Chapter Six
Jesse
I’ve never worn so much makeup in my life as I have for one fucking photoshoot. Maybe if I hadn’t sustained a black eye from practice yesterday, this could have been avoided. Or they could have still layered me with shit I don’t know the name of for the sake of the camera.
“Are we done yet?” I mumble, still in the robe they gave me when they told me to strip down into nothing but the underwear I’m sponsoring.
The makeup artist shoots me an apologetic look. “Sorry. They just wanted me to do a few more touchups before you go back out there to run your lines.”
What other touch ups could they possibly do?
I’ve been sitting in the chair for the past hour after spending over forty minutes being directed how to pose and which lens to look at for the first half of the shoot.
They gave me a break before setting up a new backdrop where I have to film a few lines for their commercial, so they sent me back in the chair until they were done and told me to relax.
Except, I can’t relax. I’ve always hated this part of my job.
Being the face of products puts me on edge when I feel like I should be doing something more productive than telling fans to buy something.
Clarissa, the artist painting me like a damn renaissance portrait, starts putting something on my scar which makes me flinch back. “What are you doing?”
She pauses, nibbling her bottom lip as she looks at someone behind me. “The director asked me to cover it for the commercial.”
I stiffen. “Not happening.”
“But—”
I stand, forcing her to take a step back and give me room. “It’s bad enough you put three pounds of makeup on me already. You’re not covering the scar. It stays.”
When I got a blade to the face in my early years on the league, I’d had the opportunity to fix the marred skin. But hockey is a violent sport. Half of us have fake teeth and nose jobs from the number of beatings we take. Vanity isn’t any of our top priority. At least, it sure as hell isn’t mine.
She goes to argue, but my agent comes up to me with her phone still in her hand like it’s been all morning fielding calls about some other sponsorship deal. “What’s the matter?” she asks, looking at the tension on my face then at Clarissa.
“Nothing,” I inform her. “I was just telling them that if they want me to do their commercial, they’ll have to deal with the scar.”
The news of them covering it seems as much of a surprise to Amber, my agent, as it does to me.
She pins the makeup artist with a look, and if looks could kill the poor girl would be fetal position on the floor.
“You must be new here. The scar is a signature of his. If the campaign didn’t want it, they shouldn’t have signed him on.
If they want a pretty face that hasn’t seen the same ice time, they could have asked a rookie to be here. ”
Amber is not one to be messed with, so Clarissa quickly presses her mouth together and nods her flushed face.
It isn’t her fault. She’s just doing what she’s told.
But my agent is right. As much as I hate that nearly a million people follow a fan page for my scar, it makes no sense to cover it after all these years. It’s part of who I am.
Thankfully, nobody seems to challenge us the rest of the day.
I have a feeling Amber’s no-nonsense expression—or her resting bitch face as she calls it—has something to do with that.
Nonetheless, the last few hours fly by. I say my lines, only have to do it twice, before washing up and changing to get the hell out of the studio.
“Hold up,” Amber calls out, her stiletto heels clicking as she jogs to catch up with me.
I knew the second I saw her walking in shoes with a heel higher than my ice skates that she’s not afraid to fuck around and find out.
I respect her attitude toward the job, and how direct she is.
Even if there are times I wish she’d give me some breaks between these side gigs.
I slow my pace to let her catch up to my long strides. “What’s up?”
She types something out on her phone before looking up at me.
“There’s a new sports drink coming into the market that reached out about you being the face of their product.
Normally, I don’t bother with new businesses because they hardly have any money to offer for deals.
But they’re different. Their parent company owns Red Bull. ”
I make a face. “I hate Red Bull.”
Amber scoffs. “You hate everything that isn’t water or packed with protein.”
Not true, but I don’t point that out. “And you’re bringing them up because…?”
She grabs my arm to stop me from continuing to the parking lot. “Because their drinks are packed with protein and low in sugar.”
Definitely unheard of with most energy drinks. “And?” I press because it’s obvious there’s more.
Amber slides her phone into her purse and crosses her arms over her chest. “Apparently, the head of marketing is friends with your stepsister. They know they can’t offer you the same amount of money as other companies can, but they figured they’d reach out anyway.”
Belle doesn’t have that many friends. “What was the name?”
“Isaac Andrews.”
The name makes me want to frown, but I refrain from having any reaction.
Isaac went to college with Belle and took some of the same classes. They went out a few times but were never as serious as Belle wanted them to be. His little sister, Sadie, became close with my stepsister after they broke up and all but begged them to try getting back together.
I wish I could say I didn’t keep tabs on him, but I did. Which is how I know he’s now engaged and living with his fiancée in Boston. I had no idea what he did for work, though, or if he keeps in touch with Belle.
“Do you know him?” she asks when she sees me mulling it over.
I wish I didn’t, I almost mumble. “Yeah. I know him. Decent dude.” Belle was sad when things didn’t pan out between them, but he didn’t break her heart.
He was always nice enough whenever I was around, and she didn’t have a bad thing to say about the guy.
“Do I have time to think it over? I’ve already signed on to two other sponsorships, and I don’t want the obligations to wear me thin on top of the season.
You’ve already got me booked for two commercials and a magazine feature during my bye week. ”
Plus, I have no clue if I’m interested in giving Isaac my time, even if he was able to pay me.
And it has nothing to do with my swamped schedule and everything to do with Belle.
I don’t like the idea of them being around each other to catch up, even if he is engaged.
That hasn’t stopped men from doing shady shit in the past, and I’m not sure what I’d do if I saw him flirt with her.
Amber, thankfully, doesn’t see the internal debate waging in my head. “Think about it for a couple days and call me. We can go over details if you decide you’re interested. I’m sure Belle will have an opinion when you bring it up to her.”
“How did you—”
She snorts at me, almost offended I’d even have to ask. “Oh, please. The second I said my contact knew your sister I saw it in your eyes.”
“Stepsister,” I correct almost on instant.
Amber gives me a pointed look. “Exactly.”
She slides her sunglasses on even though the sun is barely breaking through the clouds and walks away. “Let me know what you two decide,” she calls out, before getting into her brand-new Mercedes with a smirk that tells me she knows a little too much.
When I get into my car, I pull out my phone and search Isaac’s name online. When it takes me to his Instagram and I see the photos of him and his fiancée, I tell myself it doesn’t matter. But just like Amber, I know I’m lying to myself.
*
Dennis Slater is one of the most decorated players in the National Hockey League, and I always had a deep-rooted respect for the man.
He’d offer pointers to anyone who asked, and it was an advantage that he’s been my father’s best friend since childhood.
His support got me an extra nudge toward the success I dreamed about since trying on my first pair of skates.
“There’s the man of the hour,” the retired athlete greets, standing from the table he and my father secured in the back of the restaurant to extend his hand out.
His grip is as firm as I remember, not nearly matching the easygoing smile warming his face. The first time Belle had met him at our parents wedding, she’d admitted he intimated her with his size and hard exterior. But Dennis is the type of athlete I strive to be. Graceful. Dedicated. Humble.
“Sorry I’m late,” I apologize, giving my dad’s shoulder a squeeze after greeting his best friend.
I pull the chair out from across the men and drop down, taking the cold water at my spot and chugging over half of it.
“Rough day?” Dad asks, eyebrows arching as I wipe the back of my mouth off.
I scoff. “Had a photoshoot.”
He knows how much I hate the PR work that comes with this career.
If they’re not putting makeup on you, they’re giving you the most ridiculous outfit to wear that you’d never buy yourself in a million years.
I told Amber that I wouldn’t do any deals unless I’d actually purchase the product.
I’m not about to get fans to buy something I’d never truly endorse.
Dennis chuckles. “I remember those days well. Part of the long game, but not the fun game. I signed a deal with Gillette to promote their razors during my years with Tampa Bay.”
I quirk a brow. “Really?”
Back then, he’d been known for his beard. He played for Toronto in his early years, saying facial hair kept him warm when he lived in Canada. It’d become as much as his signature as my scar is for me.