Now I’m the official videographer for the men’s water polo team––a dream come true. I have a posse of girlfriends. The ankle’s almost completely healed. And then there’s Reagan…my chauffeur…my dilemma…the object of my dirty fantasies. The guy I spend all my spare time with, which makes the prior statement a problem.
Immediately following our first taco night––what he’s calling Thursdays––the texts started coming in and most of them look like this…
Big Deal: jumping out of an airplane?
Me: Uhhh what?
Big Deal: you said you’d try anything.
Me: With a parachute?
Big Deal: yes bailey.
Me: Yes, then. But only after a thoroughly accredited instructor teaches me how. I don’t have a death wish.
Big Deal: yeah. you haven’t even had sex that’s better than food yet. might want to put that on the list before jumping out of a plane.
Me: Go away.
It hasn’t been dull.
“You don’t have to pick me up. The ankle’s almost as good as new.”
“I’ll pick you up from the library.”
We’ve had this conversation multiple times. It started with him insisting he drive me to each practice I filmed because I needed someone to “carry my precious camera equipment.” According to him, taking the shuttle would’ve “placed it in grave danger.” I couldn’t very well thwart all the effort he put into this harebrained explanation so I agreed.
After having spent every spare minute together for the past few weeks I can say without a shadow of a doubt that Reagan is one of the good guys. He’s not just a pretty face and a hot body. The man/boy is all heart. He’s sweet and understanding, and despite the fact that he sees me as an asexual amoeba with a dry sense of humor, I like him.
I like his company. I like his shitty film quotes and his curious nature. I like his upbeat attitude. But most of all, I like that Reagan doesn’t have a single mean bone in his body. Basically, he makes it impossible not to like him.
He said he’s not looking for a relationship. Translation: he wants to play the field. Got it. Message received. No judgment. He was warning me off. Except every hot stare I get from him says otherwise and the more time we spend together the harder it’s getting to ignore them.
Thus, the dilemma. Which is not really a dilemma for him. Only for me, the one in this “friends only” agreement who can’t seem to remember that.
“Can I see the camera?”
“No.”
I stick my leg out, stretch out the ankle. I’ve been doing a lot of rotational stretching exercises. It’s close to completely healed but I’m still being extremely careful with it.
The boys had a late practice today. A scrimmage. Four on four. I got tons of usable footage with my cinecamera and finished with stills.
I finally understand how physically and mentally taxing his practices are. This is only the third time I’ve filmed them and I’m still in awe. All that explosive energy being expended––I won’t mince words; it’s a major turn-on. Watching them do sprints alone makes me want to take a long nap…naked…with a friend.
Speaking of friends. The camera definitely loves his face. Slanted brows pulled low over focused emerald eyes. Mouth fixed in a pensive pout. Jaw scruffy. Reagan usually shaves so this is new, worth investigating. I take a picture.
“Are you taking pictures of me while denying me access to your toys?” I ignore his question, keep shooting. “C’mon, can I?” he persists.
He’s talking about my prized baby. “That’s like asking a mother if you can hold her newborn. It’s my Blackmagic––my precious. I have five grand invested in that camera. More with all the attachments.”
Reagan’s gaze meets mine. He’s seated two rows down from me, which puts us eye to eye. “I’ll be gentle.” His voice dips low, curves around me, and gets inside.
And so it goes. This constant flirtation. The heavily veiled innuendos that coming from anyone else would mean zilch. But they’re not coming from anyone else. They’re coming from him. And, no, I really don’t think I’m reading too much into it.
His sensual lips are pried apart by the mother of all sexy grins. This is exactly what I’m talking about. He shouldn’t be smiling at me like that. It’s just plain wrong. You know what else is wrong? Lusting after the one person I am forbidden to lust after.
I take another picture. He narrows his eyes and I take two more. “You’re a proven klutz,” I remind him.
“I’m good for it.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“I’ll feed you if you let me hold it.”
I snort. “Does that line usually work for you?” Pressing down a smile, I refocus the lens for a closeup of his eyes. Take a few more.
“I don’t have to bribe them with food, babe.”
We’re talking about his women. The smorgasbord. I can’t imagine he’s been able to do much “dating.” Between practice, games, and me all his time is accounted for. And he hasn’t mentioned seeing anyone.
Unless he’s having them come over late at night.
Shit. I shouldn’t have done that. Contemplating it makes my stomach sour. My head knows we’re only friends. My heart and the rest of my body strongly object to this arrangement.
My eyes trace down the line of his pec where it leads to the groove between his cobbled abs, to the fine brown hair that thickens below his belly button. Zoe wasn’t wrong. His body is a work of art. Photographing him naked would be amazing but I’m too chicken shit to ask him.
His eyes slide up from the camera bag, two heat-seeking missiles that lock onto mine.
“Your bedroom eyes don’t work on me, Flipper. Save it for the Speedo chasers.” He keeps staring, eyelids heavy. I hate him. “Fine. Go ahead, babe.”
He takes the cinecamera out of the foam protective case, holds it in his big hands with reverence.
“And you’ll feed me anyway.” Since the first night he drove me to study class two weeks ago, we’ve eaten one meal together at least every other day. It’s like I no longer need a food budget because he usually sends me back to the dorm with extra. “It’s mind boggling how much food you consume.”
“Imma growing boy.”
He’s six foot two inches. “I hope not. That’d be scary.”
“I need to eat around 7,000 calories a day during the season. That’s scary. You know how much food it takes in the right balance of sixty-twenty-twenty of carbs, proteins, and fats?”
“Yes, I do. I watch you do it all the time.” The man is constantly eating and I’m getting an increasingly alarming amount of texts that look like this…
Big Deal: u hungry?
Never any capitals. Never. He never capitalizes. What’s that about? Is this a new thing? Everyone too lazy to capitalize now? What’s next, are we going to do away with commas altogether and just use periods?
He looks through the viewfinder of my camera, points it at me. “You really love it, huh? Filming, making movies?”
There’s no need to even consider the answer. It trips from my tongue effortlessly. “Nothing I love more outside of my family.” Playing with the camera, he nods. “What about you, Rea. What do you love?”
He looks up, looks off. “I don’t know yet…But if I could choose anything, I’d choose to see the world.”
Of all the things he could’ve said, this one surprises me. “Haven’t you seen a lot of it already? Surely the family Reynolds summers in Europe?”
He shakes his head. “When Brian and I were kids, my parents worked nonstop. We sometimes went to Mexico for Christmas. That was about it. Once my parents started working less, Brian had already started using. We couldn’t go anywhere––not with him. So we never traveled as a family after that.” He shrugs. “Water polo was taking up most of my time by then anyway.”
How ironic. All that money and still denied the one thing he wanted. “Where would you go first?”
His head lifts, eyes focus, searching my face for God knows what. It dawns on me then that he’s searching for an answer. “Has no one ever asked you?”
He shakes his head, loses himself in thought for a bit. “Patagonia…The Great Wall of China. Iceland. Kenya…” He smiles, warming up to the subject. But that smile slowly creeping up? It’s nothing but trouble.
“New Jersey.”
“Jerk,” I grumble and he laughs. “Go ahead and laugh it up, asshole. New Jersey is not known as the Garden State for nothing, I’ll have you know.” I take more pictures while he wipes his eyes, the laughter slowly dying.
Entering the arena through the locker room door, Brock approaches. He’s a big, intimidating guy on any given day. Wearing sweats with a hoody up and a black backpack slung over a shoulder like he is now, however, makes him look a little murdery.
Seeing us, he smiles knowingly. Whatever he’s assuming, he’s wrong.
“I’m going to the store. You need anything?” he asks Reagan, stops at the bleachers where we’re hanging out.
“I’m good. Bailey and I are going out to eat.”
“Yeah? Where?”
“Neptune’s.”
“Cool. Mind if I come along?”
“Sorry, man. Just us.”
Totally awkward silence ensues. During which a flush starts at my collarbone and covers my entire face faster than you can ask what just happened.
From behind the viewfinder, my eyes slowly lift. Feeling awful and complicit in this rudeness, they meet Brock’s with a silent apology in them. Meanwhile, Reagan continues to fiddle with my camera.
“Guess I’ll see you at home, then. Bye, Alice.”
“Yeah, bro. See you later.”
“Bye, Brock.”
While Brock walks away, Reagan gently tucks the camera back in its protective case inside my camera bag. “Ready?” he says, doing everything in his power to avoid eye contact.