Chapter Text
First-day nerves were staging a coup. My coffee tasted like chalk, my hands wouldn’t stay still, and I’d already checked the address to Richmond’s training grounds three times.
The week before, I’d pretended the job didn’t exist. I deep-cleaned my flat, alphabetized my playlists, baked muffins for no one. It wasn’t denial. It was containment. Because I wasn’t just excited; I was giddy at the thought of this new, big-name, grown-up job.
After five years of hustling (big cities, tiny apartments, bad lighting, worse clients) I’d finally built something that looked like a career. My break had come on an editorial cover with an actress known for perfect smiles and red carpets. I’d asked her to take off the makeup, sit by the window, and just be. The photo that ran wasn’t polished. It was raw, sad, human. That’s always been my thing: to catch people in the breath between who they are and who they’re pretending to be. My camera sees the soft parts we hide and says, look, it’s still beautiful.
But the hustle has a way of hollowing you out. Five years later, my suitcase felt more like a roommate than luggage. I started craving all the things I’d sworn I didn’t need: a closet, a home that remembered me when I left. Quiet. Passion, but balance. Boundaries. Value that didn’t depend on what I could give away.
And somehow, that led me here to Richmond. Football—sorry, soccer. Hardly a natural fit. But then there was Keeley Jones, PR hurricane and human sunbeam, waving her hands through our Zoom interview like she was conducting an orchestra. “We need more than match photos,” she’d said. “Behind-the-scenes reels, player spotlights, cheeky banter. That’s how you make fans fall in love.”
That I could do. Maybe even better than anything I’d done before.
Walking through the little world of Richmond settled the butterflies fluttering in my stomach…well, almost. The town looked like something out of a postcard: crooked streets, flower boxes, sunlight catching on old brick. I counted my breaths the way I always did before a big job. In for three, out for four. In—past a bookshop with cat stationery in the window. Out—past a pub that already smelled faintly like hops and Sunday chatter.
Orin was waiting by the gate, grinning like a man who’d already had two coffees, while holding a third just for me. I took it, grateful, pretending the cup didn’t wobble slightly in my grip. If he noticed, he didn’t say.
“Good morning! Ready to rock this day?” he said, his grin somehow wider as he launched into our secret handshake, pure Parent Trap perfection, down to the finger guns at the end.
“As ready as I’ll ever be, friend,” I said, half laugh, half prayer.
A voice boomed behind me, bright and warm. “Good day! Now that’s a handshake. Mighty impressed with your groove there!”
I turned to find the man himself, complete with mustache, sparkle in his eye, energy like he’d had a full breakfast and a pep talk with God. Ted Lasso, in the flesh. He looked exactly how he sounded: earnest, kind, and maybe a little too awake for a Monday morning.
“Now see, that’s way too formal,” he said. “You’re Reese, right? Keeley’s been talkin’ you up like you invented cameras. Welcome aboard!”
His handshake was warm, his smile somehow warmer, and suddenly the world stopped buzzing quite so loud. That was the thing about Ted. He made excitement feel like calm.
As Ted disappeared through the gates, I turned back to Orin, who was still clutching his coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to the mortal realm. Mid-thirties, Scottish, perpetually balanced between dry humor and quiet brilliance. He gave me that small, knowing smile that said, don’t worry, kid, we’ll survive this circus.
“Come on,” he said, pushing open the glass door. “Let me introduce you to the dog track. Rule one: never assume you’ve found the right floor on your first try.”
He walked me through the training facility with the calm of someone who’d seen every kind of creative storm. We’d only met twice before the job started, but our chemistry had been instant, easy shorthand, mutual teasing, the kind of partnership that made work feel like rhythm instead of labor. He’d spent years in agencies and start-ups and liked to joke that mentorship was “just code for sharing snacks and unsolicited wisdom.”
When we reached the main hall, I spotted Keeley Jones before she even saw me. It was impossible not to. Pink silk blouse, glittering smile, and energy like a confetti cannon.
“You’re here, oh my God!” she squealed, sweeping me into a hug that smelled faintly of rosewater and espresso. “I’ve been showin’ everyone your portfolio! The cover, the one with the actress lookin’ all, you know, sad-but-hot? Stunnin’. Everyone cried. Even Beard, though he’ll deny it.”
Orin raised a brow. “Man of many mysteries, that one.”
“See?” Keeley clapped her hands together. “You’re perfect for Richmond! We’ve got this whole plan, yeah? Behind-the-scenes reels, slow-mo hugs, maybe a cheeky little series, Manicured Men! You’ll love it.”
Before I could reply, the temperature of the room shifted, subtly but distinctly, as Rebecca Welton entered. She moved like an orchestra in heels: composed, deliberate, impossible to look away from.
“Ah, you must be our new photographer,” Rebecca said, extending a hand. Her smile was polite, but her eyes were sharp—the kind of look that made you remember to stand up straighter.
“Yes, of course,” I said, shaking her hand. “Reese Hart. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Honor?” She arched a perfect brow. “Let’s not start with flattery, I might get used to it.”
Orin murmured, “Better than starting with panic,” earning a small laugh from her.
Rebecca’s smile softened. “You’ll fit in beautifully,” she said, turning to Keeley. “Make sure they both get settled, though I’m afraid space is…limited.”
“Oh! That reminds me,” Keeley said brightly. “We actually found a perfect little corner for them. Great light, nice wall space, right next to the conference room.”
“Wonderful,” Rebecca said. “And where will Higgins be working this week?”
A pause. Keeley’s grin dimmed slightly. “...Possibly still the hallway?”
From somewhere behind us came Higgins’ weary sigh:
“...Again.”
Our “office” turned out to be what Keeley optimistically called a creative nook. It featured one desk, one half-desk, a window that opened exactly three inches, and a plant that had clearly been dying since 2019.
Still, it had good light. And good light was more important than space.
Orin dropped his messenger bag with a theatrical groan. “Home sweet creative closet,” he said, taking in the narrow space. “If we both breathe at the same time, we might have to file for occupancy permits.”
I laughed and started unpacking, arranging the small pieces of my life onto the desk: a framed photo of my parents and four brothers, all of us squinting into the North Carolina sun; a cluster of camera lenses that caught the light like glass jewels; sparkly pens; and a handful of crystals (rose quartz, amethyst, a piece of smoky quartz that had been in my camera bag for years.)
Orin leaned over them, amused. “Protection stones?”
“Grounding,” I said. “And self-love.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Ah, self-love. My husband says that’s why he married me, because I had enough to share.”
I grinned, picturing him and the man he always mentioned with a kind of quiet fondness that softened his whole face. “He’s the actor, right?”
“Was,” Orin said, moving a stack of folders onto the shelf. “Now he paints sets for theatres. Says it’s less dramatic. I disagree.” He pulled out a photo from his wallet and pinned it beside my family picture: him and a slightly older Hayden Christensen lookalike, both laughing under fairy lights. “Ronan,” he said, smiling. “My love.”
“Good taste,” I said, approving.
He winked. “Obviously.”
We spent the next half hour arranging what little we had: hanging my camera bag from a hook, taping up Keeley’s color-coded schedule, trying and failing to coax life back into the plant. A rhythm settled between us easily, me fussing with my lenses, him muttering about Wi-Fi passwords and printer toner.
Then came the paperwork. Pages and pages of HR forms, all stamped with bold letters: INTERNATIONAL HIRE — ADDITIONAL DOCUMENTATION REQUIRED.
“I swear,” I said, flipping through yet another form. “They need more proof that I’m allowed to take photos than they do to launch a rocket.”
“Welcome to Britain,” Orin said dryly. “Where tea is strong, and bureaucracy stronger.”
“God bless the special relationship,” I muttered, signing my name for the fifth time.
When we finally finished, Orin opened his laptop and pulled up our shared calendar “Alright,” he said, tapping the screen.
“Our first official project: new headshots for the players and coaching staff. Keeley wants clean backgrounds, natural light, no filters. She used the phrase ‘like Vogue, but with shin guards.’”
I smirked. “And you’re handling logistics?”
“Schedules, permissions, wrangling Beard into brushing his hair, all of the fun stuff, yes. You, meanwhile, will make them look effortlessly iconic.”
“That’s what I do best.”
He looked at me over the top of his glasses. “No false modesty, Hart. That’s why they hired you.”
His confidence made me smile; steady, warm, mentor energy wrapped in sarcasm.
I turned toward the small window, letting the afternoon light hit my crystals, scattering pale reflections across the desk. It didn’t look like much, this little space. But it already felt like the start of something good.
By the time my coffee went lukewarm, the conference room had become a makeshift studio. A big backdrop taped to the wall, reflector balanced on a chair, Orin guarding the equipment list like scripture.
Ted appeared briefly in the doorway, juggling three mugs of coffee. “Smiles are free, folks but frowns’ll run ya about five bucks.” Then he vanished again, off to spread more optimism.
Orin glanced at the clipboard. “First brave soul is Dani Rojas.”
Dani practically cartwheeled in, grinning so wide it felt contagious. “Football is life! Photography is life! Today we make art!”
He struck a pose before I even lifted the camera.
“Perfect,” I said, laughing. “But maybe start with just the shoulders.”
“Sí! The shoulders are ready!”
When I showed him the first few shots, he gasped. “I am handsome and alive! Thank you, Miss Reese!” Then he hugged me hard enough to tilt the tripod before Orin gently redirected him out.
Next came Colin with an easy smile but hint of nerves.
“So, uh, how much Photoshop are you allowed to use?”
“None,” I said. “But don’t worry, you’ve got the kind of face that does half my job for me.”
He blinked, surprised, then laughed. “That’s it, I’m changin’ my Insta bio to ‘effortlessly photogenic.’”
Isaac followed, solid as the goalposts.
“Alright,” I said, adjusting the light. “Give me serious. Commanding. Captain of men.”
He didn’t blink. “This is my serious face.”
“Maybe just… ten percent less murder,” Orin suggested.
A crack of a smile. Click.
Sam Obisanya was next, handshake warm, smile warmer.
“Welcome to Richmond,” he said sincerely. “We’re lucky to have you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You make this too easy.”
He grinned. “I’ve practiced. My mum insists on good headshots.”
By midday the rhythm had settled. In order: names, adjustments, light tests, laughter. Even the new defender, Jan Maas, made it memorable.
“You are smiling too much,” he told Colin between shots. “You look unserious.”
Colin frowned. “Mate, it’s a photo.”
“Yes,” Jan said evenly, “and yet it exists forever.”
Keeley leaned close to me. “He’s intense but, like… in a hot philosopher way, right?”
I almost dropped my lens laughing.
Between players, Orin tapped his screen. “Look who’s on telly.”
On the muted TV in the corner, an ad for Lust Conquers All flashed: Jamie Tartt, tan and smirking in slow motion.
“Bless ’im,” Keeley sighed fondly. “Out there somewhere, livin’ his best reality-show life, poor love.”
Orin tilted his head, curious. “That’s the one everyone keeps talking about, right? The prodigy with perfect hair and… confidence issues?”
Keeley snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”
He grinned. “Seems like the kind of lad who’ll either win the world or start a bar fight trying.”
“Both,” Keeley said. “Usually in that order.”
I watched the screen a moment longer, Jamie’s smirk fading into a toothpaste commercial. There was something oddly melancholy about it. Fame edited into perfection, emotion choreographed frame by frame. I couldn’t help wondering what the unfiltered version of him might look like.
By the time the last player left, my camera battery was dying and my shoulders ached in the best possible way.
Keeley reappeared with two steaming hot tea cups and set one beside me.
“You survived your first day, and everyone loves you.”
“High praise,” I said, smiling.
Orin stretched, rubbing his neck. “Look at that! First day and you’re already part of the rhythm.”
The late-afternoon light slid through the blinds, soft and honey-colored. For the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I was passing through someone else’s life.
I felt… placed.
By the time I packed away the last lens, the building had gone soft and quiet. The clatter of boots and laughter faded down the hall, replaced by the low hum of pipes and the distant echo of Ted’s voice somewhere, probably still encouraging someone about something.
Outside, the air smelled like rain that hadn’t decided to fall yet. Richmond evenings had that muted gold light that made even brick look sentimental.
I was halfway down the steps when a voice called,
“Hey, Miss Camera Wizard!”
Ted stood by the gate, Beard a silent shadow beside him, both holding takeaway cups that definitely didn’t contain coffee.
“Beard and I are headin’ to the Crown & Anchor. First-day pint’s kinda a tradition,” Ted said. “You’re invited if you ain’t too tuckered out.”
Beard lifted his cup in confirmation, expression unreadable behind the beard.
I hesitated, the good kind of tired settling in. The one that hummed instead of weighed. “I probably should unpack, and maybe learn which plug adapter won’t explode my hairdryer.”
Ted grinned. “See, that’s the beauty of a pint, it kicks today down the road till tomorrow’s got somethin’ to do.”
Beard nodded once. “She’s comin’.”
I laughed, surprising myself. “Apparently I am.”
The pub was warm in the way only British pubs can manage. Dark wood, chatter like a heartbeat, the smell of malt and chips clinging to the walls. Ted knew everyone. Beard knew none of them but seemed content about it.
They asked about my day, and I told them about Dani’s hugs and Jan Maas’s eternal seriousness. Ted nearly spit his drink when I quoted, “and yet it exists forever.”
“Man’s got a point,” Ted said between laughs. “Beard says the same thing about his tax returns. File once, haunt forever.”
Beard raised an eyebrow. “They do exist forever.”
When they turned to the dartboard, I let myself drift for a minute, watching them, this odd, comfortable pair in their strange little corner of the world, and felt something I hadn’t in a while. Ease. Not the polite kind that ends when you leave the room, but the kind that follows you home.
By the time I stepped back into the cool night, the rain had finally made up its mind. I pulled up my hood just as my phone buzzed with a text from Orin.
By the time I stepped back into the cool night, the rain had finally made up its mind. I pulled up my hood just as my phone buzzed with a text from Orin.
Orin: “Already online.”
The link opened to Richmond’s page, my shot of Dani, still in his kit, the corner of his mouth caught mid-laugh.
Not posed. Just real.
The caption read, “Football is life.”
I smiled into the drizzle. Maybe it was.