Chapter 12
Johnson
As I walk inside my house Sunday, I flip on all the lights. Unsurprisingly, with all my days away recently, there’s a stillness in the air. My housekeeper came during the week, so everything is immaculate, and a scent lingers from her cleaning supplies.
Fuck, it’s lavender. A sign? Or just the universe’s way of torturing me?
Since I’m going back to the hotel for our last week of training camp, I didn’t bring much, only a bag of laundry. After I throw it into my washing machine, I head to the kitchen and get the coffee pot working.
About twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings.
As I swing open the door, there she is. Wearing a simple cotton pink tank over white shorts, and sandals with short wedge heels. Her hair is in a high ponytail, swinging slightly from her walk towards the door.
“Hi!” Her eyes are bright, matching the enthusiasm in her tone.
“Hi, Little Battle, come in.”
Grace steps in and surveys the space. My entryway is rotunda style, with a large circular stairway to the second floor where there’s the master bedroom and three guest rooms, as well as a large common space.
If you head straight into the house instead of up the stairs, there’s a formal living room that I never use. Once you walk through the formal living room and hang a right, you get to my TV room and kitchen area.
And if you go left instead, there’s a separate section on the first floor with four adjoining guest rooms, each with their own en suite bathrooms.
Yeah, it’s as ridiculous as it sounds.
I notice Grace soaking up the view of the interior from the rotunda, which she’d missed last time since she and Rawley drove to the back of my driveway to meet us on the field.
“It’s a little much, I know.” I let out a breath.
“You really live here by yourself?” Grace’s voice is full of disbelief.
“I do. This house is my long-term plan for my life. Only, I didn’t necessarily think through what that would mean at twenty-three years old.”
She nods. “You have a home base, though. That must feel good.”
“It does. Most of the time. I miss my family a lot now that I’m back. That whole trip really changed my perspective.”
She doesn’t respond, instead watching me like she’s waiting for me to explain.
But I don’t want to get super heavy right now, so I decide to move on to the project at hand. I gesture for her to walk in a little further, and I shut the front door.
“All the items I thought could work are down in my basement, if you want to come down there.”
We walk through to the living room and I lead her to the door to the basement.
“Be careful on these stairs, they’re kind of narrow.” Her wedges aren’t high, but the stairs to the basement are unforgiving.
As she moves slowly down each step, I follow behind. On instinct, my hand shoots forward to rest on the small of her back to steady her. Through her thin shirt, I can feel the slight curvature of her spine, my hand molding against her.
“Oh,” she whispers softly when she feels the contact.
Shit. I shouldn’t have done that.
But I don’t move my hand until she’s safely at the bottom of the stairs.
She walks out into the space more confidently now that she’s on solid ground, surveying the layout of the first room. The basement’s finished in a contemporary, clean style. Taupe walls, simple beige carpet, basic but nice trim.
In one corner sit the boxes I’d pulled together for possible donations.
“Here’s the haul. I moved the armchairs there so we can sit down while we go through everything.”
Without thinking, I press my hand toward the space between her shoulders, guiding her in the right direction. As soon I feel the warmth radiating off of her, I pull my hand back.
What the hell? Stop touching her.
Grace doesn’t notice this time thankfully, and moves toward the pile, sitting in one of the chairs. Once she does, her head twists around to take in the rest of the finished basement from the new perspective.
Yep, the full basement is huge. Thousands of square feet, only some of which is visible from where she sits. There’s a bar area, game room, and a movie theater that holds twenty, not to mention all the open space where you can sit down and watch a game on one of the wall-mounted TVs.
“This house is enormous, Johnson,” Grace says breathily.
“Yeah.” I draw out the word, which she picks up on, turning back to me with a questioning look.
“Too big sometimes?” she asks. “Is that weird?”
I take a beat to think through how I want to answer. Whether I want to go down this road and confess my dirty little secret about my house, after all.
Unlike when we were upstairs, the answer to the question turns out to be yes. I take a seat in the armchair next to her, and my mouth starts moving, drawn by the need to share my struggle.
“I hate giving these thoughts power, but yeah, the house is too big for me. I get lonely when it’s only me. The whole place is so empty.”
“Oh, Johnson.” Her face crumples a little, now that I’ve said the words.
“It’s worse since I got back from Alabama. I got used to having my niece crawling all over me, my mom to talk to, the baby sounds. Now it’s just…me.”
“Going from a busy house with your family to being on your own here—that’s a big change.” Her hand moves a couple inches on the armrest, like she wants to reach over to me. She holds herself back, though.
Suddenly uncomfortable with the raw moment, and feeling like I’m treading on dangerous ground, I try to downplay the issue.
“On the flip side, I bought the house for a reason. So I’ll manage the feelings for now. With the season starting, I’ll be super busy and traveling a lot anyway.”
She nods, letting me get away with dismissing the topic. I can tell her mind is still churning, though. About what, I’m not sure.
We should probably focus on the point of today, keep things simple. “You ready to go through the boxes I pulled together?”
She looks at the big pile. “Sure, let’s get started and see what treasures you have here.”
I chuckle, relieved that the intensity of our conversation has ticked down a few notches. “I don’t know about treasures, but nine-year-old me would be very excited.”
We spend the next hour sorting the items by the level of interest, value, and condition.
She comes up with an idea to bundle my old player cards into mystery boxes by sport—AKA “A mystery box of Johnson’s childhood baseball cards.” It’s perfect, because there aren’t any individual cards that are worth much. It’ll be fun for a collector to explore little finds.
We group together a bunch of the Alabama paraphernalia for me to sign too. I have so much that doesn’t mean anything to me, but will interest bidders since we won the national championship my last year.
As we finish the last Bama box, I notice an old medal out of the corner of my eye from a race I’d won in elementary school. It must have been stored with the baseball cards.
“Oh, you’ll like this.” I stand up and pick it up out of the pile. “Back from my own running days.”
She looks up in surprise, still seated in the armchair. “You did track? Cross country?”
“No, no.” I chuckle. “Nothing like that. This was just from a local race I did when I was a kid.”
She smiles. “Oh, that’s fun. I love the kid’s faces when they get medals at the road races I do these days.”
Her reaction inspires my curiosity about a part of Grace’s story I don’t totally understand. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
I take a step back to my chair, sitting down. “I remember from Landon’s excitement at the time that you were second at the NCAAs your senior year. In the 3000 meters, right?”
Her expressions shifts at my question. Like she’s bracing for something. Maybe she’s just uncertain as to why I’m bringing this up? “Yeah, that’s right. During the indoor championship.”
“Could you have pursued a pro running career? Did you just decide not to?” She stills. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
She waits several seconds to respond, pressing her hands into the sides of her legs.
“I’ve never told the boys about this, even Landon. Although they’ve never asked either. Only a couple of my good girlfriends know.”
I have no idea where this is going, but I’m now intent on hearing what she’s kept secret from her brothers. “Whatever you tell me, I promise to keep to myself.”
She swallows before speaking. “I could’ve gone pro, if I wanted to. It was just a question if I was good enough to be the best.” The last words carry subtle hints of hurt.
I stay quiet, trying to encourage her to continue talking through my silence. I don’t completely understand what she’s saying yet.
“This really influential professional coach, Larry Smalls—he coaches a bunch of pro runners, like the kind that go to Worlds and the Olympics.” I nod in acknowledgement of her explanation. “I overheard him talking to another coach at the NCAAs that year. After my race.”
Oh, I don’t like how this sounds.
“He said that I’d never be good enough to be a world-class runner.
That I wasn’t at that level. And that I wasn’t someone he would ever take on to coach as a result.
Then the other coach agreed with him, maybe just to go along, I don’t know.
” She says this part of her account like she’s reporting on a history lesson. Compartmentalizing, no doubt.
But my stomach turns at her words. “Oh, Grace. Shit. That sucks.”
“And I kind of collapsed mentally after that. I could barely run for months. I made an excuse to skip the rest of the outdoor season, including my last NCAA championship. I’d already applied to Tolliver, thinking I would juggle business school with training with a coach down here—it’s not unusual for pro track and field athletes to pursue a normal job career at the same time.
Instead, I limited myself to school and helping Landon, as you know. ”
Fuck. Fuck. That’s tough. “Grace, I’m so sorry that happened. I—It wasn’t fair.”
Her expression falls, like she’s finally letting herself feel the dejection that the experience must have brought.
“I know. I just…I’m not good at blocking out that kind of feedback.
Even if I wasn’t supposed to hear it. If I don’t have a shot at being the best in Larry Smalls’ eyes, why would I even try? ”
There’s so much going through my mind. Did she have any other coaches who could give her a different perspective? Does she still even want to run competitively? Or did he taint it forever for her?
It doesn’t feel like it’s my place to dig further than she’s offering, though. Not with our friendship still so new.
Instead, I try to build her back up in a different way. Like I would do one of the guys in the locker room.
“I get that, for sure. When you’re competitive at that level, there’s only one result you want.
To win. But take it from me, Grace. Even as a football player, I know you’re a special athlete.
You’re talented, dedicated, and let’s be real, fast as hell.
Faster at the miles you do than pretty much any guy on my team getting paid absurd amounts of money to be an athlete. ”
She’s studying me with those hazel eyes, looking so vulnerable. It makes me even angrier on her behalf.
“I don’t know this Larry Smalls guy, but his name sounds appropriate. Don’t let him make you feel smaller than the incredible woman you are.”
She blinks at my last phrase and—shit—I see a single tear roll down her cheek. My heart lurches. Did I say too much?
I instinctually fall out of my chair, to my knees. Two slides of my legs later, I’m right in front of her, my left hand reaching out to rest on her right forearm.
“I’m sorry. Don’t cry, Grace.”
She wipes the tear away with her left hand and raises her head back up to face me. Unlike when I touched her back earlier, there’s no sign of her being startled by our contact now.
“It’s not what you think, Johnson. It’s—no one has ever said anything like that to me before.”
I sit back on my knees, my hand dropping from her arm. What? What does she mean? I’ve heard Landon praise her running, but has no one among her family or coaches made sure she doesn’t take to heart what’s said by the inevitable critics? Be there to build her back up when she needs it?
Or maybe it’s that none of them know she’s struggling. She did say that she has only told a couple of friends about this incident in particular.
And now me.
I don’t know if I can find the right words to help, but I want to do more.
I inch closer, and place both hands on the outside of her armrests, like I’m guarding her. She watches what I’m doing with an expression I can’t read. Certainly, there’s no more tears.
With my hands in place, I straighten my chest, closing a few more inches to her. “Grace, can I…can I hug you?”
She doesn’t respond with words. Instead, she bends towards me herself, and within a heartbeat’s time, her arms are wrapped around the top of my shoulders.
I nearly choke on my breath. She’s touching me. And on top of that, I can hear the soft sounds of her inhales, a rhythm I want to memorize.
Hug her back, idiot. I move my arms off the chair and swing them across her back, pulling her tighter against me, my hands splayed against her cotton shirt.
The position isn’t the most comfortable physically—my knees will be angry here in a minute—but it’s perfect for right now. We’re linked in so many places, even the top of her head rests against my collarbone, her blonde ponytail splayed out across my chest.
Neither of us says a word, we just lean into each other’s bodies, and I find my breathing starts to mimic the pattern of hers.
Another piece of the mosaic of who Grace is, clicking into place for me.