Focused Page 6

  But in the end, whether through circumstances out of my control or the sheer force of my genetic makeup—probably a little bit of both—I was my father's son, through and through.

  What mattered was my performance.

  What mattered was that I did things the right way.

  What mattered was that I was the best.

  Everything else got shut behind a door that I’d prefer stayed closed.

  Somehow, though, that door got cracked open, and I couldn’t ignore what was behind it as easily as before.

  All I could do was hope that doing this documentary would show that the man I was when the helmet and pads came off was just as driven and focused. I didn't know how many teammates were home alone on a weeknight during offseason, working out more than the four hours of practice I'd done. More than the three hours of workouts I'd completed at the facilities. But I was doing those things.

  My dad said something, and I adjusted my earbuds in my ears. "Sorry, I missed that," I told him.

  "Wasn't important,” he said easily. “Just asking about your new place."

  "It's got a bed and a kitchen. That's about all I need for the time being." I glanced around. My agent had found it for me as soon as he got the call from Washington, a sublet from another player he represented. It wasn't my taste, the lines of the furniture sleek and modern and impersonal. I liked dark wood and leather couches, dim lamps and bookshelves and deep chairs that I could actually fit in. The views were amazing, though, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Seattle, even if I didn't have my telescope yet.

  Watching the stars was my only real hobby outside of football.

  "Well," he said, "that's good. Anything else?"

  Because I knew it would be exactly a week, down to the minute, before we spoke again, I tried to think of anything he might actually care about. When I came up empty, I shrugged. "No, I can let you go."

  "Talk to you next week."

  He disconnected the call almost immediately, like he was relieved that we were done catching up. My dad was that way with everything. If his quiet, simple life bothered him, you’d never know it because he didn’t dwell on it. The door holding all of that for him had never even been unlocked, let alone opened. I braced my hands on the floor behind me and looked around. Wasn’t I similar, though? This was my exciting football player life, and I never stopped to worry about how little it contained.

  Working out more than I already had because I was bored, and my weekly phone call with my father.

  Amazon would tire of me before the week was out.

  With a furrowed brow of my own, I stood and stretched my arms over my head. It was easy enough to recognize the direction my thoughts were going in. I'd agree to do this.

  Therefore, I'd do it better than anyone else. If they wanted to follow a player trying to fit in to a new team, I'd show them what the prototype should be.

  All the lights were off in my apartment except a small one in the kitchen, and I wandered over to the wall of glass. The oblong shape of the Space Needle gleamed in the distance, and I wished that I'd brought my telescope so that I could look at it more closely.

  The skies beyond the city were dark, but I knew with the right equipment, like I had back in Miami, I'd be able to see so much more than met the naked eye. My former assistant was waiting to send me my furniture until I found a place to live, someplace that felt like me, but as I stood there, I found myself wishing I had just a few items to make me feel more at home.

  A thought occurred to me, and before I could think better of it, or wonder what in the hell I was doing by contributing to this craziness, I pulled my phone out and found the number I'd saved in it earlier.

  Me: Do you think they'd be interested in "Noah goes house hunting"?

  Not even a heartbeat past before the gray bouncing dots appeared on the screen.

  Molly Ward: YES! That's a great idea. I'll add it to the agenda for tomorrow.

  Me: The sooner the better.

  Molly Ward: Got it. Don't you have a place to stay now?

  I sighed, leaning my shoulder against the glass.

  Me: Yeah, but it's not my style. The chairs were made for someone half my size.

  Molly Ward: I'm not laughing at you, I swear.

  Molly Ward: If he says yes, and I can't imagine he wouldn't, send me a list of what you're looking for. I can help narrow the search.

  That pulled my face down into a frown.

  Me: Is it your job to help me search for a place to live?

  Molly Ward: It's my job to make this process easier. If you want to send me some search filters, I'll compile a list and you can pick your favorites. I'll reach out to the listing agents.

  Something about it made me uncomfortable. I didn't want to feel like Molly was at my beck and call. I didn't want to be working with her in the first place, but when I'd shaken her small hand, fingers so much colder than mine, I meant the gesture for what it was. A truce.

  Me: Needs- 3 bed/3 bath, outside of downtown preferred, large yard w/ privacy, space for home gym, pool is a plus but not a requirement. I’d like to stay under 1.5M

  Molly Ward: You got it.

  I took a deep breath and sent another one.

  Me: Thank you. I appreciate your help.

  Molly Ward: Careful, Noah, I'll mistake that for being friendly...

  I shook my head slowly, but as I tucked my phone away and stared at the stars again, I had to force away the smile that threatened.

  Chapter Nine

  Molly

  "You are a badass, and you can do this," I whispered fiercely. Her lips were petal pink. Her hair was pulled back into a braided ponytail, and the white shirt made her eyes pop. She was me, and she was about to slay her first production planning meeting with Amazon and the big, scary football player who hated her.

  I groaned. Not the kind of thought I wanted in my subconscious before I channeled my inner boss bitch.

  Honestly, it was time to revise that statement anyway. The text thread on my phone proved that maybe Noah didn't hate me after all. Spending a couple of hours of my night at home searching for a house for him was bizarro but also nice … in a twisted way.

  The search history on my laptop, now inundated with three-bedroom, three-bathroom houses, had kept him at the forefront of my mind.

  When my alarm went off, a gentle chiming of bells, I woke from my dream with a start, searching the bed for the warmth of someone else's body because it had been so vivid in my mind that he'd been lying next to me in bed.

  Not doing anything, mind you. Just ... there.

  Big and warm and solid. If I closed my eyes hard enough, making my own reflection disappear, I'd still be able to feel what I felt.

  The complete absence of him in a tangible way.

  My forehead wrinkled thoughtfully. Dreams about warm, sleepy Noah were not what I needed in my life, but at least it had been on the platonic side. Like I could have been sharing a bed with a golden retriever and achieved the same thing, if I thought about it critically.

  Perfect. I nodded resolutely. Noah was a golden retriever, and he needed a home, and I was helping him because for the time being, my ship was tied to his.

  Then I burst out laughing.

  Noah as a cuddly, shaggy, sweet dog was just about the worst comparison in the entire universe of comparisons.

  There was nothing unassuming or average about him.

  The thing I noticed most, as he towered in the corner of Beatrice's office and as he moved through practice earlier, was that he never relaxed. Never allowed the tension to leave that massive body. His eyes were alert and searching, picking apart weaknesses in his opponents, whether that opponent was a teammate he was lining up against or little ole me.

  An alert went off on my phone, the reminder I'd set for our meeting, and I took a deep breath.

  It didn't matter how I tried to lessen the impact of Noah, he'd always take up more space—physical, mental, and emotional—than the average man.
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  I left the bathroom with a renewed sense of purpose because if he could reach out with an olive branch, then I could train my brain to view him with the necessary sense of detachment.

  He was just a regular football player.

  I didn't actually know him, no matter what happened between us.

  And because of that, I'd be able to do with my job without any interference.

  The small conference room across from my office was empty, so I flipped the lights on and set the stack of folders down, one in front of each empty chair. Beatrice was off-site for the day working on media stuff, so I didn't need to worry about her lurking in the hallway to judge my performance. Which was good because my pep talk was waning a little bit as the hands on the clock ticked closer, and no one had shown up yet.

  The watch on my wrist showed the same time as my phone, as did the digital clock on the wall of the conference room.

  Didn't these men know that ten minutes early was on time? Being on time was as good as being late.

  Taking a seat, I impatiently crossed my legs. Then crossed them again. My feet already hurt because I'd decided that a couple of extra inches wouldn't hurt for one day. Inner badass and all.

  I glared at those inches, encased in shiny black patent, innocently pinching and creating pain and suffering as it wrapped around a foot that'd never done anything to deserve such treatment.

  "Screw this," I muttered. I sent a text to Paige to make sure I wasn’t crazy for wanting to chuck my shoes across the hall into my office.

  Me: A boss bitch can be a boss bitch while wearing sedate ballet flats, right?

  Paige: Abso-effing-lutely.

  "Abso-effing-lutely," I repeated and stood resolutely. The heels were off in the next instant, and even though I shrank, my entire body sighed in relief.

  "We go barefoot here?"

  I jumped, clutching the shoes to my chest when I saw Noah in the doorway. His eyes were trained on my toes, then they moved slowly, oh, so very slowly up my legs, past the gray pencil skirt, and over the white V-neck shirt to my face.

  "You guys were late," I said.

  Because that explained everything perfectly.

  One eyebrow lifted slowly. "I'm three minutes early. How is that late?"

  He was also freshly showered in addition to being three minutes early-which-was-actually-late. I could see it in the dampness of his dark hair and smell the sharp, clean scent of soap that filled the room.

  Taking a deep breath, I fought against the urge to fan my hot cheeks. This was already going swimmingly, wasn't it? "It's ... whatever. I need to grab some different shoes before everyone else gets here."

  "Excellent idea."

  Yet he stood there, blocking the exit. Noah looked at me expectantly.

  "You don't make a very good open door," I told him.

  His head tilted.

  "Move, please," I said slowly. "I need to go across the hall."

  That jarred him out of his stupor. "Oh, sorry."

  He shifted to the side, and when I brushed past him, I heard his slow, steady inhale.

  Lord have mercy. If we could get through this first meeting without further incident, I'd be the happiest girl in the world. Down the hallway, I could hear the indistinct chatter of Rick and Marty, the main camera operator. I shoved my feet into my Tieks and met them just outside my office.

  With a smile, I held my hand out toward the conference room. "Rick, Marty, good to see you. We're over here."

  Noah was waiting in the corner with his hands tucked into the pockets of his dark jeans. Rick and Marty introduced themselves, and I watched covertly at how Noah handled himself. I'd yet to see him smile. Each time we'd run into each other—the elevator, the practice field, Beatrice's office, and now—his face had been in the same determined, stony expression.

  It was almost like he never removed his helmet, that thick layer designed to protect him from the outside world. How were the cameras supposed to capture Noah Griffin, not just the man in the uniform, but the man as he really was, if that never came off?

  We took our seats, and Rick looked at me with a smile.

  "Rick," I said, "why don't you start and talk a little bit about what you and your crew will be looking for from Noah? We have some ideas, but it would be helpful to get some direction from you first."

  He nodded. I liked Rick. In his late forties, he had shaggy gray hair, a big nose, and an even bigger smile. He was easy to talk to, and that probably made him a natural at making people feel comfortable even though they were being filmed constantly.

  "My direction," he said to Noah, and then with a deferential nod at me, "will be to be normal." He shrugged. "Go about your day as you normally would. Practice, watch film, eating boring meat and veggies and no pizza."

  We all laughed. Well, except Noah. There was a slight warming behind his eyes, but damn the man, he still didn't crack a smile.

  "My life isn't very exciting," Noah admitted. "I still can't understand how this will make for compelling television."

  Rick nodded. "You'd be surprised. The business of football is as fascinating to our viewers as the emotional piece. We've found success with this series because it balances both. There are dynamics at play in each arena, the personal and the professional, and it's my job"—he nodded to Marty, the camera operator, who threw up two fingers in a laid-back gesture—"and Marty's job, in my absence, to capture those dynamics, no matter how they play out."

  Noah looked at me, then nodded thoughtfully.

  Right. My turn. "If you guys look at your folders, I have a tentative schedule laid out, based on when the defense is practicing and when Noah has meetings that you can attend," I said. "This covers the next three weeks, and we've got a few open gaps in that schedule because I think what we're missing is the personal piece." My smile was small because I wasn't trying to beat Noah over the head with why don't you have more friends, give us something to film. "Noah had a great suggestion yesterday that maybe we could tag along when he's house hunting."

  "Absolutely," Rick agreed. His pencil flew across the top of the paper. "If you've got someone who can come with you, a parent or a teammate, that's even better."

  Noah shifted in his seat, face blank. "Not really."

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed Marty shift the camera on his shoulder. Had he been filming this entire time? I guess it made sense if he was. No telling what was worth catching and what wasn't. That was what the editing process was for. Cut the shit and focus on the good stuff.

  "No one?" Rick asked.

  "Kareem Jones and I played together in college," Noah answered, "but we're not close. Normally, I wouldn't ask a teammate to help me pick out a house."

  Rick tapped his pencil thoughtfully, and I chewed on my lip as I flipped through a mental Rolodex.

  "Can't I just ... do it by myself?" Noah continued. "No offense, but it's not like anyone else's opinion matters when it comes to what kind of house I live in."

  At that, I smiled.

  "What?" he asked me. He sounded like a grumpy teenager.

  "Nothing." I shrugged. "You're just so certain. Usually people like having another person to bounce ideas off. Help them figure out what they want to do."

  Noah looked genuinely perplexed. "Why would I need someone else to figure out what I want to do? I told you what kind of house I want, right? So if I was someone else, would I have asked you, how many bedrooms do you think I should have?"

  It was probably the worst thing I could have done, and I tried desperately to keep the wide smile hidden. His entire countenance—the set of his jaw, the line of his lips, the downward slash of his eyebrows—was mystified at the idea that some people invited guidance or could possibly want someone else's opinion.

  The battle was officially lost when he narrowed his eyes at my trembling mouth.

  My chin tipped up, and I laughed helplessly.

  "It's not funny, Molly."

  Rick wiped a hand over his mouth, hiding a smile of his
own.

  "It's a little funny," I said between peals of laughter. "You look like I suggested you walk naked through Pike Place."

  "Glad my decisiveness is so entertaining," he mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

  I breathed out slowly, finally getting control of myself. "I'm sorry."

  He lifted his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "It's fine. As long as you guys aren't going to make me pretend I'm friends with someone, we'll be okay."

  "You can absolutely film by yourself." Rick kept tapping his pencil, now that the moment was over. "We can do some voiceover stuff. We'll have to do that anyway. As long as we're getting your thoughts, whether it's through dialogue with someone else or through interviews, we'll be good to go."

  I was flipping through the printouts of the houses I'd found for Noah when something occurred to me.

  "Doesn't your dad still live in town?" I asked before I thought better of it. "I thought he loved it here."

  Every eye in the room swiveled in my direction, and my throat turned to sticky sand.

  Well, shit.

  Rick's pencil was frozen, hovering over the surface of the paper. "You know his dad?"

  I shifted slightly, refusing to meet Noah's steady, unrelenting gaze. "I know he has a dad. Doesn’t everyone?"

  What a blatant non-answer, and Rick knew it. He wasn't good at his job for nothing.

  When I felt Noah's eyes boring into my profile, I turned and met them head-on.

  Sorry, I mouthed. Those eyes closed briefly as he sighed, and that was as good as permission in my book.

  "Noah and his dad used to be our next-door neighbors," I told Rick and Marty, who suddenly looked very interested in what I had to say.

  "How long ago was this?"

  "I was in high school when they moved somewhere else," I said.

  Oh, and how complicated that explanation was. For months, I hadn't caught a single glimpse of Noah or his father, and then one day, a For Sale sign popped up in their front yard. At sixteen, it all felt very dramatic. It made me feel like a horrible person; that what I’d done was so bad that they’d moved away. In retrospect, I couldn't really blame his dad even though it had caused more than a few dramatic tears when I thought I'd never see him again.