"I do," he finally admitted quietly.
His agreement didn't feel good.
It felt like he shoved a rusty sword through my gut. Irrationally, I wanted him to argue. To tell me it was worth the frustration to be able to see me. But the pain served as a good reminder.
He'd always choose football.
And in turn, I had to choose myself.
"Now what?" he asked.
I leaned back in my chair and stared up at the ceiling. "Now we both do our jobs. If you're having a problem with Rick or Marty, send me an email, and I'll take care of it. And you kick ass on the field starting this weekend."
The rough sound of Noah letting out a harsh puff of air had a tear slipping down my cheek. I dashed it away with the palm of my hand.
"Okay, Molly," he said. "I can do that, if that's what you want."
"That's what I want," I said in a remarkably, miraculously steady voice. If he'd been able to see my face, he would've seen the lie immediately.
But he couldn't. So he didn't.
And we started the season like that. Him with his blinders on. And me, the liar with the broken heart.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Noah
There was a moment at the start of every season when you're standing on the sidelines before the whistle blows and the football was kicked from the flimsy plastic stand. Before it went end over end in the air, and the crowd roared, phones glowing in the stands as they captured another game, another snap, another beginning to their favorite sixteen weeks of the year.
That moment was usually hope and anticipation. It was unruly energy that finally had an outlet after months of practice and preparation. It was what we trained for, suffered for, risked injury for.
And for the first time, I felt nothing at that moment.
For the weeks of preseason that led up to it, I felt nothing. I showed up and played a few snaps, then found the bench for the rest of the game while the rookies and the second string got time on the field.
I felt nothing when I sat at the table with the mics in my face and talked about whatever game we were going to play next.
I felt nothing when we won the first game of the regular season, and I ended it with three QB sacks.
No visceral satisfaction when we won the second game as well, this time with two sacks added to my tally.
No chest-thumping celebration when we pulled out a one-point win during the third, thanks to a forty-nine yard field goal straight through the uprights as the clock ran out.
Oh, I managed to fake it well enough. I pounded helmets and smacked the pads of my teammates who performed well. Nodded my thanks when they got in my face, and roared their appreciation when I took down the opposing quarterback and ripped the ball from his hands.
Only three people watched me with a bit more interest as the weeks passed. Logan, Rick, and Marty. I saw it in the way their gaze lingered on me after a big play. When I kept to myself in the locker room and during team meetings and workouts. When I went to bed even earlier than usual, which meant the camera crews had to get the hell out of my beautiful home with its beautiful view that I hardly took the time to notice.
Each day that passed, I found less and less satisfaction in the knowledge that while I was achieving everything I wanted on the field, it dissolved like ash in my mouth. Not simply unsatisfying, or impossible to sustain me, but it left a bitter aftertaste that I hadn't expected.
Instead of ripping the lid off why, I buried myself in work. My body was in better shape than it had ever been in my entire career. My performance in game five was one for the record books.
And I couldn’t bring myself to care.
The cycle I'd found myself in, with apathy at the wheel, started manifesting in strange ways. The longer I felt nothing about this job that I'd worshiped like a deity my entire life, the more it irritated me.
If irritation was the only feeling I could manage, then I'd channel every ounce of it during the minutes I found myself on the field. And when the clock ran out on our fifth game of the season, just before our bye week, not only did we have another win under our belt but my teammates also buffeted me with violent congratulations.
Kareem laughed at me when he saw the confusion on my face.
"What are they freaking out about?" I asked.
"You seriously weren't keeping track?"
I shook my head as players milled around us on the field. I didn't even have to look to feel Marty zoom his effing camera in on my face.
"Man," he said, slapping a hand against my chest, "you just broke the single game sack record. Seven and a half sacks, Griffin."
For the first time all season, I felt a tiny kindling of excitement flicker behind my chest. "I had no idea."
He grinned. "Whatever you're doing, man, keep doing it." He tipped his head back and bellowed over the post-game noise, "Beast mode, y'all!"
His words had the same effect as tossing a bucket of ice water on that small flame. Did I want to keep doing what I was doing? Not like this.
I found my eyes wandering through the crowds of people allowed on the field after the game as I absently greeted the team we'd just beaten with nods and halfhearted handshakes and fist bumps.
A skinny young player from the other team approached with a nerve-filled smile. "Hey Griffin, amazing game, man."
I nodded. "Thanks. You too."
I had no clue who he was, but my answer inflated his chest all the same. "You're, uh, you're kind of my idol. Have been since you played at U Dub. I told my wife if I got the chance, I'd …" He inhaled sharply. "I'd see if you'd be willing to swap jerseys."
As Marty moved around us to film, I propped my hands on my hips and really studied the kid for the first time.
He looked like a teenager, and he was talking to me about my college days and about his wife. And the conversation immediately had two incredibly strange, incredibly humbling effects on me.
The apathy tumbled headlong into emptiness. Everything about this game felt empty.
The win.
The record.
And the fact that I invested my entire life into seeking both of those things above anything else.
Without answering, I started tugging my jersey off, and his face broke into a relieved smile. It was all I could do to meet his grateful gaze.
He lost the game, he didn't break any records, hell, he probably didn't stand on that turf for a single second of the game, and here he stood, happier than I'd felt since ... since South Dakota.
The thought slipped into my head, slithering easily underneath the iron brackets I'd kept around my heart since the day I talked to her on the phone.
That should have been my warning, that I couldn't even think her name without feeling like everything around me would tumble down, unprotected and vulnerable to every vivid second with her. Every kiss. Every touch. Every moan I'd unleashed in her. Every quiet moment when all I did was hold her in my arms as she slept.
He said something, and I blinked back to the present in time to take his jersey as he handed it to me. It was pristine—no sweat, no dirt, no grass stains—unlike mine.
"Remind me of your name again," I said slowly, tucking the jersey carefully under my arm so that I didn't drop it.
"Michaelson," he said hurriedly. "Eric Michaelson."
I held out my hand. "It's an honor to have your jersey, Eric."
"The honor is all mine. I can't wait to tell my wife about this." The returning pump of my hand was so vigorous, so enthusiastic, that I found myself smiling for the first time in weeks.
"Did she come to the game today?"
He shook his head, still beaming. "No, she stayed home. We had our first baby a few weeks ago." In the next breath, he pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of a wrinkled, red-faced baby. "Her name is Molly."
A steel beam to my temple would have had less of an impact. It knocked the breath clean out of my lungs for a second. I patted him on the back and managed a polite smile. "She's beau
tiful. Congratulations to both of you."
He left, and I managed to get off the field and into the locker room uninhibited while Marty trailed me quietly.
Filming had been that way every week.
Quiet. Uneventful.
Boring as all hell, if I tried to imagine it from his perspective.
Before I showered, I spoke to a few people from the press in the locker room about the record, answers I gave by rote about the honor it was, the work I'd put in, and the solid play by our competitors. By the time Rick approached me when I was dressed and clean and packing my bag, I couldn't even remember a single word I'd said.
"Great game, as usual." His smile was subdued.
"Thanks." I shoved my cleats into my duffel. "Can I do something for you?"
"Do you have a few minutes to talk?"
I sighed. "What is it, Rick? I'd like to get home."
"Why? Need to work out more? Watch film? Stare blankly at the wall?" My jaw clenched, and I straightened to my full height. He smiled, completely unintimidated. "I have something I'd like to discuss with you before I bring it to Beatrice for her approval. We have …" He paused, clearing his throat slightly before continuing, "I have an idea for the documentary. A new angle I'd like to explore."
I studied him. "Will I have to be there when you meet with Beatrice?"
"I think you should be, yes. Just giving you the opportunity to talk about it beforehand."
"When are we doing this? Because I'd rather not sit through the same meeting twice, if we can get it out of the way."
Hearing myself talk, it was no wonder everyone had left me alone. I could practically see people tiptoe around the invisible forcefield I was projecting. But Rick, that asshole, was undaunted. She would've been too, if she hadn't created a forcefield of her own. It was a toss-up whose was more impressive, but I had a feeling I would lose if I went to head to head with her on that.
"If you're sure," he said, eyeing me carefully.
"The sooner we do this, the sooner I can go home."
He held up his hands. "You got it. If you're ready, let's head down to that empty office past the press room. She said she had time to chat with us when you were done with the media."
Since the Wolves headquarters were housed with the practice facilities outside of Seattle, I didn't have to worry about passing Molly's office on the way to see Beatrice. My mind only stumbled slightly as I thought her name, and I had the distinct displeasure of recognizing that my heart did the same thing.
The hallways were a blur of glossy red and black, the Wolves logo everywhere we turned. It was strange how even now, months after I'd arrived, I didn't immediately recognize it as my home team. The press room was still buzzing with activity, our QB taking his turn up at the table, and I kept my eyes on the empty office space where we were headed because I'd given enough sound bites about the game. I didn't want center stage.
My face creased into a frown as I realized it. The thought was there, clear as a bell and just as loud, and I couldn't figure out when that had changed.
But I couldn't pull on the thread any further, not until later, as Beatrice waved us into the room with the phone glued to her ear.
"That sounds great, thank you. Send me a draft of the press release before anything goes live, okay?" Her eyes darted back and forth between me and Rick. "Yeah, bye."
We took the seats across from her as she hung up. Marty took his position in the corner of the room, still filming. Always filming.
Beatrice smiled in my direction first. "Congratulations on your game, Noah."
I nodded. "Thanks."
"Just so you know, we have a press release going out about the record, and we may want to record a snippet we can put up on Instagram thanking the Washington fans for all their support so far this season. We're already editing some footage of Coach giving you the game ball in the locker room."
Again, I nodded.
Beatrice folded her hands and directed her attention to Rick. "I was happy to hear from you, Rick. As you know, I've been salivating for a taste of what you three have been working on, but you've been such a tease."
My attention sharpened, but I kept my face forward.
Rick pulled his laptop out and set it on the desk, angling it so both Beatrice and I could see the screen. "There's a reason for that, as you can imagine."
"I certainly hoped that was the case." Her face was pleasant, but the edge to her voice was clear. "Should Molly be present for this? She assures me that you maintain open lines of communication, and there haven't been any issues since the season started."
My stomach clenched tight, and I fought to breathe evenly. I hadn't been in the same room as her since she left the airplane upon arriving back in Seattle.
"Not just yet," Rick said. When he sat back, he took a deep breath and gave both Beatrice and me a protracted look. "I'd like to make a change in the direction we're taking with Noah's story."
Her eyes narrowed. Mine didn't. Probably because I couldn't bring myself to care much about the documentary anyway. The change he most likely wanted to make was firing my ass from sheer boring footage.
"What kind of change are we talking?"
"An entirely new narrative," Rick said. "And the season would focus solely on him."
Beatrice sucked in a quiet breath. "I'm interested."
I rolled my lips together but kept silent.
"Marty and I found ourselves editing footage every week, and it became apparent to us—pretty much from the very beginning—that the reason we came to film Noah was the not the story that we should be telling." He gave me an inscrutable look. "Noah's nickname is The Machine. Over his young career in the league, he quickly established himself as something more than human. His stats are beyond impressive. His discipline is well-known, and he's respected by teammates and opponents alike for the way he methodically dismantles the competition with his body and his brain."
"All of which we knew," Beatrice supplied.
"We did," Rick agreed. "But nobody knows the very human side of him. He's created his career to mask it. No one questions what's underneath The Machine because the façade is so impressive. And from day one, Marty and I noticed something. Something that had both of us glued to the screens as we went through the hours and hours of footage from your day-to-day life, Noah."
I lifted my chin, mind racing but face implacable. "And what's that?"
His face softened, and there was an apologetic glint to his eye that made me want to clap a hand over his mouth even before the words came out. "We watched her dismantle The Machine with hardly any effort. We watched you fall in love with her. And her with you."
The bottom dropped out, and everything I'd been so carefully juggling in the air crashed down with his simple statements. I hardly registered the way Beatrice sat back in her chair.
I was shaking my head immediately, my heart thrashing wildly, my stomach an icy, iron block of denial. I felt like someone had opened a hidden trapdoor, the one I’d worried about on the very first day of this entire project, and now my feet dangled helplessly over an endless black pit. It was all I could do not to plummet inside of it. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
"Molly? We're talking about Molly?" Beatrice asked quietly.
Rick nodded. Then he turned his attention back to me. "Noah, don't bullshit me right now. It is my job to see the stories where they unfold in people's lives. You can't tell me it's not true. We watched the way she was with you, and the way you were with her. Every single day, that woman singlehandedly brought out the human side of you. It wasn't me, and it wasn't Marty, even though we're damn good at working with the people we film. And it was a beautiful thing to watch. It was real and heartbreaking and compelling."
Bracing my elbows on my legs, I gripped the sides of my head. Over the roaring sound of my pulse, I registered the sound of Beatrice asking him what he caught on film. I lifted my head.
"Did you film us without our consent?" I asked in a l
ow, dangerous tone. "Did you get footage of her without her knowledge?"
Rick started to speak, and I stood, whipping around to Marty. "Turn that camera off." He didn't move quite as quickly as I wanted. "Turn it off or I will break it with my bare hands," I yelled.
Marty clicked a button and dropped the camera. His face was drawn and pale. "I never filmed anything when you didn't know I was there. I swear to you, Noah. I'd never do that to either of you."
My chest heaved with jagged, uneven breaths as I struggled to rein in my temper.
"Did you sleep with my employee?" Beatrice demanded.
I glared at her. "Remind me why that's any of your business."
Her face went glacial, but she was the least of my problems. "Rick," I said, "you better start talking now."
"Beatrice," he said quietly, "can I have five minutes with Noah, please? I should have insisted I speak with him privately first, and that's on me."
"I'm not sure I should be kept out of the loop anymore," she snapped. "This is unacceptable."
He pinned her with a deadly look. "What's unacceptable about it? That Washington stands to make more money if he gets his own season? That we found a story that's real and true and is the kind of television we dream of making? It's not up to you to decide whether it's unacceptable or not. I'm telling you about this as a courtesy, but the decision will be made by Noah and Molly." He pointed a finger at me. "And you will hear me out before you do so."
I couldn't spare any of my rioting attention to Beatrice, but the fact that she stood and walked briskly from the office was answer enough. Silence descended when she slammed the door shut behind her. Closing my eyes, I tried to remember what it had felt like just an hour earlier.
Apathy sounded like heaven.
Not caring sounded like the best kind of escape I could have imagined.
And in that, I recognized it for what it had been: protection. I insulated myself in numbness because without it, I would have had to admit what Rick was telling me now. That Molly slid through an unseen chink in my armor and planted herself there, right next to my heart. A hole in my rib cage I hadn't known about before she showed up in that elevator. That space inside me belonged to her now.
Focused Page 17
