Chapter 62: Give the fans a big grin

​I gladly stepped out of the blinding white glare, walking toward the catering table to grab a bottle of water. I leaned against an equipment crate, watching as Reid took my place in the center of the sweep.

​The transformation was immediate. The second Reid stepped under the lights, the lazy, childish brat from the car vanished.

He squared his broad shoulders, his smoky grey eyes locking onto the camera lens with a piercing, intense focus that practically radiated power.

He didn’t need to be told how to pose; his movements were fluid, carried by an innate arrogance that the camera absolutely loved. He looked like the definition of a rogue prodigy—untouchable, dangerous, and completely aware of his own value.

​Snap. Snap.

​"Incredible, Reid. Just like that. Now, look slightly to the left... perfect," the photographer gushed, completely charmed by him.

​I took a slow sip of water, my blank face remaining tightly fixed as I watched him dominate the space. Just look at him posing for the camera. There was no denying why the front office wanted him on every billboard in Seattle. He was born for the spotlight.

​"Okay, let’s bring them together for the dual shots!" the director shouted into a headset. "We need the ’Synergy’ layout now. Banners and digital covers."

​My stomach tightened. I set my water bottle down and walked back into the white glare of the softboxes, my boots clicking softly against the seamless paper.

​"Alright, boys, I want you shoulder-to-shoulder," the photographer directed, gesturing with his hands. "We’re selling the unified front here. The veteran captain and the star rookie. Close the gap, don’t be shy."

​Reid didn’t hesitate. He stepped up right beside me, his massive frame instantly blocking out the light on my left side. He turned his body slightly inward, his broad shoulder firmly anchoring against mine with a heavy, solid pressure that sent an immediate jolt of electricity straight to my spine.

​"Closer, guys. Face the lens, but lean into each other a bit. Show that team bond," the director called out from behind the monitor.

​Before I could adjust, Reid’s arm came up, his large hand casually wrapping around my right shoulder, pulling me tightly into his side to close the distance.

The sudden proximity was suffocating.

The heat of his palm burned through my sweater, right on the edge of my collarbone, and as he leaned in, a concentrated drift of frozen pine—sharp and demanding—bypassed my synthetic block entirely.

​My inner Omega did a violent, desperate flip, my breath catching in my throat as his dominant biological presence flooded my system under the blinding heat of the studio lights. My heart began to hammer frantically against my bad ribs.

​"Excellent! Hold that posture, Evans. Give me that smile again!" the photographer yelled, raising the camera.

​"Yeah, Cap," Reid’s low, rumbled voice vibrated directly against my ear, entirely too quiet for the microphones to catch, dripping with a dark, victorious malice. "Give the fans a big grin. Show them how much you love your rookie."

I was this close to shoving him away but I remained calm.

"Alright, we need the high-intensity sports-rivalry concept now. Give me the team handshake, and then we’re going into the forehead press."

​My stomach did a violent downward drop.

​The forehead press.

​It was a standard, high-stakes sports promo shot—two key players, face-to-face, foreheads practically touching, staring each other down to convey intense gridiron fire and competitive synergy.

But doing that with Reid wasn’t a standard promo. It meant bringing our faces into the exact same radius. It meant breathing in his air.

​"Step right up, boys," the photographer directed, gesturing to the center of the grey seamless paper. "Let’s start with the handshake. Firm grip, right in the center. Look at the lens first."

​Reid extended his right hand. I took it, locking my fingers into his in a textbook, rigid athlete’s grip. But the second our palms met, Reid tightened his fingers, his grip turning into a solid, unyielding squeeze that went far beyond a professional greeting.

​Snap. Snap. Snap.

​"Great! Now hold the hand grip, but turn in toward each other," the director instructed from behind the monitor. "Close the distance. I want your foreheads pressed together. Eyeballs to eyeballs. Give me that raw, unyielding line-one intensity."

​I took a reluctant step forward, my core bracing against the sudden, sharp pull in my left ribs.

​Reid didn’t hesitate. He stepped deeply into my personal space, his broad shoulders completely blocking out the rest of the studio. He leaned down, his face closing the gap until the smooth, warm skin of his forehead firmly pressed against mine.

​The proximity was absolute madness.

​Our noses were barely an inch apart, our breaths mingling in the tight space between our lips. From this close, the sheer, suffocating weight of his dominant pheromones was very thick.

It flooded my nose, heavy and demanding, instantly triggering that weak, hyper-reliant ache deep in my Omega. My heart hammered violently against my chest, a flush creeping up my neck despite the powder.

​I locked my eyes onto his, forcing a flat, deadpan, combative stare to keep my mask from shattering.

​But Reid wasn’t looking at me like a teammate. Up close, beneath the blinding glare of the studio lights, his smoky grey eyes were dark, burning with a victorious, predatory amusement. His forehead maintained a firm, heavy pressure against mine, anchoring me right in his orbit.

​"You’re breathing a little hard, Captain," Reid whispered, his lips barely moving, his low voice vibrating directly against my mouth, completely untraceable by the crew.

His grip on my hand tightened even more, his thumb delivering a slow, deliberate stroke against my knuckles.

"What happened to that untouchable composure?"

​"Shut up, McCoy," I gritted out through a tight, forced smile, my jaw aching as I fought the biological urge to lean into his heat. "Just do the shot."

​"Beautiful! Hold that! The tension is incredible!" the photographer yelled excitedly, the camera flaring repeatedly in a blinding sequence of white light. "Exactly like that! Don’t move!"

The blinding white strobe lights flashed one final, intense time before the photographer lowered his camera with a loud, ecstatic sigh.

​"And... wrap! That’s a wrap on the dual shots, gentlemen! Phenomenal work, absolutely phenomenal. The intensity was bleeding off the screen."