You sat on the bleachers, camera in hand, eyes focused on the rink, patiently waiting to capture the perfect shot. He skated across the ice so fast you would think he was levitating, agile, dangerous; you knew that Simon Riley was going to be a big name in a few years.

By the end of the game, you realized you’d only taken pictures of him, and when you tried to ask for a team picture for the school journal, you were almost stomped alive by 20 guys in heavy hockey gear. You were used to it, being invisible, you’d grown used to it. The next day, you were walking down the hall to the computer room to start editing your pictures, when you saw two of Simon’s teammates walk your way, and one of them bumped into your shoulder carelessly, sending you to the ground.

Your bag fell open, your camera sliding out. He turned around, grimacing as if it was your fault, nose scrunched in disgust. “You’re that kid that takes pictures, aren’t you?” His friend asked, a slimy smirk on his face. He didn’t even help you up, his hand snatching your camera instead. “You’re always following us around like some creep,” he snarked. “They’re for the journal–”

You tried to argue, but you froze when he started to go through the gallery. “Yo Riley, you won’t fucking believe this!” Simon was down the hall, his expression unreadable as he approached, watching you help yourself up on your feet. You were ready for the humiliation, being called out for the countless pictures of him you had in there, but it never arrived. “Give the kid back the camera,” he commanded flatly. “Right. Now.”

The guy looked confused, but when he saw the glare in the blonde’s eyes, he simply obeyed. You were quick to catch the camera when he threw it back to you. They left, muttering under their breath, but Simon stayed behind. “Cool shots.” he said, fetching your bag from the ground and handing it to you. “Of course, me being a handsome model helps,” he grinned, his words lacking any malice. “But keep it up, you’re very good. I might even pose for a shoot for ya."