I laughed humorlessly. Normally, I’d avoid dwelling on this at all because even that felt like wasted energy. Energy I could harness elsewhere.
It was a trait I inherited from my dad. If it didn’t serve my goal, it was a waste of energy. Keeping the door closed to things I couldn’t control was the best way to protect myself.
Slowly, day by day since I’d gotten here, this ragtag group of people had turned the knob, but I was the one who had to do the rest of the work. Conversations like this were because I was opening that door.
“If I had a normal job, that list would go further. In this league, doing what we do,” I said, “it’s a fraction of the whole picture. There are a million things that are out of my hands.”
“Like your teammates pouring glitter down your shorts.”
“Like that,” I agreed dryly. “Even if it’s meant as a joke, it’s hard to be reminded of the fact that, at the end of the day, the only thing I can control is me.”
"A flawlessly working machine," he said quietly.
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Makes sense."
"That's why I almost never stop working on those things," I told him. "Why going out is less important to me than watching film. Why eating right is more important to me than drinking." I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Perfecting my craft is the best way for me to spend my time."
"You're good at it, so you're doing something right."
The only way I could explain why I shifted the subject, with a camera aimed at my face, was that part of my personality that refused to back down from a challenge. I allowed one side of my mouth to hook up in a quick smile. "Someone smart told me recently that I could be better, though."
Her pencil froze again.
Rick glanced at her, then back at me.
"So I'm gonna try yoga," I announced.
The pencil fell out of her hands, and her head snapped up.
For the first time in four days, Molly's eyes were on mine. How was it possible that I'd forgotten that color already?
Her mouth gaped open, and I saw Marty smile behind the camera.
"Yoga?" Rick repeated.
"Yup. I like a challenge." I held her astonished gaze until she blinked. "Do you think you could help me find an instructor? You said you'd come with me, right?"
Molly snapped her mouth shut, just then realizing that Rick, Marty, and I were all staring at her.
Then the strangest thing happened. I expected a smile, a laugh, maybe even a joke about a guy like me actually trying yoga. But as she studied my face, I saw her pull down the hypothetical shutters.
Her expression was blank, and the brightness of her blue, blue eyes dimmed.
"I can send you a link for a YouTube video for beginners. You'll be fine on your own."
She nodded at Marty and mumbled something about a meeting, then Molly fled like the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels.
My eyes narrowed on her retreating figure, and to someone like me, she'd just thrown down the most irresistible kind of gauntlet. Something had changed in her head when it came to me and whatever tenuous friendship we'd started forming, one that had been undaunted by my mood swings and prickly nature.
"Uh-oh," Rick said under his breath. "Trouble in paradise?"
I gave him a look, which made Marty snicker.
"Just … trying to figure out what I did to piss her off."
"Good luck," Marty said with a chuckle.
I didn't need luck. She was about to find out just how stubborn Noah Griffin was when he wanted something, and just then, I wanted to figure out what was wrong with her.
Chapter Fourteen
Noah
It took a lot for me to get nervous to make a phone call. But there I was, pacing the length of the apartment as the phone trilled ominously in my ear. I should’ve made the call as soon as Rick agreed to do this in the first production meeting. But I’d waited until right now.
"Hello?" the voice barked.
"Hi, Grandma."
Silence.
"I think I've finally lost my mind."
A reluctant smile ghosted over my lips. "You haven't, I promise."
"I must have. Because I used to have a grandson who loved me and called me regularly, but that grandson just texts now, like that's good enough."
At the sound of her voice, my pacing slowed, and the nerves settled. "I'm sorry. I'm not …" I scratched the back of my head. "I'm not the best at making phone calls."
"No shit, Sherlock."
A laugh burst out of me, and the muscles it used to make such a sound were so atrophied from disuse that it almost hurt.
"How are you, half-pint?"
"Good. Busy."
"Eh, busy is used as a badge of honor these days," she grumbled. "Doesn't impress me much. I want to know how my grandson is doing in this thing we called life."
Before I knew it, I'd sprawled back on the too-small couch to soak in the sound of her voice. My grandma Pearl, my dad's mom, was one of my favorite people on earth, and the fact that I'd gone months without talking to her made me feel like a giant sack of shit. Yeah, I was busy. So what?
"I'm playing in Washington again," I told her.
She hummed. "I heard that on SportsCenter last week, I think."
I smiled again. "You watch that?"
"How else am I gonna find out what's going on? My son has the conversational skills of a yo-yo, and you're not much better, half-pint."
The nickname she gave me at three had stuck this long, and even if I gently reminded her that I was a foot and a half taller than her, she'd still use it.
"Well, I'm hoping I can make up for my lack of phone calls."
"Yeah? How so? You gonna buy me another house?"
It was the first thing I'd done when I cashed my signing bonus from Miami. I flew to South Dakota and paid cash for the place I knew my grandma'd had her eye on for a couple of years but would never be able to afford on her own. She hated that I’d done it. And she loved the house. She'd cried the entire time we walked through after she got the keys. Anything I'd sacrificed for this game was worth it at that moment. Every-fucking-thing.
"Mind if I come visit my investment?" I asked her.
She was quiet, but I heard the quick, sharp inhale of surprise. When she spoke, her voice wobbled just enough that I knew she was fighting tears. "After the season? Or sooner than that?"
"This weekend, actually. I have a couple of days off before preseason."
It was quiet. Then she sniffed. And sniffed again.
I shook my head. "Come on, Grandma, don't cry. I'll think you don't want me to come."
"I'm not crying, you dingbat," she said in a watery voice. "Just caught a frog in my throat."
"Is that a yes?"
"I think I could have the guest room ready," she answered.
"Good." I blew out a breath. "I'll, uh, have a couple of people with me, if that's okay."
"A woman? Oh Lord, please say it's a woman. Or a man. I don't care who, as long as it ends with me having a great-grandchild before I die, which is probably going to be soon."
Molly's face flashed through my head, there and gone in the same breath, and it occurred to me that introducing her to my grandma was a big deal. A really big deal. Because the only conclusion I'd been able to come to in light of the realization that she was ignoring me was that it bothered me that she was ignoring me. And it bothered me because, in my head, Molly and I had started forming a tentative friendship. Besides Kareem and his glitter bomb, I didn't have any friends in Seattle. I didn't want her silence or her professional distance. It quickly went beyond wanting to know why she was doing it to wanting to fix it.
I explained the Amazon documentary to Grandma, who immediately fussed over the fact that her home would be on film, and simply because it was easier, I glossed over Molly's role in the weekend.
"There will be four of us. Me, the producer, Rick, the camera guy, Marty, and someone who works with me here in Washington. She kind of oversees everything."
"She your boss?"