Freaking Unicorn #2
He steps out of the shorts, leaving him in fitted black compression briefs, then walks towards his bag to collect the first pair. “You’ve never seen a guy in boxers?”
Valid question.
I have seen guys in boxers.
Athletes have also seen each other naked approximately nine thousand times and probably stopped recognising underwear as a state of undress during high school.
I am the only person behaving strangely.
“I have,” I say. “I thought you might be more comfortable.”
“I’m good.” He glances around at the other athletes. “They’ve all seen my ass.”
Mike steps into the first pair and pulls them up.
That makes fitting a lot faster I guess.
I can feel Will’s attention burning through the side of my face while I examine Mike’s waist, thighs and the way the fabric sits across his hips.
“Good,” I say, moving several steps back. “Turn around.”
He turns.
The shorts are good. Dark charcoal, fitted without becoming aggressively tight, and short enough to show his legs without looking like he has accidentally purchased the women’s version. Good movement. No strange pulling at the seams.
“Take off the shirt.”
A dumbbell hits the floor behind me with a hard metallic thud. Every head in the room turns. Will stands beside the rack, jaw tight, looking towards Mike and me.
Nate glances at Will. “Slipped?”
Nobody answers. Will bends, picks it up and returns it to the rack.
I look back at Mike. He is already pulling his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the bench.
There is nothing unusual about Mike’s body. That is not to say it is unimpressive. He is a Division One football player with wide shoulders, a defined chest and strong abdominal muscles. Perfect for a gym.
“I’m thinking body oil,” I say. “Not too much. Just enough to catch the light. We’ll have you do twenty push-ups before each set to make everything pop.”
One of the football players whistles. That encourages Mike to turn towards him and flex his muscles. Better. I love guys who love their muscles. That means they won’t be shy in front of camera and possibly three other people who tell them how to pose.
“Like this?” He curls his biceps.
“Never do that during the actual shoot.”
The room laughs.
I am not. “I’m serious. We want naturally hot, not man-performing-hot. The audience needs to believe you accidentally look like this while exercising.”
“I do accidentally look like this.”
“Perfect. Preserve the delusion.”
I take several test photographs, moving around him to check how the shorts sit from each angle. The black is clean and dependable, although slightly basic. Dark charcoal and navy works better against his skin. Bright blue, on the other hand, is an immediate crime.
“No.” I make a face.
“What’s wrong with blue?” Mike looks down at himself.
“It makes you look pale.”
Not the good kind of pale that suggests winter sun and expensive skincare. Blue makes him look as though somebody has recently removed him from a basement.
He changes into the final pair, shorter and darker, then sits on the bench while I examine how the fabric moves when his legs bend. The cut rides slightly upwards across his thighs.
That may help the campaign.
It may also turn the campaign into pornography.
“Can I adjust the hem?” I ask, approaching the bench.
“Go for it.” No hesitation.
I crouch in front of him and loosen the fabric around one thigh, then the other, pulling it down slightly so it lies flatter.
I need Jenny’s opinion.
“Maddy.” Will’s voice comes from behind me. Slow. Controlled.
My hands remain against Mike’s upper thighs as I look over my shoulder.
He is standing beside the pull-up bar now, one hand resting against the frame. “Is that necessary?”
I glance at my hand, which is still holding the edge of Mike’s shorts. Then because Will’s gaze hasn’t left mine, I rise and step back, holding my phone in front of me.
“The client might change their mind about Mike’s level of sexiness on the day,” I explain. “I need options.”
I turn back to Mike.
“Put your left leg forward.”
He does.
“Forty-five degrees towards me. Other leg back. Good. Now lean forward slightly and hold the dumbbells like you’re having the best day of your life.”
Mike lifts them. “I don’t normally smile during curls.”
“Today you’re thrilled.”
“Why?”
“You love fitness, academic excellence and the product you’re pretending to use.”
“The gym?”
“Exactly. Give me emotionally stable joy.”
The football players laugh again. My housemate does not.
He has started his set on the pull-up bar with such a slow, controlled strength that makes the muscles across his back pull visibly beneath the compression shirt.
He completes one repetition, lowers himself, then immediately begins another as though God has personally challenged him.
“Better. Chin down. Look past me.” I snap back to directing Mike.
The remaining poses were easy enough, switching between sitting and standing shots.
He is a good choice for the first campaign because he knows how to take instruction without becoming self-conscious, and when he smiles, he loses some of the intimidating football-player bulk.
After another fifteen minutes, I look through the photos and nod.
The shorter pair may work in seated photographs if we adjust the angle and ensure nothing becomes the accidental centrepiece.
“Hot,” I announce.
Mike beams. “What kind of hot?”
“Approachable hot.”
“Meaning?”
“Very kissable. Like you would give somebody a good kiss, but you’re not standing around begging them to choose you.”
Silence enters my brain approximately half a second after the words leave my mouth.
I should have said clickable. What?
I was going to say lickable, realised that would be an extremely poor choice with Will standing nearby, and somehow selected kissable as the safer alternative.
“Kissable?” Mike tilts his head while leaning one shoulder against the equipment rack. “If it makes you want to kiss me, I guess whatever we’re doing is working.”
I nod much too quickly. “Exactly.”
My gaze betrays me and moves towards Will.
He is still doing pull-ups. He should have finished the set several years ago.
Before I say anything else capable of incriminating me professionally, emotionally or sexually, I collect the rejected shorts and shove them into the canvas bag.
“Great fitting,” I tell Mike. “I’ll send the samples to Jenny and confirm the final look.”
Nate watches me with the fascinated expression of somebody who has accidentally discovered a new television series. “Leaving already, baby girl?”
“I have everything I need.”
“What about the grey pair?” Mike asks innocently.
“Emergency backup.” I’m already half way backing towards the door.
“I haven’t tried it.”
Mike. Now is not the time to bring up admins or logistics or the last pair of gym shorts.
Will drops from the pull-up bar but I refuse to look at him again.
“Maddy.” Will calls out.
His eyes find mine, darker this time. Then he slowly smirks. The way he says my name carries the suggestion of a conversation, which is exactly why I keep walking.
“Busy!” My voice rises high as I push through the training-room door and march quickly down the corridor.
Entirely normal Saturday.
Freaking unicorn.