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The first weekend after the Christmas Day showdown.
Andrew John slid a folder across the coffee table with a grin that said he was up to something.
"You're never gonna guess who just came calling."
Link had just walked in from morning workout, towel still draped around his neck as he wiped sweat from his face.
He glanced at the elegant gold lettering on the cover.
VOGUE
"Fashion magazine?"
"American Vogue, to be exact," Andrew said, flipping it open. "They're putting together a Sports & Style special for the January issue. They want an NBA player on the cover."
Link raised an eyebrow and took the folder, flipping through the pages.
Detailed shoot plan: three looks, one studio session, one location set.
The paycheck was nice, but the real flex was the placement — full cover feature, not some quick ad drop.
"Why me?" Link asked.
He was hot right now, sure, but fashion usually chased guys with years of mainstream pull.
Andrew's smile turned playful.
"Come on, man. One of the creative directors on this issue? Isabella Rodriguez."
Link's hand paused mid-page.
"Heard she fought for you in the editorial meeting," Andrew chuckled. "And Vogue loves the whole multicultural, next-gen vibe you bring."
"So she's… bending the rules a little?" Link asked, half-laughing.
"Fifty-fifty," Andrew shrugged, slipping his phone back in his pocket. "Fashion runs on insider recommendations, and with the buzz you're carrying right now? Win-win for everybody."
Link scanned a few more pages.
Shoot date: next Wednesday.
Location: pro studio downtown L.A.
On top of the cover, they wanted a full inside interview — theme: "Life Beyond the Court."
"You in?" Andrew asked.
Link closed the folder. "Hell yeah."
---
Shoot day.
Link got to the studio thirty minutes early.
It was an old warehouse turned loft — soaring ceilings, raw brick, perfect light.
Crew was everywhere, setting up softboxes and swapping backdrop panels.
Isabella was already there.
Black turtleneck, wide-leg pants, hair loosely pinned up. She was deep in quiet conversation with the photographer.
The second Link stepped inside, her eyes lit up — just for a heartbeat — before she slipped back into full pro mode and gave him a small, professional nod.
"Link, this is Alan Smith, lead photographer today," she said smoothly. "Alan, meet Link."
"Great to meet you, Link." Alan shook his hand firmly. Mid-forties, thick beard, all business.
Link smiled and returned the grip.
Alan kept it short. After a quick hello, he waved the team over to prep the first outfits.
First set: clean portraits.
Link changed into a tailored suit, basketball held one-handed in front of his chest.
Side lighting carved sharp shadows across his arms and jaw.
"Don't smile, but don't go full statue either," Alan called from behind the camera. "Give me right after you just won a big one — that fire mixed with total exhaustion."
The shutter went off in rapid bursts.
"Yes! Exactly! Head just a touch left — hold it right there!"
The session clicked along perfectly.
Link wasn't a runway guy, but the movie and magazine work from last season had him locked in fast.
All three looks wrapped in three hours instead of the planned four.
"Smoother than I hoped," Alan muttered, scrolling through the shots with a satisfied nod. "Link, you've got real instinct. A lot of athletes over-act. You just… exist in the frame."
"One more set," Alan said suddenly. "I'm thinking — let's do a duo."
The studio went quiet.
Crew members exchanged confused glances. That wasn't in the brief.
"What duo?" Isabella asked.
Alan pointed between the two of them.
"You two. NBA star and supermodel. Perfect cross-industry couple energy."
At the word "couple," Isabella felt her pulse jump.
She glanced at Link, a quiet spark of hope in her eyes.
Link smiled and nodded. "I'm down."
"Wardrobe change!" Alan clapped.
Twenty minutes later they were back in front of the lens.
Isabella: crisp white suit jacket over silk blouse — effortless power.
Link: deep charcoal suit, open collar.
Alan's poses weren't corny.
Back-to-back, each looking a different direction — two strong forces creating tension.
Then Link on a tall stool, Isabella standing beside him, hand lightly on his shoulder.
But the money shot came completely unplanned.
During a lighting tweak, Isabella reached over and fixed Link's collar.
Link looked down at her, the tiniest smile tugging at his lips.
Alan hit the shutter.
In the frame, her fingers still rested on his collar.
Link's gaze was soft — nothing like the killer focus he wore on the court.
Background melted into warm light and shadow, leaving only the two of them sharp and real.
"Perfect," Alan whispered, staring at the image. "That one's the cover."
---
By the time they wrapped, the sky outside had turned deep evening blue.
The crew started breaking down gear.
"Thanks for today," Isabella said quietly. "Alan's tough, but he got magic."
"I should be thanking you," Link replied, eyes on her. "Andrew told me about the recommendation."
Isabella gave a small smile. "I just told the truth. You really were the right fit."
The L.A. night had a cool edge to it.
Isabella suddenly asked, "When that cover drops… it's probably going to start some talk."
Link knew exactly what she meant.
A spread like this — especially those intimate shots — was basically going public.
"You mind?" he asked.
She stopped walking and looked up at him.
Streetlights painted soft gold across her face.
After a beat, her voice came out soft, almost testing the water. "Does this count as… officially telling the world?"
Link stopped too.
He looked straight into her eyes, voice calm but certain. "It's more than an announcement—"
Isabella's gaze flickered.
"It's just the truth." He gently took her hand. "You and me — we're already together. The magazine just caught it on film, that's all."
He held her gaze, completely serious.
"We don't need to announce anything, Isabella. We've been us for a while now."
The tiny trace of worry in her eyes melted away.
Her smile broke wide, turning those eyes into two perfect crescent moons.