Chapter 23 Griffin
Griffin
Griffin is typically as strict about his phone-free practice policy as he is his diet, but when Aria texts the day after the commercial while he’s in the locker room before he hits the field, he can’t help but break it.
He’s been replaying their moment on the field over and over in his mind, and despite going back and forth, he’s decided he’s glad he reached out and took Aria’s hand.
It wasn’t overtly romantic—well, at least that’s what he’s telling himself—but he feels less like he’s about to combust now that he’s made a small gesture of his feelings for her.
Admittedly, Griffin knows it’s unrealistic that the genuine care he feels for her would amount to anything between them. But he also wants her to know that at this point, it’s far more than just PR between them from where he stands.
Aria: I had a dream last night that I was performing, and someone in the crowd threw a bottle of Level Up at me. Hit me in the head, and I had to be airlifted out. I just HAD to tell you!
Griffin smiles to himself.
Griffin: Hopefully it wasn’t me lobbing it at you in the dream. I can’t promise I won’t sing along, but I’d never throw things at you—concert or not.
Aria: Ha! I know.
Griffin holds the phone before him and drops onto the bench that runs behind the lockers. Teammates mill around him, some slapping his shoulder in greeting as they pass, others laughing together as they pull on their compression shirts.
On the screen, three dots scroll, and Griffin holds his breath in anticipation for Aria’s message.
The phone buzzes in his palm as the message arrives.
Aria: I also realized I forgot to thank you. For getting me out of drinking it.
Griffin: I was happy to. I don’t mind the stuff, and I know you have to do plenty of stuff you’d rather not.
He thinks about the album situation. It’s surprising that Aria’s team isn’t pushing back harder on the studio’s demands, but maybe they all want the same thing: for Aria to continue pumping out chart-topping hits. Every one of them benefits from it.
Not that it’s his place to push, but the more he gets to know Aria, her ability to pivot, her quick-wittedness, he becomes more certain that she could meld the more introspective lyrics she wants to write with the popular beats and melodies the fans love.
In fact, her fans would likely lap up a new twist.
Aria: I know. But you didn’t have to, and you went out of your way.
Griffin: It was nothing. Writing any songs today?
Three dots scroll.
Aria: Ugh. Yes. And no. I have one song that’s coming together.
Griffin: Just let me know if my backup vocals could come in handy.
Aria: Such a helpful guy. Speaking of which, did you see that someone leaked a clip of us on the field after the shoot yesterday?
Griffin: Huh? Looking now.
Griffin types their names into the browser, and sure enough, there they are, lying on their backs on the Wardens playing field, arms flung out to the sides.
His chest tightens slightly. That was a private moment, a special one, a moment he was really hoping to keep as something only between him and Aria.
He navigates back to their text thread and types.
Griffin: Can’t do anything without paparazzi, am I right?
Aria: No truer words. I guess it’s another good image for the campaign, though.
Griffin stops. When they started this arrangement, it was a setup. He was an Aria Wilder fan with a surface-level crush; she reached even wider audiences when tied to professional sports. But now? It doesn’t feel right to call it a campaign or a setup. They’re texting like actual friends.
He types out a response:
Griffin: For sure. We’re such great actors since we hate each other so much.
Aria: Ha ha. Fair point. This whole thing is a cakewalk now that you turned out to be not half bad.
Griffin: I’ll take that as a compliment.
Aria: One of the highest regards coming from me.
Griffin smiles as he types his reply.
Griffin: And the same to you: You’re not half bad either.
The three dots begin to scroll when Elliott’s voice pulls Griffin from the exchange on the screen. “Hey! Griff! You in la-la land, man? We’re due on the field in sixty seconds.”
Griffin leaps to his feet, suddenly panicked—and surprised—at how he lost track of time. He’s normally so regimented, it never crossed his mind that he wouldn’t be five minutes early on the field like his high school coach instilled in him. Like he is at every practice.
Before Aria can reply, he rapid fires a text, hits Send, and tosses the phone into the locker.
Griffin: Shoot! Late to practice! Gotta go.
As he sprints toward the field, helmet in hand, Griffin wonders if she’ll reply. If she’ll send the message she was typing when the dots scrolled or if she’ll delete that and respond only to his message about having to run. Maybe she won’t respond at all.
Griffin drops into line and joins in the stretching routine.
Elliott looks over from beside him, his arm pulled across his chest and held in place. “You all right? It’s not like you to be late.”
“I wasn’t late. I was just later than usual.” Griffin can’t help but smile. He did technically make it on time, and he also got to chat with Aria before practice.
It’s the best of both worlds.
Elliott laughs. “Alrighty. Just don’t let whatever this is throw you off your game.”
Griffin nods, but before he can reply, the coach takes the field and greets the team.
Griffin has never allowed anything in his life to interfere with football, always fiercely focused on his goal of making it and succeeding in the league.
At some point he became the sport. But now, with Aria’s arrival into his life, his view is undoubtedly being opened up.
The time they spend together pulls him out of his rigidity and inspires him to see the broadness of life.
If ever there was a time when something—or someone—might ever-so-briefly distract him from the game, it’s now, and it’s Aria Wilder.