21. Welcome Back
21
WELCOME BACK
Leighton
With an ankle bracelet burning a hole in my pocket, I walk down the corridor alongside a lineup of powerhouse women. Eleanor Greer, the owner, leads the way, her stride confident and steady. Next to her is Clementine Carmichael, our sharp, no-nonsense British GM, and Zaire Mandavi, the VP of Communications. Chanda’s here too, organizing every detail, and Everly walks beside me, nodding along as we listen to Eleanor’s goals for the season. Today’s a big PR day, and Eleanor’s energy is contagious, so I try not to give another thought to Miles’s unexpected gift.
“I didn’t trade for Tyler Falcon this summer to lose,” Eleanor says, stopping at the edge of the tunnel. Her eyes are fierce as she surveys the arena, but her tone is full of her trademark boundless zeal. “I traded to win.” She gestures to Zaire and Chanda. “And I want our marketing to reflect that—bold energy, passion, the excitement of a new season. Not just the Tyler trade, but the whole attitude of this team. Fierce, and electric. Are we up to it?”
“Absolutely,” Zaire says, nodding with confidence. “We’re ready to showcase that energy from day one.”
“And the photos will bring that to life too,” Chanda adds.
Eleanor’s face softens just a bit. “Excellent. Let’s see what we can capture today.” She turns to lead the others down to the ice.
Chanda tells me to stay back as she follows them down too, but I’m already setting up in the tunnel. Today, my job is to capture the guys as they head out for their first practice—those exciting shots that tell fans, We’re stoked to be back.
“Go get ’em,” Everly mouths before she joins the others. I nod, giving her a thumbs-up. I so have this. I start framing shots in my head the way I would for a boudoir session—anticipating the poses, the mood, the angle that will capture just the right moment.
Then, the faint scent of soap mixed with a hint of sandalwood reaches me, sending my senses into overdrive. I glance up, and my breath catches when I see Miles striding toward me in full gear, towering in his skates, his broad shoulders filling out his Sea Dogs jersey. I’ve seen him in uniform before, but up close, it’s something else. That royal blue looks too good on him, making my chest flutter and my stomach flip. Or maybe it’s just him. Absently, I run a hand down the front pocket of my jeans, feeling the faint outline of the bag with the bracelet.
Miles stops barely a foot away, face serious, as if he’s got important business to discuss. “We’re pranking the rookies today, and I volunteered to give you the inside scoop,” he says in that deep, businesslike tone .
I match his professionalism with a smirk. “Sounds fun. So, you want pics, I presume?”
“Yes, but…” He pauses, a wry smile breaking through. “Your dad got to us first.”
I snort-laugh before I can help it. Miles shrugs with a that’s life expression, nodding toward the ice. “You’ll see.”
As he heads out, I lift my camera, capturing the perfect shot of him walking through the tunnel, a man on a mission. One by one, the rest of the guys follow, game faces on, but I catch the faint grumbles and eye rolls, a mix of annoyance and resignation.
After snapping a few more shots, I hustle up into the stands, adjusting my camera settings as I slide into the second row, staying on my feet. Anticipation buzzes through me as the guys fly around the rink, taking a few practice laps, getting their ice legs back. Just as I get set up, my dad joins them on the ice in skates and a warm-up suit. That’s unusual—most of the time he sends an assistant coach out to run the practices. This time he’s joined by a row of rookies, who look both nervous and eager as they wait by the boards.
He blows his whistle, sharp and clear, then shouts, “Drills, vets. Show the rookies how it’s done.”
Even from a distance, Asher’s clearly sighing heavily. Max is rolling his eyes. I imagine they’re all groaning out loud, the kind of reluctant groan that comes from getting played by someone sharper, wiser, older. Without another word, they each stick one leg out behind them, balancing awkwardly before racing down the ice on one leg. The sound of their blades slicing into the ice cuts through the crisp air, even reaching my ears.
The camera nearly shakes in my hands as I stifle laughter. The guys wobble and flail, including Miles, but manage somehow to keep it together while the rookies stare, wide-eyed.
Then my dad blows the whistle again. “One-skate sprint, now.”
I nearly break, laughing behind my camera as each of the guys unstraps a skate, clutching it in one hand as they try to balance and shuffle across the ice on one leg as fast as they can. It’s a hilarious, clumsy disaster, and I make sure to capture every glorious second.
When the one-skate drills wrap up, my dad’s whistle pierces the air again. “Rookies! Sprints, now!” The new guys scramble into line in no time.
For the rest of the practice, everything is business as usual, with all the players sprinting, then practicing shooting drills. I snap shots of every moment, documenting the energy and excitement, per Eleanor’s marching orders.
Later that evening, Chanda posts a “We’re Back” carousel, officially welcoming the rookies to the Sea Dogs with a lineup of shots that shows exactly what kind of team they’re joining.
And I sink down onto the couch at the apartment I’m leaving soon, taking the bag out of my pocket at last. Holding the slim silver chain up to the light. Running a finger over the camera charm.
Closing my eyes and picturing Miles putting it on me. I clutch it tight for a beat, my imagination running away.
When I open my eyes, I sit up, bend over and hook it on, the cool metal sliding against my skin, drawing my eyes to my legs.
Probably his, too, if he were here.
Over the next several days, I capture shots of the team running through drills, reviewing plays in the video room, talking to the media—day after day until I finally make it to the end of the week. I’ve somehow managed to juggle this job with my other work, too, including a boudoir session for Katrina. She finally made it, a year after booking, and left the studio absolutely thrilled. The thing I didn’t do this week? I didn’t spend time alone with Miles. I didn’t give in to kissing him. I didn’t flirt with him.
Now, I’m almost packed and ready to move this weekend. Just one last task today: a shoot of the players doing volunteer work outside the arena. After that, I’m done for the week.
The shoot goes smoothly, and as I’m heading to the bus, Miles pulls up in his car, rolls down the window, and grins. “Need a ride home?”
He’s a friend. We’ve proved this week we can do this friendship thing. “Sure.”
Once I’m in the car, he glances down at my ankle, mostly hidden beneath my jeans. “Is it on? The friendship bracelet.”
I raise an eyebrow, the teasing glint in his eyes daring me to answer. “Do you really want to know?”
“I do,” he says, his gaze steady.
I tug up my jeans just enough to reveal the delicate anklet with the tiny camera charm. He lets out a low, sexy rumble.
“I really wish you’d have let me put it on you,” he says, his voice thick with suggestion.
A suggestion that’s hardly friendly at all. I flash back to the day he gave it to me, to the words I said to him. “Maybe later,” I say, but that later feels like now.