The Man In My Lens

POV: Reese Calloway

The envelope was in my hand before I even pushed through the glass door. Three pages. Stapled. Every word checked twice by a lawyer Dana found through a friend of a friend because I couldn't afford anyone better.

The lobby of Garrett Sports Media looked exactly the same as three years before, which was somehow worse than if they'd changed anything. Same gray tile. Same low lighting. Same receptionist behind the curved desk who glanced up at me and then back down.

And then I saw him.

Marcus Deane was standing near the far wall with his phone in his hand, laughing at something on the screen. His press badge was clipped to his lapel. He looked up.

Half a second, something moved through his face. Then the smile came in.

Oh, hell.

"Reese," he said, like we were old friends. "Didn't expect to see you here."

My feet kept moving toward the desk.

"Marcus." That was all he got from me.

He fell into step beside me, unhurried. "Here for the Calloway complaint?" He already knew. "They forwarded me a copy this morning. Standard procedure when you're the named party."

The receptionist looked up. I put the envelope on the desk.

"Filing formally. Reese Calloway." My voice came out steady. My hands were doing something I wouldn’t look at, so I pressed them flat against the counter.

The receptionist took the envelope and started typing.

Marcus leaned against the counter beside me. "Do you really want to go through this again?"

I watched the receptionist type.

"Because I remember how last time went." That's the thing about Marcus, he never threatens out loud. "You filed, you made noise, and somehow you ended up being the difficult one. The troublemaker. The girl who couldn't handle how this industry works." He paused. "I'm asking genuinely. Do you want that again?"

The receptionist slid a confirmation slip across the desk. I took it.

"Have a good day," I told her.

I turned and walked to the door.

"Reese." He called after me. "We can talk about this. There are other options—"

The door opened and the cold hit like a slap. Chicago in February doesn't ease you in. The wind came off the lake and got under everything and stayed there. I walked until I was far enough from the entrance that I couldn't see through the glass anymore and then I stopped.

My camera bag was on my right shoulder the way it always was. Every single day for three years this bag went where I went, even on days I shot nothing real. The strap was worn. The front zipper stuck unless you pulled it at the exact right angle, and I gave up trying to fix it a long time ago.

There was a camera inside that I hadn't pointed at anything that mattered in three years.

I stood on the sidewalk and the city kept moving around me and the wind was loud and I just stood there looking down at the bag.

I had filed the complaint. I had walked in, I had handed it over, I had walked out. I hadn't given Marcus a single thing to use.

So why did the city feel exactly the same as when I walked in?

My phone rang.

Dana.

"Tell me you're out of there," she said, skipping hello entirely.

"I'm out."

"And?"

"Filed. He was there."

She made a sound on the other end. Not words. Just a sound that carried more than words would.

"He wasn't worried." I started walking again, no real direction, just moving. "He smiled at me the entire time, Dana."

"His smile doesn't mean anything."

"It means he isn't scared."

"Reese—"

"I know." I cut her off before she could start. I'd given myself the whole speech already. More documentation, the lawyer's letter, dates and records. "I know. Please. Different subject."

A beat of quiet. Then: "Okay. Yes. Something came through this morning."

The careful voice. She used it when she already knew my answer and she was going to say the thing anyway.

"Documentary work. Good money. Full creative control, they confirmed it in writing."

"What kind of documentary?"

"Sports. An athlete. Court-ordered image rehab, anger management program, public apology circuit. They need a photographer embedded for six weeks."

Six weeks. "No."

"Reese—"

"I'm not spending six weeks helping someone look like a better person for a camera." I'd done enough work that wasn't really mine. "No."

"The creative control is actually legitimate. I made them confirm it twice."

"Still no."

She said the number.

I stopped walking.

Someone behind me clipped my shoulder and kept going. I moved to the edge of the pavement and stood there while the wind pulled at my coat.

I did the math without meaning to. Six weeks. Rent. The lawyer's bill I'd been paying in pieces. The lens I'd needed since last spring.

"Dana."

"I know what the number means."

"That's—"

"Yeah."

A cab went by. A woman with a stroller hit a crack in the pavement and wrenched the wheel free without breaking stride, because this was Chicago and nobody stopped for anything here.

"Who's the athlete?" I asked.

She paused. Just half a beat, but I'd known Dana my whole life.

"Who is it?"

"Cole Mercer."

The name landed like something dropped from a height. Cole Mercer. The most hated man in professional hockey right now, if you believed what every sports network had been saying for two months straight. Twelve suspension incidents on record. A trade request that burned his entire team's playoff run to the ground. Commentators using words like unhinged. Dangerous. Liability.

"No." Out before I even finished the thought. "Absolutely not."

"Reese—"

"My name is already attached to enough that isn't mine. I'm not putting it next to his and whatever he does next." I was walking faster now. "Hard no, Dana."

"The money—"

"I heard it."

"Hear it again." She said the number one more time. Slower.

The wind was brutal. The camera bag dug into my shoulder. The confirmation slip from the receptionist was folded in my coat pocket and the paper was already cold.

I thought about Marcus in that lobby, totally calm. Not one part of him worried.

I thought about three years of real estate listings and corporate headshots and a camera I carried everywhere and used for nothing that mattered.

"Tell me more," I said.

Dana went quiet for one full second.

Then she started talking.