Focused: A hate to love sports romance(17)

"Don't make me regret that I agreed to this," Noah said, still gripping my hand tightly in his.

I smiled, and for some reason, the sight of it made his face darken like a thundercloud. "Right back at ya."





Chapter Eight





Noah





"Hope this doesn't bite you in the ass."

I grimaced, tightening my grip on the weight ball under my palm, then lowered slowly toward the ground in a push-up until my muscles shook. When I straightened my arms again, I rolled the ball and caught it with the other hand, setting that on top of the rubber surface for another rep.

"It won't," I told him through clenched teeth as I did another one.

"I thought you wanted defensive player of the year again. It's been two years since you won it. Why split your focus on something unnecessary?"

That was my father for you. I couldn't see his face since we were on the phone, but I knew damn well what his facial expression was doing. Stern set of his wrinkled brow, hard slash of a mouth that rarely ever smiled.

He loved me, but he wasn't a warm man. But in his concern, and in the way he had always shown it, I'd learned to glean the words he wasn't saying.

I love you, and I'm worried about you.

Another push-up and I sat back on my haunches, rolling my shoulders as the light outside my apartment started dwindling to a bluish purple.

"Because the front offices don't see it as unnecessary," I told him.

"Yeah, well, they're not the ones who have to suit up every week, are they?"

I smiled unwittingly, wondering if the grumpiness he injected into his voice was a hereditary trait. If it was, I'd inherited it.

"No, they're not. But I don't think they're wrong either. In the end, I think it'll be a good thing." I couldn't believe I said it without choking on the words. More than that, I could almost believe that I meant them. "I met with the crew from Amazon today after practice. I like what they're trying to do. They're not sensationalizing what life is like for players or creating drama or fake story lines. It's just a clearer look at what it's like for us."

He harrumphed.

"You tell your mother yet?"

I lay back on the ground and stretched my body out as long as it could go. Something satisfying popped in my back, and I groaned. "Not yet. Haven't talked to her in a few weeks."

My parents divorced when I was in high school, old enough to decide that I'd rather live with him in Seattle than move with her and her new husband to where he was stationed in Germany. My relationship with her was ... fine. Neither parent was overly effusive when it came to their emotions, and I was the byproduct of a lifetime of that reserve.

In high school and college, it had been my goal to be the opposite.

I'd be fun because my parents weren't.

I'd enjoy life because they sure as hell weren't.

I'd be able to do both of those things while succeeding at football because my dad hadn't been able to.

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.