CHAPTER 19
MAPLE
I check myself in the mirror one more time, hating that I woke up extra early to make sure I looked decent and not like I rolled out of bed and threw some clothes on.
I put on a little bit of mascara to coat my long lashes but left everything else free of makeup.
I threw on one of the new sets of workout clothes I purchased this weekend with Everly.
We went to an outlet mall, scoured the clearance racks, and were able to find five cute workout sets of sports bras and leggings for fifty dollars.
Yeah, fifty. It was crazy. I’ve never bargain shopped so well in my life.
I told myself I was getting clothes because I’d be on camera and not because I didn’t want to look like a poor zookeeper trying to fit in.
And sure, I’m not poor, but I’m not about to spend five hundred dollars on some new leggings just for the hell of it. I use and abuse my clothes until they are just threads on the ground because I don’t see the need to keep buying new ones.
After the outlet, we went to the thrift store, which was a jackpot for all Foghorns gear. I got T-shirts—even though Graydon bought me some, I wanted to cut these up—a cool jean jacket, a sweatshirt, and even a T-shirt jersey with Graydon’s last name and number on the back. Sixty-eight.
I spent twenty dollars and was so excited about them that Everly and I immediately cut them up when we got home, fitting them so they were sleeveless and more like crop tops, without showing any skin.
Today, I went with my navy blue set of leggings and bra, and the neon yellow T-shirt jersey with Graydon’s name and number.
I thought about not wearing it as nerves took ahold of me, but Everly thankfully was up early and told me to do it.
Do you know how hard it is to put on sportswear with only one good arm?
Hard! No one prepared me for that. I was sweating before I had everything on.
So, here I am, waiting for Graydon to pick me up, wearing his number on my back, my leg bouncing up and down with nerves.
Nerves because I’m still trying to make sense of what happened when he dropped me off after the fundraiser.
He was so…rude and dismissive at the fundraising event.
The event was something I was looking forward to, because after getting kicked out of Peru for lack of funding, I realized how important fundraising is.
After the event, it was like I was dealing with a different man, and I’m not sure which one is going to show up today.
There’s a knock on the door, startling me out of my thoughts, and I hurry to open it.
Standing at six foot five is Graydon, wearing gray sweatpants, a navy blue Foghorns shirt, and a backward hat. He didn’t shave, so his scruff is extra thick, his lips look like he just applied a balm, and his eyes almost seem…clear, not clouded in anger like they usually are.
“Morning,” he says, holding out a cup of coffee from Roads, the coffee shop where we met with Gretchen. I realize it’s just around the corner from here. I can’t believe I never noticed it.
“Um, good morning,” I say, slightly disturbed that he’s not scowling at me or yapping at me to get a move on. I take the to-go cup from him, the smell of caffeine waking me up. “Thank you.”
Eyeing me over his lid, he sips his coffee and I watch the way his thick throat contracts as he swallows. Why is that so annoyingly hot? He nods at my outfit and says, “Nice shirt.”
Oh my God, was that a compliment?
Consider my pearls clutched, because did Graydon St. John pull the stick out of his ass this morning?
I think he very well did.
And because he’s in such a jovial mood—for him; anyone else would probably equate this to deadpan—I turn around and show him the back. “I found it at the thrift store. Is it too much? Should I change?”
I glance over my shoulder to catch a blaze of heat lighting up his pupils as he takes in his name and number printed across my back.
A flutter of nerves erupts in the depth of my stomach as his roaming eyes take their sweet time gazing up and down my backside.
Your name is a bit farther north from there, Graydon.
“Do you not like it?” I ask, his silence making me feel incredibly insecure.
He sips his coffee, his eyes meeting mine again, and after what feels like minutes, he finally says, “My name looks good on you.”
“Oh.” My cheeks flame into an inferno. “Um, so you…you like it.”
“No need to trip over your words, Baker,” he says in an exasperated tone, then pushes the door open wider. There he is. The asshole. The one I fight against every time I gain more confidence.
God, for a second there, I thought that maybe things were changing, that there was some light at the end of this bickering tunnel, but maybe it was just a hiccup in the road.
I duck under his arm and head out of my apartment, Graydon shutting the door behind him. I lock up and then he leads me down the street where his truck is parked and my car…
“Oh my God, someone stole my car,” I say, panic wrenching through my chest.
“No one stole your car,” Graydon says in his annoyed voice. “I had a friend come pick it up. They’re fixing it.”
“How did you get the keys?” I ask, stunned.
“When I was in your place.” He shrugs as if it’s nothing and opens his truck door, but I don’t move.
“You took my keys, gave them to a random stranger, and had them take my car without my permission?”
“Yeah, because if I asked, you would have said no, and as much as I’m enjoying this early-morning rendezvous, I would prefer not to have to be your chauffeur.”
“I told you I could have taken an Uber.”
“And I told you, that wasn’t an option.”
“Who put you in charge?” I ask as I sip the coffee he bought me, a raise to his brow.
“I did. Now get the fuck in and buckle up. I don’t like being late.”
And there you have it, the man I thought went missing this morning. Nope, there he is, hyped up on a double shot according to the label on his to-go cup, ready to eat humans for breakfast.
This should be fun.
“Listen up. No one touches her, no one comes close to her, if I even see you bump her, you’re fucking with me,” Graydon says as I stand next to him in a pair of football pads, a bright pink practice jersey, and a helmet that feels like a ten-pound weight just sitting on the top of my head.
We took a picture together for Flock and Tackle, me next to Graydon, ready to take on the first day of training camp. I’ll be honest, I looked ridiculous, but it’s also going to make some good content.
We spent a good portion of the morning getting fitted for equipment and warming up, but now that it’s over, we’re about to get into some agility drills.
Since Graydon is one of the captains on the team, he’s letting every defensive player know that I’m not to be touched, just in case they happen to actually take me for an itty-bitty rookie who’s lost.
“Did you hear me, rookie?” Graydon asks, getting in some poor kid’s face.
God, he looks like he’s about to shit himself. Hold on, little fella, don’t show fear now, it’s only day one.
“Understood,” the rookie says, his voice cracking.
God, I want to hold him to my bosom so I can tell him everything is going to be okay.
“Good, now line up.”
Graydon directs me in front of some cones and says, “Watch me, replicate.”
Oh yes, it’s just that easy, because I have the best coordination on this field.
Honestly, it’s shocking that I’m even here.
Day one of training camp? The Foghorns must be really hard up for good press.
These early training days are sacred. Trust me, I know, because I scoured YouTube looking for what I could expect from today.
All I saw were long, hard days of agility, films, and weights.
Thankfully, I’m only here for a few hours, and then I’m off to my real job.
When we were getting our equipment, I asked Graydon how the schedule would work for him, and he said that because we’re in a “special situation,” the team is allowing him a few hours a week to be at the zoo. Lucky for everyone.
Graydon zigs through the cones in front of me while a line of giants stack up behind me, and I realize just how humiliating this is. Like…what has my life come to that I thought it would be okay to impersonate a freaking professional football player?
“Got to keep the line moving, Baker,” the guy behind me says.
“Oh, sorry.”
Hoping the coordination gods are in my corner today, I start zigzagging through the cones like Graydon, really concentrating to make sure I don’t trip, and then follow Graydon when he goes to the back of the line.
“Pick up the pace,” he grunts to me.
“Uh, still trying to remind my legs they’re attached to my brain,” I shoot back. “I can’t be all speedy like you.”
“You can try.”
“And what, fall down and fracture my wrist again?”
Before he can answer, he weaves through the cones again and sprints to another set of cones.
Jesus.
I do the same, but my sprint is more like a little corgi galloping along because I have zero athletic talent. I make walking look hard sometimes.
I jog back behind Graydon and take a breath just as we move up to the front again.
You have got to be kidding me.
If this is the pace we’re keeping, I’m going to get lapped.
Graydon steps up, does the zigzag, and then sprints to the cone, only to veer left and push at some giant pad thing.
Great.
I work my way through the cones, “sprint” to the far one, and lean my shoulder forward, pushing into the pad like him, but I’m met with a rock-hard brick wall. I go flying backward, right into a strong pair of arms before I fall flat on my ass.
“I knew that was going to happen,” Graydon says as he rights me back on my feet and then takes off toward the end of the line.
“You going to catch me if I fall?” some big, bearded man asks.