1. Maren

I'm still scared of the dark.

Never mind my age (twenty-nine) or the fact that there's a room full of people packed shoulder to shoulder (press conference) in the next room of this country club.

The hairs on my arm stand in a wave as I grope the wall, searching for the light switch and reminding myself for the thousandth time to never let the door shut before I flip it on.

My fingertips catch warmth. It's round, I think, as I try to wrap a thumb around it. It moves, tenses. And…?

"That's my bicep."

I shriek.

"Those were my eardrums."

I flatten my back against the far wall of the closet, which isn't very far at all, at the sound of the deep male voice. I could still kick this guy in the groin—well, where I'd assume his groin is since I'm temporarily blind.

"Maren," he says into the dark.

The light flicks on, flooding my small photography closet with too-bright fluorescent light and filling the space with a low buzz that emits from the long bulbs.

My thudding heart slows at the sight of Locke Hughes .

His deep brown eyes are smirking at me. His lips are even, but I can somehow still see him laughing at me.

Blond hair combined with dark brown eyes is so strange, but it definitely works on Locke in a weirdly sexy and intense way. Maybe it's the lighting—even under the ugly too-white hue of humming fluorescent bulbs, Locke is undeniably gorgeous.

Light: possibly my favorite thing. It's why I became a photographer.

The shadows it casts, the way it lands on things, brightens them. You can completely change the effect of something by simply altering the lighting around it—highlight a smile, darken a look, emphasize an emotion. You can make people see things they couldn't see before.

Except Locke's eyes. They're almost black—and black is the absence of light.

Now, Locke's face, on the other hand, is made to be in front of a camera. It's a travesty he wants nothing to do with one.

"How'd you know it was me?" I accuse him.

His eyes lift over my shoulder, sweeping an arc over my head as he surveys all the camera equipment I use to take pictures of him and every other golfer on the PGA Tour, and land above my other shoulder. "Who else uses this closet?"

" You , apparently."

He shrugs. "I'm avoiding the press conference until the very last minute."

"Right," I say, waving a hand toward him. "Cameras. People. Talking."

I think Locke hates the fact that my camera is practically an extension of my arm and that I'm always following on his heels on the golf course, so ipso facto he hates me.

He says nothing, but I didn't expect him to.

I turn and stand on my tiptoes to reach the camera lens sitting on the top shelf. I hear Locke shuffle silently across the two-foot gap between us to reach high above my head and grab it for me.

"Thank you," I gush, maybe too much .

All I get is a head nod.

Locke Hughes doesn't give anyone anything. His time? Fuck you. A hello? You're not worth it. A smile? He'd rather melt his lips off in a fire.

So, I'm still surprised that he stooped so low as to lift his arm and use his neck muscles for me. And I'm still beaming about it back out in the hallway when I leave him to continue his isolated avoidance for another minute.

"Why're you so happy?" a familiar voice says.

I snap my head up, and a groan escapes my mouth before my body can react. I don't stop until I'm close enough for Russell to lay his hand on my shoulder. Delicate, tentative, just like the tone of his lying, traitorous voice.

I skirt out from underneath it and try my best to ignore the blinking red light from the one camera on Earth that I've grown to despise.

As a photographer, I never imagined I would think these thoughts or harbor a hatred for a camera and the person behind it, but here I am—hating that I photograph pro golfers, one of whom is my ex-boyfriend who convinced me to do a reality show with him. Now I'm unfortunately roped into finishing out my contract, even though we've been broken up for months.

"What do you want?" My voice comes out sad rather than angry like I intended.

"I wanted to see if you needed hel—" Russ cuts himself off when his eyes dart over my head.

I can almost feel Locke's intensity moving toward us.

Russell tracks him.

So does the camera.

Locke doesn't even bother to look at any of us as he passes. "Get that fucking camera out of my face, Craig."

Craig, the cameraman, sighs.

We—well, most of us—are supposed to act like it doesn't exist. That's the point of a reality show, obviously, but Locke has the luxury of doing whatever the fuck he wants since he isn't on the show. Or because he's the best golfer in the world?

I thought it would get easier to ignore it, that eventually the camera would become a part of my landscape. And it did for a while—until three months in when Craig caught me catching Russell with a girl wedged against a wall. His tongue down her throat. His hand up her dress. While he was dating me.

Now, it just makes me feel like an anxious ball of sunshine during a solar eclipse. It's smothering and blackens my otherwise bright and happy heart.

When Locke is out of earshot, Russell focuses back on me with a glint of an accusation burning in his eyes. "What were you doing?"

"Nothing," I insist, biting the inside of my cheek. I go against my natural instinct to talk too much. What I do is none of his goddamn business anymore. I am allowed to be in a closet with Locke doing whatever the hell I feel like doing.

But it's two-fold:

One, I don't want the world to see me break down on a future episode of this stupid show because Craig is filming our conversation. They're already going to see me be humiliated on national television in a matter of hours when the next episode airs our dramatic break-up that happened in real life months ago.

Two, I'm too nice. I still care about Russell's feelings and want him to like me, because I want everyone to like me.

I'm light personified.

I care too much about everything, about everyone else, and in the process, I sacrifice myself to make others happy. I'll mold—and then I'll mold again. To brighten others. To try to make them feel good. Let them take what they want from me. One thing I am constantly molded into is a doormat to avoid conflict at all costs.

Russ drills into my brain with a death stare of skepticism mixed with a healthy dose of I don't want you, but no one else can have you.

"It's nothing," I say, pushing past him before I can't help but add a sincere, "I promise."

I'm proud that I at least don't look back when I whisk myself through the double doors and into a room full of men.

No one looks at me, and no one continues to look at me as I wind to the other side of the conference room and set up my camera.

That's supposed to be my purpose as a sports photographer though, so I guess I'm the best person for the job. Blend in, catch the moments around me. The blips in time that are otherwise missed. No one ever really notices me or thinks about the person actually taking the picture.

Think about it next time—there's a whole person looking through the viewfinder with wants and dreams and feelings, capturing other people's mid-air moments of greatness. We may hide behind the camera, we may seem invisible, but we're not.

Sports photography isn't really my passion, though. Do I want to be taking mid-swing golf shots of men with five-hundred-dollar clubs? No. I wish I was capturing newborn babies and families and birthdays—lifestyle photography.

Unfortunately, this word snags on my mother's voice in my head every time I think it.

" Lifestyle photography?" it rings like a high-pitched squeal. She has this way of saying not-so nice things in a way-too nice tone. Her chuckle always makes me clench my teeth. "That's not a real job, sweetie. There can't possibly be that much money in any photography. When are you getting a real job?"

Anything can be made into a real job so long as people pay you for it, but I got a ‘real' job, courtesy of my brother-in-law, the go-to physician for professional golfers. Blame nepotism all you want (I do), but I'm also not bad at it.

Locke is positioned at the long table on the stage with a skinny microphone in front of him. It looks like he's pushed it to the side as much as it will go. I take a few test shots and adjust my camera settings as Russ joins him on stage and sits in front of his own matching microphone.

The number one and the number two pro golfers in the world, and they couldn't be more different.

Number one, Locke Hughes, keeps to himself. He glares at everyone. He doesn't smile. You question if he gets any sleep because he practices every minute of every day, and if he actually does tear himself away from the golf course for longer than a minute, then he's in the gym. Simply put, he doesn't give a fuck about anyone or anything except himself and golf, and he doesn't give a fuck what you think.

Number two, Russell Ashe, likes to be front and center. He wants to make the room laugh. He wants all eyes on him. He thinks he's entitled to the world, and it bugs the shit out of him that there's one person who stands in his way to the top.

Russ doesn't give a fuck about anyone or anything except himself either. But he wants the world to love him, and he cares a lot about what other people think.

Locke on the left, Russ on the right. Only a matter of feet separates them. Brown eyes connect with blue eyes when they look at each other. Blond hair gets pushed to the side. Brown hair gets pushed back.

It's like they have the coloring that the other should have. I want to swap their hair or their eyes like one of those magnetic dress-up games I used to play with as a child.

They both sit up straight, and I realize they're the exact same height.

Someone speaks from the crowd. "Gentlemen," his voice says loudly, quieting the murmur. "New year, new you? How are you both feeling going into this tournament?"

Locke sits back and crosses his arms over his chest, like he's bored, at the same time Russ eagerly leans in and clasps his hands in front of him.

Russ smiles and takes the first question. "I've never felt better."

You'd think he'd feel a little less better after betraying his girlfriend of two years .

I focus my lens and snap a few pictures of him as he recites his canned response that he probably practiced in the mirror earlier this morning. "I learned a lot last year, corrected my mistakes, and I'm playing these courses better than I ever have."

"Locke?" the man asks.

Locke keeps his arms crossed and speaks into the microphone. "I feel like the same Locke as last year."

The man chuckles and follows with, "Do you think you'll have a competitive advantage over Russell as you're not a part of the documentary?"

"I haven't thought about it," Locke responds.

The reporter repeats his question, directing it at Russ. "Cameras following you everywhere. Your personal life being shown every week on national television. Does it have an impact on your mindset?"

"Not at all," Russ replies confidently. "This is what we signed up for; to show everyone that golf isn't boring. We're not boring, excluding present company"—Russ follows with a humorous I'm-just-joking laugh, even though he's not—"and we have lives and families outside of the bubble. We aren't serious and focused one hundred percent of the time. The goal is to give everyone a behind-the-scenes look of what we're like as players and people. Besides, we all have our own distractions. People and personal things get in the way."

The inflection in Russell's voice wouldn't be missed by the naivest person in the room. It doesn't help that his eyes are dark, eyebrows flattened, and he has his head turned ninety degrees to stare Locke down. Then Russell looks straight at me.

I can't look him in the eye for longer than a second because I feel like he's blaming me for him not being good enough. And why do I even care? He's not my boyfriend anymore, and he's still not good enough.

"Oh," the reporter pipes up. "Locke, care to elaborate?"

"No," he says matter-of-factly.

The reporter laughs. "We don't get to see your relationships play out every week on the screen. Is this new? Will she be joining you at these tournaments? You've never once confirmed any relationship you've had, even when a rare photo emerges."

"On purpose," Locke says.

Craig, standing off to the side of the stage, swivels the blinking light of his camera in my direction, which causes the entire room to follow suit slowly as they collectively notice.

Russell smirks. Locke's face remains unchanged.

All eyes in the room give me an unappreciated once-over, putting together who I am. Whose I was.

My heart beats behind my eyes. I know my cheeks and neck are splotched in shades of red.

Russell thinks he can rattle Locke, and he's loving every second of it. To hell if it's at my expense. And Craig just wants to stir drama for the sake of good reality television and make it seem like I was in the closet hooking up with someone; tie it in a nice bow.

My eyes connect with Locke's, but I try my best to ignore the shiver that zigzags down my spine.

Maren and I hardly know each other.

Maren and I work together and nothing more.

Maren and I are like oil and water, the sun and the moon, a mosquito and… everything else.

There are so many options he could choose to tell the reporter if he could mind-read, but of course, he's going to go with whatever he wants to say anyway. He flicks his eyes off me as quickly as humanly possible, like I'm the mosquito in this scenario.

Locke mimics Russell's posture as he speaks into the microphone, and everyone turns back to him. "If I were dating someone, I wouldn't confirm it. If I weren't dating someone, I wouldn't confirm it."

The smile Locke gives Russ makes him seethe behind his fake look of camaraderie.

My mouth drops open behind my camera. It takes everything in me to remain professional and not cry out of mortification. But my face doesn't emerge from behind my viewfinder until every mundane question has been asked, until they've both explained their outlook on this week's upcoming tournament in San Diego, until almost everyone is out of the room.

I leave every piece of equipment I have behind as I rush out the back door, praying no one steals my stuff.

I spot Locke through the enormous glass doors of the country club first, talking to his caddie. Behind him, Russ climbs into a golf cart and drives away before I practically smash through the door into the bright Florida sun.

"What the hell was that?" I huff before I second-guess my anger. I hardly know the guy, and it already annoys me that no matter how many times I smile at him, he blankly stares and looks away. "I mean, what was that?"

I register the tiniest bit of shock in Locke's eyes before they calm. "What was what?"

His caddie shrinks off inside, like he wants no part in this conversation, leaving the two of us alone.

" That ! Everyone was staring at me, waiting for you to acknowledge our relationship. Then you got all mysterious and let everyone just believe we're together."

He shakes his head before his hand comes up to smooth the back of his hair. "I did no such thing."

"Yes. You. Did."

"I didn't confirm it or deny it," he insists.

"They're going to air that, Locke. The entire world will think I'm your girlfriend."

"I think you've misplaced your anger. Blame Russell for the shit he pulled."

I swallow down my feelings. "I can't."

"You can't?" he says. "Whatever, never mind. You're in the clear anyway. Your dumb show can't air me."

"Trust me. They'll edit it and get across exactly what they want, despite the truth—and that press conference will be on TV. "

He shrugs. "So? Don't watch it."

I fist the sides of my golf dress. I have a right to be mad, right? I have a right to express it, right?

"Right. So easy for you to say. I've had to follow you around and take your picture for years. You don't care about anything or anyone. As long as it doesn't mess with your golf game or your workout schedule or your domination of all things male."

"How would you know what I care about?" he asks flatly.

"This is the longest conversation I've ever had with you, and you're literally telling me not to watch my life fall apart."

"You don't know anything about me."

"Well, you know about me," I say, a pathetic twinge hollowing out my voice. "All you do is glare at me when I try to take your picture and do my job. The helpless sports photographer who dated Russell Ashe and was the only one who didn't know he was a lying, cheating asshole."

Locke opens his mouth and quickly closes it. Lines etch near the corners of his mouth in a frown.

"Locke?"

This girl appears out of nowhere. Not nowhere exactly. She's sitting in a car with the window rolled down. Beautiful—no, gorgeous—blonde, and just as mysterious looking as he is. Someone who would never take anyone's shit.

"You couldn't have just said you were dating her ?" I sigh.

"She isn't my girlfriend." His chuckle catches me off guard, and he doesn't even glance her way. "She doesn't give a shit about me."

As if on cue, she curses under her breath, rolls the window up, and looks at her phone.

"Why don't you give a shit about anything?" I question him.

His dark brown eyes twinkle in amusement and pity. "You should try it."

"But how do you do it? "

The idea blooms from the dreading jealous pit in my stomach, and I will literally die if I don't speak the words that are now clogged in my throat. I want to be as nonchalant as he is. I want the I-don't-give-a-fuck attitude.

"Teach me." My words are barely audible.

"What?"

"Teach me," I whisper slightly louder.

Locke looks startled. "Teach you what ?"

"How to not give a shit."

He looks at me like I've completely lost it.

It's definitely up for debate.

I resort to pleading. "Please."