Hoax in One

| 04 |

The first week of each new semester was always the longest. New classes, new schedules, new teachers—trying to figure out the new routine.

But the best thing about the first week? It ended with Labor Day weekend; a reward for trudging through. You could feel it in the air. Campus was bare, people were packing up their cars with umbrellas and chairs and ice chests.
Southern Florida had its perks: it was very close to the beach. Downside was those of us in collegiate athletics usually had to wait until Sunday.

My weekend was starting with headshots. Then for my own practice, I wanted to crash the women's golf practice on Saturday to get back in the swing of things—pun intended. At least it would end with the sun and the sand.

"Why are we still at school on Friday afternoon?" Gus complained when I walked into the bright marble foyer of the athletic administration building.

"Is taking pictures of hot guys now considered school?" I brushed past him, smirking at the two unbuttoned top buttons of his baby blue shirt, into the closet to get my lighting umbrellas and backdrop.

"It should be extra credit," I heard him mutter to himself. "Barlowe, eight. Danton, seven. Elliot, ten. Hall, eight. Mitchell, nine. No nine and a half. Scott, nine. Thacker, eleven. Thompson, ten. Vasquez, ten."

Shit. Double shit.

I hadn't heard from Tate all week. And I had definitely unexpectedly expected to. Even with his crazy schedule, we used to talk regularly. Now we were not not dating, and I'd surprised myself by how many times a day I found myself checking my phone—the number is something I'd rather not admit.

I set up two large photography umbrellas across the foyer from Gus. I unfolded the gray backdrop and laid it down flat to try to get the creases out before screwing the metal poles of the frame into each other. I heaved one end of the canvas over the top of the rectangle, reaching up high to try smooth it out.

"Gus, give a short girl a hand, please," I called over my shoulder.

He looked up from his camera through his brown curls, and his eyes immediately dropped to my ass. "Did you master the StairMaster this summer? Your ass looks amazing, but maybe don't reach up that high in that dress. Unless..." He raised his eyebrows. "Who are we crushing on this year?"

I came down on my heels and ran my hand over the back of my tiered light blue sundress to cover the bottom of my butt cheeks. "No one," I said firmly.

He gave me a skeptical look and put his camera down. "It's senior year. Isn't this supposed to be our last hurrah or something?"

"Adulthood." I shuddered like the mere mention of the word caused an allergic reaction.

Gus rose and flattened out my backdrop. "Exactly." He pointed to one side, instructing me to pull it tight with him. "It won't ever be the same again."

We snapped the canvas around the poles together, the creases pulled out tight and his depressing words hanging in the air.

I tried to let their effect roll off of me. The end of one thing was the start of another, and my 'another' wasn't depressing. Hopefully.

Gus interrupted my thoughts and lightened the mood. "I'm hoping for a love triangle... or better yet, a threesome."

"One baseball player, one soccer player, and one photographer." I smiled, and my eyes slid playfully to his tripod. "Just don't forget that."

"Oh, kinky." He bumped me with his bony hip. "I like it."

"Right on time," I replied, bumping my hip into his as Patrick Vasquez, Southern Florida's catcher, marched his tree trunk thighs up the steps and threw open the glass door.