Focused

by Sorensen, Karla

  I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, that's what I do best."

  "You still a virgin? You know that's your problem, right?"

  My whole body froze as he said it far too loudly. I leveled him with a glare, which made him crack up. "Kareem, you asshole. I'm not a virgin—"

  His jaw dropped open as he caught sight of my face. "Seriously? You still don't have sex?" His head shook back and forth, slowly, incredulously. "I thought you were just being, like, moody or some shit in college."

  "We are not talking about this right now."

  He hooted again. "Yeah, we are." One arm came around my shoulders, and we separated from the guys. I wasn't ashamed of the fact that I chose to abstain from women. A woman was a distraction. Sex was not only a distraction but it also came with far too many possible complications. I didn't want kids. Didn't want anything in my life that would fight for the top spot in my life outside of football. "Man, come on, you're killin' me. How do you ... Aren't you angry all the time?"

  That made me smile, just a little, because the way he said it made it sound like I was attempting an impossible feat. Climbing Mt Everest naked. Bungee jumping over a canyon full of glass with a frayed rope. Jumping from an airplane without checking to see if my parachute was attached to my back.

  "And you don't think that helps me?" I asked.

  He stopped walking. "I know you're playin' right now. I know you are."

  I held my arms out. "Why? You said you'd be angry, right? Where do you think I put all that energy?" I lifted my chin at the field in front of us. "I put it out there."

  "You are one crazy motherfucker, Griffin." He shook his head again. "I knew it then, and I really know it now."

  Logan—Coach, as I needed to get used to thinking of him as—whistled sharply from the sidelines, and Kareem shoved me hard enough that I stumbled. I shoved him back, which made him laugh, but he was the only one. Coach Ward glared at me.

  "Is this how you paid attention to your coaches in Miami?" he asked, arms folded across his chest. Behind him, I noticed a couple of suits—one man, one woman—and a guy holding an expensive-looking camera.

  Lifting my chin, I clasped my hands behind my back like a soldier facing his commanding officer. "No, sir."

  "It's my bad, Coach," Kareem said on a laugh. "Noah thinks his"—I gave him a sharp look, and he grinned—"his natural state of repressed anger means he can beat my ass off the line."

  The guys around us laughed, and Coach cracked a reluctant smile. "Yeah? What do you think about that, Jones?"

  Kareem slapped a hand on my back. "I think this boy is crazy, and I'm ready to prove it."

  The suits and the cameras aimed their attention fully in our direction now, and the cheers and laughter of my new teammates were just enough to distract me from wondering what they were doing.

  I shook my head. "Kareem, don't embarrass yourself. Let's just get to work."

  In truth, I didn't want to line up like this at my first practice and turn it into a circus. As much as I wanted to be the best, I didn't need the spotlight that came with it. I wanted to break records to prove that I could. I wanted to lift more, run faster, train harder because I was good at it. My body constantly craved that burn, the satisfying edge of pain that told me I was the hardest worker on the field.

  But Logan waved at us to do it, so I'd flatten Kareem without a second thought.

  Our teammates surrounded us, leaving adequate space in the middle for Kareem and me to face each other. Someone handed us practice helmets, and I strapped mine on while he did the same. The tall, thin woman in the suit pushed some players out of the way so the cameras could see us clearly, and I rolled my neck to ignore them and focused on what I needed to do.

  The joke about my natural state of anger fueled the tightening of tension in my muscles as I crouched in front of my former college roommate. He was two inches taller than me and just as wide.

  His body held all the same carefully crafted muscles and knowledge of body mechanics for when you were trying to take out an opponent. He kept his fingers loose where they propped him up in the grass, and I did the same, no hint as to where we might move or which direction we might take.

  He grinned behind his helmet, and I narrowed my eyes, letting the full blaze of power unroll through my arms and back and legs when I imagined knocking him over. Our teammates heckled and hollered; most cheered on Kareem, but a few voices were saying my name. Coach stood between us, silver whistle in his mouth, which would be our signal.

  Movement from behind Kareem pulled my gaze away for a split second.

  Molly. On the practice field.

  Her blue eyes met mine and widened.

  What was she doing out here?

  The whistle blew, sharp and loud, but Kareem shoved forward a split second before I did. Because, of course, I hadn't fully been paying attention. That was enough for me to have to dig my cleats in and push against him, our shoulders wedged against each other as we fought for the dominant position.

  A bright pulse of anger went unchecked that I hadn't flipped him over yet because of her, and that was enough for me to shove him over onto his back.

  The guys cheered, some groaned, and Logan watched us with a slight smile on his face.

  "Not bad, Griffin," he said.

  I held out a hand, and Kareem took it. He slapped my back in a half-hug when he was back on his feet.

  "Asshole," he said, but he was smiling.

  "Pansy," I returned, which made him laugh.

  The crowd dissipated as they started lining up for drills, and when I was about to do the same, the suits and the cameras—and Molly—approached Coach Ward and me.

  He looked about as happy as I was at their presence. The one thing he wasn't was surprised. "Can I help you?"

  The woman, statuesque and composed and entirely out of place on a practice field, looked me up and down slowly, like I was under a spotlight. I fought not to curl my lip up at her.

  "Noah Griffin?" she asked, holding out her hand. I took it. "I'm Beatrice Kelly, Chief Marketing Officer for Washington."

  "Pleasure to meet you," I said stiffly. It wasn't. I wanted to be practicing.

  As Beatrice introduced herself to Logan, Molly clutched a black and red clipboard to her chest, face blank, and eyes trained on the bright green turf.

  "If you don't mind, the crew will be here filming for the remainder of practice, and then I'd like to steal fifteen minutes with both you and Noah when you're done."

  Logan glanced at me, then back at her. "And if I do mind?"

  She smiled slowly, eyes about as warm as a block of ice. "Then you can take it up with Cameron after practice, and after we've met with Noah."

  I saw Molly take a slow inhale, her cheeks taking on a soft pink color. Personally, I didn't want to meet with this woman after practice, but I'd been playing long enough to know that sometimes, you had to do shit you didn't want to do.

  The look that Logan gave Beatrice would've made the biggest, scariest linebacker shrink back, but she was completely undaunted. Even I was glad I wasn't on the receiving end of it.

  "I need fifteen minutes, Coach Ward," she repeated. "We can do it now, or we can do it after practice. I'll give you the choice."

  He snorted.

  I dropped my chin to my chest as he mulled over her offer.

  "Griffin, should we get this done now?" he asked quietly.

  Pushing my tongue into my cheek, I looked at all the faces in front of me, quick glances as I tried to figure out what the hell this had to do with me. I just wanted to play. Was that too much to ask?

  The face that snagged my gaze for just a fraction longer than everyone else's was Molly's.

  Today, she was in a black shirt and bright red jeans. She matched her boss, matched the field, and for some reason, it hammered home just how much more this place was hers than it was mine.

  "Let's get this done now," I said.

  Beatrice smiled again, just a touch of thawing to the cold from earli
er. "Excellent. Logan? I assume you know where my office is."

  His answer was a short nod.

  "Great. We'll see you there in ten minutes."

  They walked away, leaving Logan and me with our hands braced on our hips and annoyed expressions on our faces.

  "What the hell is that about?" I mused.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. "Griffin, believe me when I say that I wish there was a way to avoid this."

  My face turned sharply in his direction. "That bad?"

  "Yeah," he said tightly. "For guys like you and me? It's everything we hate about playing."

  Once he'd given some instructions to an assistant coach, we started walking toward Beatrice's office, and I thought about what he said.

  Everything we hated about playing. Great.

  Chapter Six

  Noah

  "Thank you for joining me, gentleman," she said from where she sat across a massive, gleaming desk. Her ice gray eyes landed on my face, and she smiled, a completely different kind of smile now that we were on her turf. "How's the transition to Washington going, Noah? It can't be easy to change teams so close to kickoff."

  The guy holding the camera in the corner had it pointed straight at my face, and the focus, solely on me, made my skin prickle.

  "I'm excited to be here." I answered like I was facing the media and not someone in-house. "And I'm excited to get to work."

  Logan sighed. "Exactly. Work. Practice. Which is where we're supposed to be right now."

  The grumpiness was so evident that I almost cracked a smile. Only two days into my time at Washington, and I found someone with less people skills than I had.

  Beatrice sliced her gaze to the camera and nodded. "A moment, please. We won't need this. And tell Molly I'll be ready in five."

  My jaw clenched involuntarily.

  Silence cloaked the office as the camera guy stood and gave us some privacy.

  "I'll cut the chase. Amazon is including Washington in an upcoming season of their All or Nothing documentary, and you're the player they'd like to highlight."

  I sat forward, eyebrows tucked in tightly over my eyes. "What? Why?"

  Logan rubbed the back of his neck but didn't say anything.

  "The narrative for this season is finding and fitting in to the culture of a team. I've been working on this deal since the day I told Cameron and Allie they should hire me, and we just needed the right player." Her smile softened, and it changed the hard angles of her face. "And that player is you."

  "I don't want to have cameras on me all season." I shook my head. "Don't get me wrong, they do a great job. I watched the LA and the Michigan season, and they were great. But being under that spotlight is the last thing I want. I'm here to play football."

  She took a deep breath. "Let me rephrase this while it's just the three of us in this office, okay?"

  Something about the way she said it made me sit back again and breathe deeply to dismantle the brick that suddenly appeared in my stomach. Logan gave me a quick, uncomfortable glance, and I had a feeling he knew exactly what was going through my brain.

  This wasn't a negotiation. It was a courtesy.

  "You are the best defensive end in the league. By the time this season wraps up, no one will be able to touch the records that you'll break." Her eyes were so intense, words so coldly delivered that I practically saw frost come from her mouth. Not in a mean way, but in a way that I knew, without a doubt, I'd hate whatever she was about to say next. "But all of that will be overshadowed if people think you got kicked off your team because you hit on your team captain's drunk wife while she was unable to defend herself."

  I was out of my chair before I took another breath. "That story is bullshit, and you know it."

  Logan stood, laying a calming hand on my back. "Of course, she does. We all do."

  My heart was thrashing wildly, every iron shred of my will gone in tatters at the mere suggestion that I'd become a salacious headline. Slowly, I lowered myself back into my chair and fought with white-knuckled grip to gain control of my irritation.

  "The story is bullshit," she said calmly. "I never doubted it. The people in the front office in Miami know that, which is why there hasn’t been a single whisper about it to the media."

  “Yet you know about it.”

  She smiled. “Professional courtesy from someone in their offices who I used to work for.”

  "What does this have to do with the documentary, Beatrice?" Logan asked.

  She watched my face carefully before answering. "One part of my job is to facilitate positive brand awareness for Washington. A documentary like this is priceless for what it allows our fans to see. Normally, they wouldn't get access to meetings, film rooms, trips … the kinds of things that would never make it on social media. But we can give them that, and this way, we're controlling the narrative. Yes, it's documenting the reality of an established player coming into a new organization, but Noah, this allows you to show people the kind of man you are. Behind the helmet and pads and stats."

  My hands, loosely clasped between my thighs, tightened briefly as I dropped my head and processed what she was saying.

  "The truth is, I don't think what happened in Miami will be an issue. Not now and not in the future."

  I lifted my head. "Aren't you supposed to be convincing me that that's why I should be doing this?"

  "Probably," she said with a wry smile. "But I'm not trying to manipulate you. I'm simply stating the truth. You're a compelling person, Noah. Your reputation as a machine didn't come from thin air. But the players who matter to people are the ones who inspire devotion because they're heroes, not just record breakers. Look at JJ Watt or Peyton Manning or Drew Brees. Yes, they've broken all sorts of records, but they are beloved for so much more than that. That is why we’ll remember their names and treasure their legacies long after they stop playing."

  Logan shifted in his seat. "You're asking him to show the other side."

  "Yes," she said. "Show your fans that even for The Machine, it's hard to start over. It's challenging. But you're strong enough to overcome that challenge and find your place in an organization known for its positive culture."

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I could already imagine telling my father that I was doing this, could hear the disbelief in his gruff voice.

  But my father wasn't here. I looked over at Logan. "What do you think?"

  He held up his hands. "This is not my decision. Honestly, I'm not even sure why she needed me here."

  Beatrice answered that easily. "Because you're his coach, and this will require your support when we've got cameras on every angle of his life."

  Logan grimaced. "That sounds awful."

  "Helpful, thank you," I muttered.

  He gave me an apologetic look.

  The skin on my knuckles turned white when I tightened my fingers again. She wasn't wrong, but I didn't fully believe she was right either. I didn't need to be adored for all of eternity, but I did want to be the best at what I did. I shouldn't need something like this to prove it. Numbers proved it. Rankings proved it. Wins and losses and trophies. The respect that I earned on the field was subjective, based on who was judging me, but all the things outside of it that could be charted and reported and put into history books were cold hard facts.

  But if no one remembered me, no one cared about the man behind the helmet, would the numbers matter?

  Not being able to answer that question for the first time in my career made me feel like someone just tossed me into a pool of oil, slimy and thick. I couldn't push through it no matter how hard I tried.

  "I'll do it," I heard myself saying.

  Beatrice smiled. "Excellent." Then she looked past us to the doorway. "Perfect timing, Molly. Have a seat."

  It would've been comical—the way that Logan and I froze in tandem at the entrance of his sister. But it wasn't funny … it wasn't funny at all.

  "I need you to stay in coach mode," Beatrice said to the man
next to me. The one who was sitting as rigidly as I was. "Can you do that? Because your sister assures me that your role within this organization has nothing to do with hers."

  My eyes narrowed at the way she said it, disbelief rife and heavy in the words.

  Molly took a seat next to me, and I caught the slightest hint of peaches as she did.

  Fine. I didn't need to breathe by her. No problem.

  "Molly got this job on her own merit," Logan said tightly. "And I'm always in coach mode."

  Glancing quickly at Molly, she was settling in her chair, focused entirely on her boss. For a split second, her chin tilted in my direction like she knew I was looking but she refused to acknowledge me.

  "Good," Beatrice said. "Molly accepted the role of special projects liaison for Washington this morning."

  Did the earth just open up underneath me? I actually looked at the ground to make sure it hadn't and that my chair was still on solid footing.

  Logan exhaled slowly, audibly. "She told me a little bit about the opportunity you’ve given her."

  "I'm so honored that Beatrice is giving me this chance," Molly said with a loaded glance at her brother. "I'm excited to work with Amazon." She paused, and her eyes flicked to me for the first time since she sat down. "And Noah."

  My foot started tapping rapidly. I turned to Beatrice. "What does a special projects liaison do?"

  "She'll be your point person. She'll be the one there every day for filming, get Amazon whatever they might need, finalize filming schedule with you, make sure the brand is protected through the process, and make sure everything goes as smoothly as possible. For Amazon, but most importantly, for you, Noah."

  Every word was like a tiny slash over my skin. By itself, it didn't open much of a wound, but combine them all and I'd bleed out if I thought too hard about what it meant for me.

  I'd be with Molly constantly.

  My face was perfectly calm, but inside, a storm raged at the idea, wild and unpredictable. Because all I knew of her was that she was wild and unpredictable, something I couldn't or wouldn't even want to control. And she would be the one making sure everything ran smoothly.