Chapter 61: The makeup department’s favorite little miracle

​Up front, Marcus tapped his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel, completely oblivious to the silent, chaotic war raging in his backseat as he guided the SUV smoothly into the downtown studio’s underground parking garage.

The tires screeched softly against the smooth concrete floor, the sudden, dim fluorescent lighting casting long, dramatic shadows across the leather seats.

​"Alright, boys, we’re here," Marcus called out, shifting the vehicle into park with a heavy click.

He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned around to look at us, his expression a mix of exhausted manager and hopeful publicist.

"The production crew is already set up on stage two. They want to start with the individual portraits first, and then they’ll bring you both together for the dual shots. Evans, remember what Devin said—give them a smile. McCoy, try not to look like you’re about to buy the studio and fire everyone."

​"I’m always a professional, Marcus," Reid said smoothly, his voice sliding back into that perfectly polished rich boy public persona as he reached for the door handle.

​He stepped out of the SUV first, his towering, imposing frame immediately cutting through the cold garage air.

As I carefully swung my legs out of the car, mindful of the tight, throbbing ache under my pain patch, Reid didn’t walk ahead. He paused by the open door, his body blocking Marcus’s line of sight for a fraction of a second.

​He didn’t offer to help me—he knew better than to insult my captain’s pride in public—but as his smoky eyes locked onto mine, he let out a low, barely audible whisper.

​"After you, Captain. Let’s go show the fans our perfect synergy."

I clicked my tongue and got out of the car.

We walked up to Stage Two, passing through a few quiet concrete hallways and heavy doors before the space finally opened up into the production zone. The quiet hum of the underground garage was instantly replaced by the busy chatter of the crew, the bright flashes of studio lights, and the heavy smell of fresh coffee.

​The production crew was efficient, descending on us the moment Marcus cleared our arrival with the floor manager.

​"Evans, McCoy, perfect timing. Right this way, gentlemen," a woman with a tablet guided us toward a pair of makeup chairs under a row of bright vanity stations.

​I sat down heavily, grateful for a moment to take the pressure off my left side. The stylist immediately went to work, dusting a neutral powder over my forehead to cut the sheen from practice and adjusting the collar of my sweater.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Reid sink into the adjacent chair. He didn’t even blink at the attention, tilting his chin up automatically with the practiced ease of someone who was way too used to this. He looked entirely in his element.

Unlike when we posed for the Jumbotron, this time, we were getting makeup. And though it was not my first time getting makeup done on me, I could never get used to it.

​"Honestly, it’s such a relief working on your face, Evans," the makeup artist dusting my forehead murmured, a genuine, appreciative smile on her face. "The Alphas playing this sport are almost all a bunch of handsome brutes. They usually hate makeup, and even when we get them to sit down, it’s so hard to line them up without the foundation looking completely obvious on their thick skin."

​She stepped back slightly, admiring her handiwork with a soft hum.

​"But your skin is so soft and clean. It absorbs the makeup beautifully. We barely have to do any blending to get you camera-ready. I wish every player on the Serpents had a canvas like yours."

​I kept my face strictly neutral, a cold spike of panic shooting straight down my spine at her words. Soft skin. Easy to blend. It was a biological trait I couldn’t entirely mask with suppressants—the natural texture of an Omega that set me completely apart from the rough, thick-skinned Alphas and Betas in the league.

​I didn’t dare glance to my left, but I could practically feel Reid’s smoky grey eyes locking onto me from the next chair.

​"Is that so?" Reid’s smooth, lazy drawl vibrated through the small space between our vanities. I could hear the immediate, dangerous amusement bubbling beneath his polished front. "Hear that, Cap? Sounds like you’re the makeup department’s favorite little miracle."

​"Just do your job, McCoy," I gritted out, my jaw tightening as the artist leaned back in to finish my brow line.

​"Oh, don’t worry, Reid, we’ll get to you next," the other stylist laughed, completely blind to the suffocating tension passing between the two of us.

​"Take your time," Reid murmured, his voice dropping into that low, private register that always made my pulse spike. "I’m content just watching the Captain get pampered."

I rolled my eyes. He was such a headache.

​"Alright, Captain, we’re going to start with you on the main backdrop," the photographer called out, waving me over to a massive grey sweep that dominated the center of the room as soon as I got down from the chair.

Giant softboxes hung from the ceiling, ready to blind me.

​I walked into the center of the lights and took my position.

​"Beautiful. Now give me that classic, steady Captain look. Focus right into the lens," the photographer directed, the heavy camera clicking rapidly. Snap. Snap. "Great. Now, Evans, Coach Devin mentioned we need something a bit warmer for the season banners. Give us a smile. Let the fans see that confidence."

​I forced my jaw to relax, lifting the corners of my mouth into a practiced, professional grin. It was a mask I had worn a thousand times for post-game interviews, but today, with the ghost of a dominant Alpha’s scent still faintly lingering in my senses and a synthetic patch tingling against my neck, the smile felt incredibly heavy.

​"Perfect! Hold that—just like that," the camera flared repeatedly.

​"Alright, McCoy, you’re up for individual track," the floor manager called out.