2. Camden #2
Camden anchored the helmet against his thigh, forced his shoulders back, and raised his chin toward the camera. The movement pulled at the sore joint beneath his pads, but the camera didn’t need to see that. It needed the franchise face Marcus had spent years teaching him to produce on command.
The creator steadied the rig. “There. Hold that.”
Camden stood beside Chloe beneath the LED glare, battered enough to sell the game and composed enough to sell everything after it.
He gave the lens the smile Marcus wanted.
The content creator lowered the camera and waved them together again.
“Erase the negative space. I need you breathing the same air. Sell me that A-list chemistry.”
Marcus stayed behind the rig, one hand raised as if he were directing traffic. “Closer, Camden. The camera still reads two separate campaigns.”
Camden shifted the helmet against his thigh. “You wanted the helmet in the shot. Pick your geometry.”
“Keep the helmet,” the creator said. “Move the people.”
Chloe stepped toward him before Camden bothered moving. Her perfume hit him a second before her dress brushed against his pants. His knee flared up when he shifted his weight to make room for her, and the ache beneath his shoulder pad had settled into a steady nuisance.
Take the shot. Get to the tub.
Chloe looked up at him with the polished smile she had worn through every campaign meeting since the partnership started. “You know, this would be easier if you stopped looking like somebody dragged you behind the team bus.”
“They tried that in the third quarter.”
“That explains the grass.”
“That and the football game.”
The creator raised the rig again. “Good. Keep talking. Chloe, bring your hands up. Camden, stay where you are.”
She caught the damp collar of his undershirt, tugging it away from his neck before smoothing the edge back into place.
Camden kept his attention on the camera instead of her hand.
The gesture was no different from a stylist fixing a jersey wrinkle before an interview, except this stylist happened to have her own face on billboards across three continents.
Chloe ran two fingers along the sweat-marked collar. “We can’t exactly parade the face of the franchise in front of the sponsors looking like you just survived a street fight, can we?”
“They paid for postgame.” Camden shifted the helmet lower. “This is postgame.”
“At least let me make the damage photograph well.”
“Hold that,” the creator said. “Hands stay exactly there.”
Chloe placed both palms against the front of Camden’s pads.
He barely felt her hands through the pads. She dragged her nails once across his damp jersey before resting her hands against his pads, and the camera began firing in short bursts.
Marcus pointed toward Camden’s free arm.
There it was.
The next required piece of the picture.
“You want the waist,” Camden said.
“I want chemistry.”
“You want a hand on her waist.”
The man gestured as if the distinction bored him. “Yes. That.”
Chloe glanced down at Camden’s free hand. “You heard the artist.”
Camden almost laughed. Not because anything about the setup was funny, but because people had spent six figures on meetings to arrive at something this basic: put two famous people close together and tell the internet there might be sex involved.
Marcus had explained the strategy often enough. Fashion buyers did not care about completion percentages. Football fans did not care about runway campaigns. Put Camden and Chloe together, though, and each audience stared long enough to notice what the other one was selling.
That was the whole trick.
Nothing more.
Camden placed his free hand on Chloe’s waist.
He barely registered the fabric under his hand before his attention returned to the camera.
The helmet stayed pinned against his thigh, his shoulder hurt, his knee was stiffening, and somewhere down the corridor a trainer was probably wondering why the franchise quarterback had vanished after asking for a tub.
“Better,” the creator said. “Chloe, chin toward him. Camden, stop looking like you’re waiting for somebody to blow the whistle.”
“I am waiting for somebody to end this.”
Chloe laughed and left her hands on his pads. “Try pretending you like your job.”
“I love my job.”
“Not this part.”
“Especially not this part.”
The creator kept shooting.
Marcus stepped closer behind the rig. “Give him the campaign smile, son.”
Camden forced the practiced expression back into place.
He had learned that smile years ago. Relax the brow. Lift one corner of the mouth a little higher than the other. Look amused without giving anybody enough sincerity to turn into a headline. It worked after bad games, contract negotiations, charity galas, and sponsor dinners.
It worked now.
Chloe tipped her head toward him as the camera moved closer.
Camden did not need to wonder what the finished photographs would imply. That was the point. The campaign wanted implication without confirmation, enough manufactured interest to keep sports accounts and fashion sites feeding each other for another week.
Tess knew how this worked.
She had watched Marcus build these illusions from the beginning. She knew Chloe was a coworker with a global audience and a contract large enough to justify a few stupid photographs. None of this followed Camden through his own front door.
The public got the pose.
Tess got him.
He had always kept that boundary perfectly clear.
“I owe you one, Chloe,” Camden said, keeping his eyes on the lens. “Let’s knock this promo shot out so my dad can load his executives onto the flight back to Manhattan.”
Chloe’s smile widened. “See? Now you sound cooperative.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
The creator shifted sideways, catching another angle. “Good. Camden, keep the hand there. Chloe, stay against the pads. Give me five more.”
Marcus said nothing now.
He did not need to.
Camden kept the helmet against his thigh, his free hand resting at Chloe’s waist while the camera harvested every angle the campaign people wanted. His knee stiffened, and the loosened buckle under his pads dug into his side whenever he adjusted his stance.
He ignored it all for the next few seconds.
He held the smile until the shutter stopped, then took his hand off Chloe’s waist.
“That’s enough. Coach needs me at the podium.”
The content creator lowered the rig and checked the screen. “I’ve got the frames.”
Marcus pointed toward the main corridor. “Press room first, then sponsors. Don’t disappear.”
Camden was already moving. He tucked the helmet against his side and left the lights behind, letting the campaign chatter die against the concrete as he headed for the medical wing.
His smile went with it. The loose buckle knocked against his ribs with each uneven step, sending a fresh ache shooting through his knee.
The main locker-room entrance boiled with reporters waiting for players to emerge. Microphones and camera equipment crowded the corridor beyond the security rope. Camden kept to the opposite wall and slipped through the restricted door before anyone could peel away from the pack.
The rehabilitation room offered no applause, no instructions about chemistry, and no one asking him to look pleased about being bruised.
That alone made it useful.
He crossed to the nearest padded treatment table and set the helmet at the foot, making sure the shell stayed clear of the edge.
With both hands free, he lowered himself onto the table.
The padding sank beneath his weight. He leaned back, immediately shifting to keep pressure off his injured shoulder.
A cooler sat beside the table.
Camden leaned down, lifted the lid, and took out a prepared ice pack. He pressed it against the front of his knee.
The first bite of cold made his leg jerk.
“About damn time.”
The equipment manager appeared in the doorway with a bottle of water in one hand. He took in the ice on Camden’s knee, then the crooked line of his pads.
“Four minutes until head coach needs you at the microphones. You want a water bottle?”
“No water. Need to freeze this joint.”
“Knee or shoulder first?”
“Knee.” Camden adjusted the pack when it started slipping sideways. “Shoulder gets the tub after press.”
The manager looked at the loosened buckle. “You want me to strip the pads while you’re sitting there?”
Camden shook his head. “If they call me early, I’m not fighting back into them.”
“Fair point.”
The equipment manager set the unopened bottle on a nearby counter instead.
Voices carried from the corridor, overlapping questions aimed at players heading toward the press area.
Someone called Camden’s name from farther down the hall, followed by another reporter asking whether the fourth-quarter hit had affected his throwing arm.