“You play volleyball?” she asks.
“Yes, I do. I’ve been playing since I was about your age.” Her eyes light up.
“I want to be a volleyball player when I grow up. I want to be an Olympian!”
I throw my damp paper towel away and put my hands on my knees. “I have teammates who are Olympic gold medalists, and they wanted the same thing.”
“Eliza…” Her mom emerges from a stall dressed in silver taffeta. “Don’t bother this nice woman.”
I laugh. “Oh, it’s no bother. It’s a pleasure to talk to a future Olympian.” I wink at the girl, and she practically vibrates with excitement. “If you can ever make it to a game, I’ll sign anything you want, and I’m sure my teammates will, too.” Eliza now clings to her mother’s dress, tugging on the fistful of it she has.
“Mommy, we have to go.”
I smile at her mother, hoping to display my platitudes for having started this up. Hopefully this isn’t a ‘puppy for Christmas’ situation where she won’t talk about anything else for months on end until her parents finally give in. But hey, my goal is to fill the stands even if that means I have to do it one chair at a time.
I slowly back toward the door. “So nice to meet ya’ll.”
I take a big breath when I’m on the other side, looking at my feet, trying to find my balance again. I’m not great at interacting with people like that, but if I want the PVF to be as big as the NFL, I’m going to have to get good at it.
“Tough time?” Wyatt chuckles and my head snaps up. He hands me a champagne flute, “Drink up. I found a photo booth.”
He holds his other hand out for me, and I take it. It feels so natural to be led through the crowd, his hand rough in mine. In college he always took me through the packed bars just like this. All around us, guests are dressed in their formal attire asthey stand around cocktail tables or wander toward the bar. Small appetizers are passed around, and Wyatt and I make eye contact, both knowing we will end up with fast food after this, the portions they provide too measly.
We come up to the photo booth. There’s a table stacked with props—silly hats, huge sunglasses, and feather boas, but we walk right past them.
“Cute one, Charlie’s Angels, number one, and awkward prom?” I ask, ticking each pose off on a finger as I confirm our traditional photo booth pics.
“You know it.” He straightens his tie as I move to step into the booth. I smoosh myself into the far side. My bottom barely resting on the smallest edge of the seat. When Wyatt steps into the booth, the entire area is immediately filled with his cologne. Despite my squeezing, he can barely fit one thick thigh on the tiny seat. “Tight fit,” I say, trying to make light of the fact that I can feel just how solid his thigh is, like cement next to me. I’m puzzled by the blush that creeps up his ears.
“Now,” the guy manning the station pops in, breaking up whatever the hell that was. “You’re going to want to push the button when you’re ready to start. It will flash a count down before each picture. Four pictures in total.” Little does he know, we’re pros, so instructions aren’t necessary.
The countdown starts and we move to our first position. The camera flashes. We quickly move to pose number two: Charlie’s Angels. A classic.
Camera flashes and we’re off again. Both of us hold one hand up with the ‘number one’ finger sign and close one eye in a still wink, a la Ricky Bobby fromTalladega Nights, our favorite funny movie.
The camera flashes. We’re one shot away from orchestrating a perfect photo strip. We normally do theawkward prom pose standing up. I open my mouth to say so as the clock ticks down, but all that comes out is a yelp as Wyatt pulls me onto his lap. I watch on the little screen as he smiles with his arms wrapped around my waist.
When it’s over, we start untangling to climb out. I can’t help but say something. “That was new.”
He shrugs, but he’s smiling. “Thought we could change it up a bit.”
We’ve done these poses what feels like countless times, but tonight it feels different. It feels like we aren’t standing in a downtown Dallas theater, but on the edge of a cliff, and his arms are the only thing keeping us from tumbling down.
We move to the side to get our physical and digital copy of the photos. When the guy hands it to me, I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
“These might be our best ones yet.” I laugh, the strip in my hand.
He takes it from me and puts it in his pocket. “Let’s go find some of those little pieces of toast,” he says, taking my hand again.
“Bruschetta” I say pointedly.
“Tomato, potato.” He waves me away. “They’re too small no matter what they’re called.”
He can never remember the word, and I never want him to.
We stand around a tiny cocktail table covered in black tablecloths and eat the little appetizers. A player I don’t recognize steps up behind Wyatt, tapping him on the shoulder to get his attention. As Wyatt turns to greet the man, I take him in. Red hair cropped short to his skull, full beard (also red), and hands covered in tattoos that I can also see creeping up his neck.
“What’s up, man?” He claps Wyatt’s back.