1. Ready, Set, Shoot

I checked the piece of paper in my hand again to make sure I had the address right: 800 Griffiths Way. Yeah, it was the right place. I had done my research when Firstar Sports hired me, and I knew they were a sports clothing line, but I hadn’t expected to need to show up at Rogers Arena to do the photo shoot. Then again, usually they showed up with the models and the wardrobe at my studio; I hardly ever went on location to shoot.

After graduating in the past year, I had invested in starting my own portrait studio. I didn’t really like that work as much I enjoyed nature or travel photography, but this was something that I could do immediately and make a living off of, and maybe even make a name for myself. Once business took off—which I was hoping would happen much sooner rather than later—then I could branch out as I saw fit. I just had to be patient in the meantime.

My intern-slash-assistant helped me unload the truck. I carried the camera equipment and lights while he handled the heavy backdrops. My arms were already feeling a little sore by the time we lugged everything in. That’s why I preferred working in my studio, where everything was already set up as I needed it and I didn’t have to move it very far when adjustments were made.

I made a mental list of everything I could buy with the lucrative paycheck I was making in this one afternoon—a hefty amount of money for a newly professional photographer. In just a few hours, I’d be making more money than I would in a whole week, maybe two if business was slow. There was only so much I could charge for engagement photos or pet portraits if I wanted a steady income. Firstar was probably thinking I was a steal compared to what other, more established photographers charged, but this was my highest paying gig so far. It was a lot of money, and I constantly reminded myself that I’d be able to make the rent on time and simultaneously afford groceries too this month. It was the only way I could cope as the prima donna female model bitched that I was getting her bad side. This would all be worth it when I’d be able to log into my bank account and see that I was in the black.

“With an attitude like that,” I mumbled to my assistant, Doug, “every side’s her bad side.”

Doug snorted as he checked the pictures popping up on the laptop screen behind me. Back as a student, I had had my fair share of work with professional models when I had to complete assignments for class. I hated working with pros because they always thought they knew everything. Just because they had a pretty face didn’t mean they had a brain working in that head. How hard was it to pose? I got dogs to do it on a regular basis. And it’s not like her job was hard, modeling shirts and hoodies in a sports line of clothing. It’s not exactly haute couture.

But some of the clothes were pretty nice, I thought. She came out in a blue shirt. “Oh, that one’s cute,” I thought aloud to myself, looking at the way the hockey laces tying up the front. A lot of the women’s clothes were obviously branded with the logo, and I wasn’t a fan of walking around like free advertising for companies. I didn’t wear American Eagle, Aéropostale, or any of that stuff for that very reason.

“We’ll make sure you leave with it,” the Firstar rep, Tom, told me nicely, “as a little bit of an extra ‘thank you’ for your good work.”

“Really?” I was so excited. It felt like Christmas.

“Yeah sure, it’s no big deal. They’re just samples anyway, we can’t sell ’em.” Tom turned to Doug. “You too, man. I’ll let you pick something off the men’s rack when we’re finished.”

It ended up taking an hour and a half to shoot her, and by the end I really wanted to shoot her. My arms felt like jelly from lugging in equipment and then holding my not lightweight camera. Doug began to disassemble the backdrop while I set my camera down and stretched my tired body. We were going to take pictures of the male model in the rink, so we wouldn’t need the gray background.

“Just leave that stuff there, Doug, and we’ll take everything back out to the truck when we’re finished.” The truth was that I knew if I could convince him to wait, then he would carry all the heavy stuff by himself as I took care of the little stuff again. I liked that arrangement.

I sighed as we made our way into the stands of the arena—and was pleasantly surprised to find out that our male model was already there waiting for us. He was waiting by the ice, talking to the Firstar representative who was overseeing the shoot. Typically, a professional model would never beat the photographer onto the set, which is what first alerted me to the fact that we’d have the good fortune to work with an amateur instead. Amateurs are much easier to work with because they actually listen when you tell them to do something.

I was even more surprised to find myself shaking hands with Ryan Kesler, one of the Vancouver Canucks. That’s when I found out this line of clothing was specifically designed for Ryan by Firstar—which explained why he was modeling. I had watched enough hockey with my puck-bunny roommate to recognize him instantly, even though I hadn’t been able to watch a single game this season. I hadn’t even really been into hockey until I lived with Carla, who never ever ever missed a game, but my schedule after graduation was way too busy, hectic, and unpredictable to catch the games.

When he was wearing all that equipment, he was a guy who was known to get under the other players’ skin, chirping and irritating them into getting frustrating and careless. But he was a skilled player, too. That’s not the kind person that he struck me as, though, without the pads and helmet. Ryan shocked me by looking uncomfortable when I pointed my camera lens at him; I figured a guy like this would be used to the spotlight.

Ryan was way cuter than what I remembered seeing on TV—which was saying a whole heck of a lot, because he had always looked like sex on skates. His eyes were a dark brown, sparkly from the lights around us and easy to get lost in. I had to tell myself several times to look away and break the eye contact. His hair was expertly made up like he had just crawled out of bed, which totally worked for him. There was a dusting of a five o’clock shadow along his jaw line. His smile was nervous but devilishly handsome. With the blue and green hoodie he was wearing, he seemed like any one of the guys I went to college with, looking like he just rolled out of bed and threw on some clothes just so he could make it in time for an eight o’clock class. Except none of the guys in my classes ever looked so devastatingly hot.

For a split second, I debated on telling Firstar that they could keep their money because working with this fine specimen of a man would be sufficient payment in and of itself. But then I remembered that I liked to eat and I liked to have hot water, so I better keep the money and get to work.
_______________________________________________

The sweatshirt I had been given to wear felt like it weighed two hundred pounds and like it was made out of the heaviest material ever invented. I was breaking out into a sweat, and the make-up person had to touch me up again.

It had been pretty cool this summer when Firstar had approached me about a clothing line. And once I saw the designs, which I really liked, I knew I had to agree to it. I liked seeing them incorporate the Canucks colors, and I really liked the logo they had created with my initials and number. But if I had known that I would have had to be so active in the marketing of the product, well, I’m not sure I ever would have signed on for this.

Considering I had never done anything like this before, I was nervous. I didn’t know what was going to be expected of me. The photographer made things easy on me, though, giving me instructions all the while. After the first couple of shirts, the process was getting smoother. At first, she told me to act serious and stuff, but the more I was able to relax, the more she told me to smile, and the more comfortable I felt doing it.

The atmosphere of the set was low-key. There weren’t many people around—just her, her assistant, Tom, me, and any of the Arena staff walking around. The photographer was dressed in khakis that hugged her curves and a fitted tee that clung to her body, which gave her the mobility she needed to move around and do her job expediently. Her long, honey-blonde hair was braided over her shoulder, out of the way. She was all professional, calculating, deliberate, and efficient behind that camera, and that attitude brought out the best in me.

“Smile,” the photographer told me, ordering me to relax as I sat in one of the seats of the arena. It all felt like a farce as I did my best to cheese for the camera as instructed. “Okay, maybe not,” she sighed, obviously not pleased with the image she had captured. “Let’s go for... serious. Like you’re trying to get your mind ready for the game.”

That was a little easier for me to handle. I tried to block out the camera, the photographer, the Firstar representative, and the few other lingering people around the arena. For a moment, I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the game like I would in the dressing room before hitting the ice, and then I opened them and stared out into the rink. I was focused, so I didn’t really notice the photographer buzzing around me as I sat still even though I noticed the flashes of light. It wasn’t until they told me to change into the next sweatshirt that I realized she had done what she needed to do.

Once I felt more confident that this was working out, it was easier to smile and relax and follow directions. We went through the wardrobe quickly and relatively painlessly. Which was nice, seeing as though we had just started the season and I didn’t want to be spending a lot of time on set of a photo shoot like this. I probably should have been working out or resting, preparing for the long season ahead.

“Almost finished,” Tom said, checking his watch. “Just a few more things.”

While I went to go change, I heard the photographer’s voice carry in from the hallway. “They could have at least told us not to take our equipment down just in case. How was I supposed to know they’d want to shoot him in front of the backdrop, too? We were told rink background. This is stupid.”

“Oh well, no big deal,” her assistant sighed. “It could be worse. You could have to do this all by yourself.”

I felt bad, since they were having to put all this work in for me. I slipped the hat on and stood in front of the gray background, thinking that I was glad that the last thing would be the easiest. I was comfortable enough that it was easy to plop the ball cap on my head and smile naturally, and then I was done. That was, until the Firstar rep handed me a pair of the boxer briefs.

“Last one, Kes,” he said nonchalantly.

“You’re joking, right?” I asked in disbelief.

Tom raised his eyebrows and looked at me, ready to battle. “You’re supposed to model the men’s wear. All of it.”

“But this isn’t men’s wear,” I argued. “This is underwear. As in it goes under the men’s wear. I’m not getting my picture taken in this.”

“It’s in the contract, Kesler. It’s the last thing. Just put them on and let’s get this over with, because now you’re just wasting time.”

He left me alone to change, which I did reluctantly. All I could picture in my head was those ridiculous Calvin Klein underwear ads that got posted as billboards. Would I be expected to pose like that? I would look stupid. I’m not a model; I’m a hockey player.

I left my white undershirt on as I walked out of the dressing room to spite them all. Tom rolled his eyes as everyone fell into their places on the set—but the photographer wasn’t taking pictures. “I can’t see the logo,” she stated, looking at me and then at Tom.

“Kes, take it off,” he ordered. He was a no-bullshit kinda guy.

When I hesitated, she suggested, “Why don’t you try holding the hem up like you’re in the process of taking off your shirt?” I crossed my arms over my front and grabbed the bottom of the shirt, pulling it up just enough to reveal the band with the string of RK17 designs on the band. “That’s good, just like that.” She snapped a few pictures, angling the camera and walking around me. “Now just put your hand over your stomach and hike it up a little bit, like you’re yawning and stretching. Yeah, just like that. Good.”

She crouched down, took a picture from that angle, leaned to her right, leaned to her left, and took the same picture five different ways. I thought we’d be finished, but Tom said, “Can we try it without the shirt?” He was standing at her laptop, watching as all the pictures she took of me appeared on the screen so he could see exactly what everything looked like.

She shrugged. “Whatever you guys want.”

“What’s wrong with this?” I asked, desperately wanting to keep my clothes on. These pictures were going to be ads, used to market the clothing, and I didn’t want to see me in a pair of boxers or have the whole world see it either. I wondered if it would have been obvious if I had stuffed a pair of hockey socks down the front to pack some more heat. If the guys saw this, I’d never hear the end of it.

“We’re not selling white shirts. I just want to see what it’ll look like. Off, Kesler.”

I did as instructed, knowing I no longer had an option; I had run out of plots and plans to stymie the naked picture I was just about to take. With a sigh, I stripped off my shirt and watched the photographer’s face change. I knew I wasn’t a model, so I knew I probably wouldn’t live up to the ridiculous standards of body proportions that she’d be used to seeing, but I didn’t expect her to look at me like that without saying a word. I shouldn’t have taken it off. This should be left to the professionals.

I didn’t know what to do next, so I tried to pose like all those Calvin Klein guys and I tried to flex. That snapped her back to Earth, and she shook her head and blinked a few times before she began to take pictures again. But I couldn’t keep a straight face since I felt like a fool. My face exploded into a smile as I laughed nervously.

“Well, I think I got it,” Tom announced, and I felt relieved. The photographer nodded and began to pack up her camera. I immediately put my shirt back on, and once I deemed that I was no longer needed, I headed back into the dressing room to put my street clothes on, secretly swearing to myself that I would never ever model again.

Once I was in my jeans and a RK17 hoodie—I had to wear the clothes, it was part of my contract—I wove through the hallways for the parking lot. As I was leaving, I overheard the voice of the photographer. “No, Doug, it’s fine. If you have to go, you have to go. I’ll manage with the equipment.”

“I’m so sorry, Amanda, I’ll—”

“Don’t worry. It’s not like I pay you, so I can’t force you to stay. I’'ll pack it in the truck, but you’re gonna have to help me unload it first thing in the morning and set it up before our first appointment at nine. I can’t do that by myself.”

“Sure thing. Thanks, and I’m sorry.”

I watched as he left, and then watched as she struggled to pick up the heavy-looking roll that was the backdrop. She awkwardly tried to hoist it up enough to carry it toward the door, and I knew I had to help. “Here, let me get that for you,” I told her, jogging toward her.

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” she said, even though she didn’t offer much of a fight. “I probably can’t let you help. It’s a liability. You might sue me if you get injured or something.”

“I won’t sue you, promise,” I replied, giving her a smile as I got a better hold. It was heavier than it looked, and I was surprised that she had lifted it as far as she had—but there was no way she could maneuver this through the doors alone.

“Thanks,” she sighed, grabbing her camera bag and laptop case before she held the doors open for me to carry the roll out for her. She watched me carefully and intently as I slid it into the back of her white truck, probably wanting to make sure that I didn’t do anything to ruin it. She tossed her bags on the passenger seat in the cab.

“Do you need me to help with anything else?”

“No, we got everything else packed up. Thanks a lot, Ryan,” she said to me. Then she added, “Good work today.”

I snorted. I knew that I hadn’t done a great job, but what could anyone expect from me? I didn’t know what I was doing. It felt a little like when you make a mistake on the ice, and your teammates say, “Don’t worry, Kes, you’ll make it up next shift.” So I thanked her and headed off for my car while she got into her truck. I headed home without looking to see what direction she pulled out in.