Chapter 13
My alarm sounds on my phone, but I’ve been up for an hour now.
Tomorrow I’m officially moving into my new apartment, and I can’t wait to have a fresh slate.
A place that’s just mine. Furniture that’s mine.
No other profiles on my streaming apps. Food I like in the fridge.
God, there are a million other things, and I’m excited just thinking about it.
I’ve spent the last thirty minutes browsing Liam’s social media page. After many clicks, I somehow landed here and my attention has been fixated on his posts since.
Shirtless. Football games. Events. His boat. A cat. A lot of a cat, actually. In every picture he’s smiling so big. Like he’s actually the happiest man on the planet, but I’m not sure I actually believe it. And I linger on that thought for a second.
The only pictures of Liam’s family are the ones he’s posted with his brother, Landyn. Nothing with his parents at all.
As reporters, we’re generally made aware of any topics that are off-limits when we’re speaking with an athlete or someone within an organization. It’s pretty common knowledge to respect personal matters, especially if it’s something that isn’t directly related to their athletic career.
But I get why Liam’s never told anyone he doesn’t like speaking about his father.
Once he says it, the questions come. The whispers and the people who are just downright nosy, wanting to know why he isn’t a huge fan of his Super Bowl-winning father.
So he keeps it politically correct. He gives the standard answer people expect without giving his father too much praise.
It’s smart, honestly.
I swipe off his profile before locking my phone and tossing it on the bed beside me.
Time to get up and get ready for family day.
It’s usually one of the busiest days at training camp, but also one of the most fun.
A lot of the players have kids who get to come out to the field and play games, see their dads, and of course watch a practice take place. Everyone seems to love it.
“Oh, who have we got here?”
As I’m finishing a quick on-field interview with Mason Baker, four kids approach the back of the chair he’s sitting on.
Two girls and two boys come running up, all wearing his jersey, and he pulls two of the smaller children onto his lap.
“This is the team,” he says proudly, kissing the tops of their heads.
Mason’s wife stands off to the side, just outside of the tent we’re under, and smiles as he waves her over.
We chat for a moment before he’s needed on the field, and I get a small window for a break.
The practice field that is normally wide open space is now filled with vendors, picnic tables, and strollers. The Knights mascot is running around too, taking pictures with the kids and having fun with the media crew.
As I’m making my way over to the far end of the field by the street where the food trucks are located, I notice a large group of kids and families in a grassy area near one of the sidelines. A familiar laugh causes me to stop in my tracks and focus on where it’s coming from.
“So close, try again!” I hear Liam shout to a young boy about twenty yards from him.
The quarterback throwing net is out and Liam seems to be working with the kids on their throws. I watch as he jogs over to the boy, taking the ball from his hands and showing him how to properly hold it with the laces for a spiral.
He takes a knee, getting right at the kid’s level, looking him in the eye when he speaks, and palms his shoulder before he walks away, back to where the net is.
The boy launches the ball again, and this time it lands perfectly in the center net. Liam’s arms both fly in the air as he yells and runs toward the kid.
“Yeah!” he shouts. “That was a great throw, Brody!”
My smile reluctantly widens as I watch him interact with the kids and families.
He doesn’t have to be out here for this.
It’s not like he has kids of his own out here running around, he could easily be taking a break like a lot of the other guys—cooling off under the mist tents.
But he seems so in his element hanging out and teaching these kids.
Glancing at my phone, I only have about twenty minutes until I have another quick interview.
Today is filled with a handful of small chats with the guys.
Days where fans are in attendance for practices seem to be more for fun than anything else, even though they still give it their all—you can easily tell the team just loves playing for an audience.
Even if it’s their wives, neighbors, or seven-month-old babies.
Having someone on the sidelines is an extra rush of adrenaline for them.
I notice Mia Campbell, Nate’s wife, on the sideline gently pushing a stroller back and forth as her two toddlers seem to be playing tag with one another on the field. When she spots me, she gives me a smile and a wave.
I mimic the greeting and walk over to her.
“Is he sleeping?” I whisper as I approach the stroller before peeking in.
She nods. “Finally. He was getting a little restless, so I’m glad he fell asleep. I’ll rock this stroller for as long as I need to if it helps keep him comfortable.”
“They’re beautiful,” I say, gesturing to the three little boys who all look exactly like Nate.
“Thank you.” She smiles, looking at the two older boys in front of her.
Nate and Liam stride up to where the two of us are talking. Liam’s hair is caked in sweat, but he runs a hand through it nonetheless. The guys are in full pads today under their uniforms, making them look even bigger than they already are.
I’m sweating everywhere in this heat today.
It’s stagnant and uncomfortable for someone dressed for it, I can’t even imagine how they feel.
I wore an athletic skirt with an NFL tank top today thinking that would help, and while it does help with the heat I suppose, it doesn’t stop the sweat from dripping between my thighs as I stand here.
When Nate approaches, he pulls Mia by the waist and kisses her as if she’s going to put the air back into his tired lungs. When they finally break apart, he turns to acknowledge me with a hello.
“I did that,” Liam says, smirking as he points to the two of them.
“You did not,” Nate retorts, leaning into the stroller to peek at the baby.
“I did,” Liam whispers to me, swiping his tongue between his lips with a teasing smile.
I shake my head back and forth, looking away from him as I do.
“How are you today?” Liam directs his attention to me.
“Good,” I say as I watch the boys run around. “A little tired from packing.”
“When’s move-in day?” He grins.
Pulling my shoulders back, I open my mouth slightly, taking a look at Nate and Mia beside us before answering.
“Tomorrow,” I finally say with a smile.
Liam’s hand forms a fist by his side and he pulls it back the slightest bit. A subtle fist-pump.
“Well, as I’ve mentioned, I love unpacking, so just come knock if you need help.” He smirks.
“Where was this enthusiasm when we moved into our house?” Nate teases, looking at Liam.
“Stop,” Mia says to him, reaching to pinch his side, but Nate catches her hand first, and they smile at each other. Jesus, they’re cute.
“I’m going to get back to the tent,” I say, turning to walk away.
“I’ll walk with you,” Liam says.
“That really isn’t necessary,” I say, but he’s already by my side.
“Those ribs smell fucking good,” he says, pointing up ahead to the food truck.
“I thought the same,” I admit, shyly tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Messy food seems to always taste better.”
“Agree.” He chuckles before he stops walking.
Without realizing it, we’re already back at the tent. He stands just on the outside as if he’s dropping me off at work or something.
“Save some good questions for me.” He runs a hand in his hair, and it slicks back with all the sweat.
“Oh, that’s right. You’re my final interview today.”
“Stop. I know you didn’t forget.” His smirk pulls me a fraction of a step toward him.
“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t.” I shrug as he walks backward to the field, still facing me. “Guess we’ll never know,” I shout out to him as he turns.
I’m shocked at my own decision to be playful with him. If I were in this situation even a month ago, I wouldn’t even entertain him.
As I’m standing with the crew watching them practice, I see the offense huddle together. Liam stands out amongst the players and not just due to his bright red no-contact jersey either.
He commands them in a way that requires so much respect. The usual playful tone Liam brings to conversations is sharper on the field, even in just a practice. He’s intense, while still throwing out a joke or two to his linemen.
I hear his series of play calls before he yells “hut” and a wide receiver runs down the field to catch the pass that’s already in the air.
Liam’s release time is incredible. It’s probably why his sack rate has been so low over the last few seasons. Although a lot of that is credit to his offensive line. He doesn’t feel pressure in the pocket because of them, not a lot of quarterbacks in this league can say the same.
He’s so good at scanning the field too, looking at all his options in what has to be record timing before he chooses the route he believes will have the best outcome. I’ve actually started thinking that the way he studies a defense should be taught to all rookies.
Not to say he doesn’t go for the big moments, because he has his fair share of those. But great quarterbacks are smart. They know when to use their arms and when to take the yards. And Liam’s one of the smartest in the league right now.
It’s time for Liam’s interview, and I do a quick look at my phone camera and flatten out one of the stray pieces of hair going rogue in this heat.
“Saved the best for last.” Liam comes up behind me.
I see him in the camera of my phone as it’s still forward facing.
He grins from ear to ear and secures a baseball hat on his head, checking himself out in my camera before I close it.
When I turn around, I get a good look—and whiff—of him. It’s clearly been a tough day out there. I brush my hands off as I finish taking a bite of my mozzarella stick.
“Glad to see you eating before your interviews this time,” he says as he takes a seat in the chair.
“For the record, I didn’t purposely not eat last time. I had no time. Trust me, I love to eat.” I sway my free hand in front of my body in a proud display. I love food. And I love my body.
“What’s—” He imitates my motion.
“Does this look like someone who doesn’t like food?”
His shoulders shake with a chuckle. “Oh, Dem,” he says, leaning closer to me. “It looks like a lot of things I can’t say if I want you to still think of me as a gentleman.”
My eyes roll slowly. “You sure like to play with the line, though, don’t you? You get pretty close to crossing it almost every time we talk.” I place my notebook on the small table beside my chair and adjust my skirt before I take a seat.
When I thought an athletic skirt would be best for today, I didn’t consider that they were made with slits and not the most suitable for women with thicker thighs or someone who is going to be alternating between standing and sitting all day.
“All I’m hearing is that you remember our conversations,” he says in a hushed voice.
I give him major side-eye and don’t miss the wicked grin on his face as we sit beside each other waiting for a post-practice interview to begin.
The interview itself lasts a total of three minutes as Liam is quick to answer the questions, and I don’t waste time with any other side questions or off topic remarks.
He’s the last of the afternoon for me, and I can tell he’s tired too.
His eyes look heavy. Maybe even like he didn’t sleep great last night either, but I brush that thought off.
He’s probably just exhausted. But he still speaks with excitement and charisma and makes sure to include the entire team in every answer he gives.
Every time I shift in this chair, I feel the skirt ride up on my thigh and I find myself practically keeping my left hand in place to make sure it doesn’t go to an unprofessional or uncomfortable height up my leg.
Mental note for next time—don’t wear the damn skirt.
“Thanks, Liam,” I say, glancing at him and then back to the camera in front of us, offering a smile into the lens.
He nods and smiles as well. The perfect media presence. Not that I’m surprised—he’s got a face made for television.
I stay seated and place my notebook on my lap, my fingers tugging at the fabric of my skirt when Liam stands from his chair and plants himself directly in front of me. Close enough to see the beads of sweat near his temple, but with just enough space between us for me to stand.
He takes his hat, flipping it backward on his head as his tongue coats his lips.
“Stand up.” He stills, blocking the front of me from anyone’s view, including his own as his eyes stay focused on mine. “Go ahead, Dem. I’m here, you can stand.”
I swallow, tugging at my skirt one last time before I scoot myself off the chair to a standing position.
All day, I’ve been getting creative with how I get down from this higher than normal chair.
My go-to has been keeping my notebook over my legs.
Not once today has someone noticed, let alone helped.
“Thank you,” I say as I stand before him.
He backpedals a few steps and smiles with a cocky shrug as he’s about to leave the tent. “Gentleman. Remember?”