else would require explanations I wasn't willing to give. “Two hours. That's it.”
Hartley's grin widened. “I'll tell June. She's gonna be thrilled.”
“I'm sure she is.” I closed my laptop with more force than necessary. “Where is this thing?”
“Downtown studio. June's driving. We leave in thirty minutes.”
“Thirty—” I stopped myself from finishing that sentence. “You already told her I'd do it.”
“I told her I'd convince you.” He stood up, moving toward the door. “And I did. Because I'm very persuasive.”
He left before I could respond, and I sat there staring at the empty doorway, wondering what the hell I'd just agreed to.
June's car was a sleek black sedan that smelled like leather and expensive coffee.
“Thank you for doing this, Grant,” she said as we merged onto the highway. Hartley was in the backseat, scrolling through his phone. “I know it's not your favorite thing, but the optics are important. Coach and star player supporting the children's hospital. It's good press.”
“Happy to help,” I lied.
“The photographer is Taylor Richards. He's done work for various magazines.” She glanced at me. “He'll probably want some shots of you in team gear, maybe some more casual athletic wear. Nothing too revealing.”
I felt my jaw tighten. “Define 'too revealing.'”
“Probably just a team polo. Maybe a workout shirt if they want to show the 'training regimen' angle.” She paused. “Hartley will likely be in less. He's got the endorsement deals to think about.”
From the backseat, Hartley snorted. “They want me shirtless because that's what sells magazines.”
“That's not what I—” June started.
“It's fine. I know how this works.” His voice was casual, unbothered. “Put the pretty player in front of the camera, make the sponsors happy. I've done like twenty of these.”
The resignation in his voice made my chest tighten. Like he'd accepted a long time ago that his body was part of the job, just another tool to be marketed and sold.
We pulled up to a warehouse in the arts district, all exposed brick and industrial windows. June parked and turned in her seat to look at both of us.
“Ground rules. Professional at all times. This is about the charity, about the team, about good publicity. Smile. Be pleasant. Do what Taylor asks. Don't make my job harder.” She looked directly at me. “And Grant? Try to look like you don't want to murder someone.”
“I don't want to murder anyone.”
“Your face says otherwise.” She smiled, but there was steel underneath it. “Relax. It's just photos.”
The studio was bigger than I expected, with high ceilings and bright lights set up around a white backdrop. Equipment cases were stacked against the walls, and a handful of assistants were adjusting reflectors and checking cameras.
Taylor was exactly what I’d pictured—mid-thirties, stylishly dressed in all black, expensive glasses, the kind of effortless cool that probably came from years of photographing beautiful people. He smiled when we walked in.
“You must be Coach Sutherland and Jace. Perfect. June, always a pleasure.” He shook our hands, his grip firm and confident. “Thanks for doing this. The hospital's going to love it.”
“Happy to help,” Hartley said easily, already slipping into that public persona he wore like armor.
Taylor gestured toward a side room. “Wardrobe's set up over there. We've got team gear, some athletic wear, a few options to choose from. Take your time, get comfortable, and we'll start with some simple shots.”
The dressing room was bigger than my office, which felt like a personal insult.
There were two wardrobe racks, a wall of mirrors ringed with bulb lighting, and two people who moved with the specific energy of professionals who had absolutely no patience for athletes who didn't know how to stand still.
The wardrobe stylist introduced herself as Priya.
The makeup artist was Theo, who had paint-stained hands, paint-stained jeans, and the unsettling ability to assess your bone structure within three seconds of making eye contact.
He assessed mine. I didn't love the pause that followed.
“Sit,” Theo said, pointing at the chair in front of the mirror.
“I don't need—”
“Sit,” Hartley said, from the other chair, already leaning back while Theo's assistant worked on him. He looked completely at ease, the way only someone who'd been doing this since he was nineteen could look. “It's not negotiable. I tried to skip it once. June found out. Never again.”
I sat.
Theo tilted my chin up with two fingers, studied my face in the mirror, and made a sound that I chose to interpret as neutral.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing. Just thinking about undertones.” He reached for a brush. “You've been under fluorescent lights for how long?”
“I work in an arena.”
“I can tell.” He started applying something to my forehead and I went rigid. “Relax your face, please.”
“My face is relaxed.”
“It really isn't,” Hartley offered helpfully from his chair.
“Hartley.”
“I'm just agreeing with the professional.”
Theo smothered what was definitely a laugh. “He's right. You look like you're doing a tax audit. Think about something pleasant.”
I stared at my own reflection and tried to think about something pleasant.
The only thing my brain produced was Hartley's face when he'd talked me into this, that grin that meant he'd already won and was just waiting for me to catch up.
I pressed that thought down immediately and thought about the cinnamon roll from the bakery instead.
Marginally safer.
“Better,” Theo said, already moving to my jaw. “See? Not so bad.”
“I've had dental procedures that felt more dignified than this.”
“Most of my clients say the same thing for the first ten minutes.” He met my eyes in the mirror, dry and unbothered. “Then they see the photos and book me again.”
Across the room, Priya was holding two shirts against Hartley's chest, tilting her head one way and then the other with the focused deliberation of someone choosing between surgical instruments.
“The navy,” Hartley said.
“I know what you think, but you're wrong,” Priya said, not looking up. “The slate.”
“The navy photographs better on me.”
“The slate photographs better on your skin tone, which is what I said, which you'd know if you let me finish a sentence.” She set the navy aside with the finality of a judge delivering a verdict. “Slate. Open collar. And we're doing the shirtless series first, so it doesn't matter yet anyway.”
I looked up from the mirror. “The shirtless series?”
“For the charity calendar component,” Priya said, already moving to the rack. “Didn't June mention that?”
“June mentioned none of that.”
“You're fine, you're keeping the shirt on,” Hartley said, already reaching for the hem of his own. He pulled it over his head in one easy motion, dropped it over the back of his chair, and reached for his phone like he hadn't just—like he wasn't just sitting there—
I looked back at my own reflection.
Theo made the small adjustment to my hair he'd been working toward, pronounced me done, and stepped aside to let his assistant take over.
The assistant's name was apparently also relevant to this situation, because she picked up a small amber bottle from the counter, warmed some oil between her palms, and moved toward Hartley.
It was completely routine. This was what photoshoots involved. I knew this intellectually.
But it did not help.
She worked the oil across his shoulders first, then down over his chest, and Hartley sat there scrolling his phone with the detached patience of someone getting a car washed.
Like this was just maintenance. Like the studio lighting wasn't doing something genuinely unfair to the planes of his abdomen, catching every line of muscle in a way that made the whole thing look less like a person and more like an argument.