Focused: A hate to love sports romance

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.

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."

Karla Sorensen's books