Page 89 of Slapshot Bride

“Easton…”

“Yeah?”

“Where are we?”

“You’ll see. Just a few minutes.”

I pull up to the gate. It opens for me. I drive up the gravel drive to the main house. The greenhouse is behind it, a long, low arc of glass with fog on the inside from the morning damp.

She stares at it.

“W-where’s this?”

“Your studio for today, and I can be your muse, if you’ll have me.”

A smile stretches my lips.

“F-for me?” Her eyes find me just as the engine roars to a stop.

“Just a little something to get the week off your mind, baby.”

“E-Easton…”

She looks at me.

She turns her face and looks at the greenhouse again, and her hand comes up to her mouth, and she doesn't say anything for a long time. When she looks at me again, I see her eyes glistening.

“Shhh…” I reach across and wipe at the tears. I lean in and kiss her temple. “Come on, sweetheart.”

I get out. I come around and open her door.

She steps out with the camera around her neck already, and she walks toward the greenhouse, still in awe, and I lean against the car and let her go ahead of me.

I let her have the first fifteen minutes alone.

I know how she works now.

She needs to walk the space, find the light, and the right positions and angles. Then she’ll run a quick test with a few shots, and thereafter, get into the real thing.

A few times, she’ll come over, show me different shots and ask what I think, then she’ll ask me to pose with a grin on her face, and I’ll make funny faces while she’s at it. Because anything to put a smile on her face and have her unleash that carefree spirit.

After a while, I sit on a low bench near the door and just watch her work.

She's in the back corner, crouched, the camera up, framing a spray of white orchids against the glass with the canyon behind it. The shutter clicks. She adjusts. Two steps left. Shutter. Advance. She has forgotten I'm here.

My phone lights up in my pocket.

I ignore it.

It lights up again.

Then it lights up a third time in ten seconds.

The disturbance annoys me. I keep my eyes fixed on Riley even as I pull the device from my pants pocket, not wanting to miss even a second.

My eyes dart to the screen.

Diane. Four missed calls. Coach Brennan. Two missed calls. Three text messages from Kai. One from the team publicist. And a news alert from ESPN sitting at the top of the screen with a photograph on the thumbnail that I would recognize from any distance, in any cap, at any resolution.