Focused: A hate to love sports romance(56)

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 beautiful. 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.