Chapter 12
BECCA
Nate
Would you mind if we moved the interview to my place?
Me
Your house?
Nate
Yeah. I’ve been running all week (literally). I’m leaving for an away game tomorrow, and I kind of want to chill at home.
Me
Are you sure?
Nate
Yes. It will be much quieter.
Me
Afraid you’re going to have more fan mail delivered?
That’s how I ended up standing on the smooth concrete walkway, staring up at a traditional modern home that looked more fitting for a family of four than a single guy who was always on the road.
I took a deep breath and walked up to Nate’s front door. His house was just outside of Boston, in an upscale gated community. It was quiet and convenient, but also screamed: “Yeah, I got money.”
I pressed the doorbell and glanced down at my outfit. I didn’t usually spend so much time getting ready, but I wasn’t sure how to dress for such a casual meeting. So, I settled on a fitted black blazer over a white blouse and a pair of dark, washed jeans.
When the door swung open, I was not prepared for the sight in front of me. Nate was in a pair of gray sweatpants that hugged his muscular thighs and a royal blue T-shirt with the Hawks logo on the front. He was sporting a little scruff, and his hair was still damp from the shower.
Professional. I reminded myself. I was here for the sake of the article. That was all.
“Hey.” His broad shoulders filled the doorway as his gaze trailed over my outfit. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
I smiled and stepped through the doorway.
My eyes raked over the space. Warm neutral colors, family photos lining the walls, and a worn brown sectional in the middle of the room with two matching leather recliners that looked like they got used daily.
This was the kind of place that felt lived-in and was better suited for casual nights in than a temporary crash pad between games.
“You look a little shocked.” He chuckled and shut the door behind him.
I spun around to face him. “I was expecting a bachelor pad.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So, you thought there would be a pool table and a stripper pole instead of a couch and fireplace?”
“Pretty much.” I laughed. “And maybe some neon signs and a fully stocked bar.”
He whistled while shaking his head. “Damn. You set the bar pretty low, huh?”
Okay, now I felt bad.
I walked further into the room and set my tote bag down. “It’s just not what I pictured.”
“You sound a little disappointed.”
“Not at all. You have a beautiful home.”
I walked closer to the stone fireplace. It was warm and inviting, and I imagined curling up on a lazy Sunday morning with coffee and a good book.
Nate cleared his throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water is fine.”
I followed him into the wide-open kitchen with vaulted ceilings, a large island, and state-of-the-art appliances.
“Wow. Now I’m a little jealous.”
“Why is that?”
He handed me a water bottle; his fingers brushed mine, sending a spark up my arm. I twisted the cap, needing to do something with my hands and hoping like hell he didn’t notice how nervous I was.
“Well, you have this beautiful kitchen that probably never gets used. I would sell a kidney to have a space as nice as this.”
He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “Who says I don’t cook?”
“Are you trying to tell me that you cook your own meals?”
I knew for a fact that most athletes had personal chefs, and the Hawks sent meals home every day after practice.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
I looked at him in disbelief. There was no way he was serious.
“Still doubting me, huh?” He strolled over to the counter and pulled open a drawer.
He grabbed a stack of recipe cards that were tucked in the back.
“These are my mom’s recipes. I meal prep on Mondays.
I don’t eat out a lot. I do take advantage of the team’s cafeteria for breakfast and lunches, though. ”
“Wow.” I blinked down at the stack of index cards in his hands. “You are just full of surprises.”
His lips quirked, causing his dimple to pop out. “I like to keep people on their toes.”
“What’s your favorite recipe?” I asked, suddenly wanting to learn every little detail about this man.
“Is this for the article?”
“Sure.” I shrugged.
“It’s a toss-up between chicken in biscuits and pot roast.”
So, Nate Sandler, the NFL golden boy, liked comfort food.
Do not swoon. Do not swoon. Damm it. I was swooning.
I took another long drink of water, trying to get my pulse under control.
“Okay,” I said, feeling the air stretch between us. “Where would you like to start?”
“Follow me,” he said, disappearing down a long hallway. He walked to the end of the house and led me to his home office.
There were playbooks and journals stacked on the mahogany desk. A collage of inspirational quotes on one wall and a framed jersey on the other.
“Was that your high school jersey?” I asked, pointing to the black-and-gray jersey with his name and number.
“Yep.” He nodded. “I like looking at it. It reminds me of all the hard work that brought me here. I actually had replicas made for my O-line last year for Christmas. I wanted to give something special to my guys. We all get nostalgic thinking back to our high school playing days. It was when most of us started taking the game seriously.”
“Wait, you gifted your teammates jerseys from their high school days?”
“I did. Not as exciting as a four-wheeler or big piece of jewelry, but they wear them from time to time. They thought it was cool.”
“That was a very thoughtful gift.”
“I would do anything for my guys.”
Just when I thought I had him all figured out, he would go and say something to knock whatever ideas I had sideways.
“I love that,” I said and set my recorder and notebook on the desk. “I hope you don’t mind. I brought my recorder this time. It’s easier than going through my notes and typing everything into the computer.”
He settled into the chair across from me and waved me off. “It’s fine with me.”
“Ready?” I asked as he sat with his back against the window. The afternoon light was spilling into the room, so he adjusted the shades.
“Fire away.”
I cleared my throat and pressed play. “Before we get into the heavy stuff, I want to formally thank you for the invitation to the fundraiser. It was a great turnout. I was impressed by how well organized it was.”
“I appreciate you saying that,” he said, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead. “I’m glad you could make it.”
I leaned forward, suddenly aware that the only thing separating us was a small wooden desk. I shifted in my seat, trying to block out his clean scent, which was a mixture of aftershave and soap.
“You are very active in the planning side of it. Do you see yourself being more involved after football?”
His mouth tilted into a small smile. “I guess anything is possible. I enjoy helping and organizing it. Maybe when I retire, I could become an event planner.”
I chuckled. “I’ve been told keeping your options open is smart, but I think people would be surprised by how involved you are. That leads me to my next question. What is the biggest misconception about you?”
He leaned forward, staring at the framed photos of his family.
“People assume everything comes easy to me. That things automatically happen. They don’t understand the pressure, the number of hours I put into training.
How much bullshit goes on behind the scenes.
They have no idea of the cost of this life. ”
I studied him carefully. He wasn’t giving me a rehearsed answer or a polished soundbite. This was real and genuine and exactly what I needed.
“I can understand that. Do you mind if I ask about this house?”
He leaned back, steepling his hands under his chin. “What about it?”
“Well, you have the option to live pretty much anywhere. A big mansion, a penthouse in downtown Boston. Why here? In a family-friendly neighborhood?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Are you implying my house is modest?”
I chuckled softly. “Now, don’t go putting words in my mouth. You have a lovely home. I was just expecting something bigger.”
He leaned back slightly, considering that question. “It’s just me. I don’t need a big mansion or to live in a glass box overlooking the city. So, why bother? Here, I can barbecue, relax, and have a place for my family and friends to stay when they are in town.”
These were routine questions, but I was still thrown off by how honest his answers were.
“So, this house keeps you grounded?”
“I guess you can say that.”
I glanced down at my notes. “It’s public knowledge that you are close to your family. What about childhood friends?”
“I’m still close with most of them.”
I tilted my head to the side. “You know, your fan mail is going to get bigger after this article, right? Women are going to go nuts over you.”
He laughed. “As long as the fans are happy, then I’m happy.”
I cleared my throat. “Okay, switching gears. You mentioned that people don’t understand the cost you paid to get to where you are. What’s the biggest sacrifice for you personally?”
His lips thinned, and I thought for a moment that he would shut me down, but then his gaze flicked back to the family photos on the wall. “Time. Birthdays, holidays, and weddings that happen on game days. Moments I’ll never get back and memories I never get to make.”
I nodded, understanding more than I had expected to. “Do you ever regret it?”
He didn’t answer right away. I could see him trying to choose his words carefully.
“I regret what it cost me sometimes, but I knew what I was signing up for.”
I leaned forward, picking up on something. Not regret, more along the lines of resigning himself to the fact that this was the way it was. “You sound like a man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.”
He huffed out a laugh, but there was no humor behind it. “As you know, quarterbacks face a higher level of scrutiny and responsibilities. If we lose, I get blamed. If we win, they try to give me all the credit. Neither is true.”
I should have stopped there, but I felt propelled forward. He was giving me an in, and I was taking it. “What about Nate, the man? What does he want for himself?”
Nate drummed his fingers along the armrest of his chair. “What I want is something I can’t have right now. Balance, normalcy. Someone who sees me as more than just the Hawks’ quarterback.”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that.”
His lips curved. “What about you? What do you want? You have been firing off questions at me for weeks. Turnabout is fair play.”
“That’s not how it works.” I laughed, hoping he would drop it, but something told me he wouldn’t.
“What does your job cost you?”
I tucked one leg under the other, shifting nervously in my seat. I wasn’t prepared to talk about myself.
“Long hours, constant deadlines. Personal relationships.”
“Care to elaborate on the last one?”
I pulled on the sleeves of my blazer. “I work in a man’s world, so I feel like I have to work ten times harder to prove myself. And when you pour all that energy and focus into your career, it makes it hard to be in a committed relationship.”
“I guess we’re not that different after all.” He rested his elbows on the desk. “Is your boyfriend supportive of your career?”
I bristled, feeling heat shoot up the back of my neck. The blood rushing in my ears was so loud it was hard to hear myself think. Technically speaking, I didn’t owe him anything, but Nate had been very open with me, so my gut told me to do the same. Besides, I hated lying.
I laced my hands tightly together. “Okay, so there’s something I should probably clarify.”
His eyebrows lifted. “I’m listening.”
I rubbed my palms against my knees. “I don’t actually have a boyfriend. I made that story up.”
“Oh.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
I twisted my fingers in my lap. “I was nervous and didn’t want to make things awkward.” I laughed at how ridiculous I sounded. “I invented the boyfriend to set some boundaries, and I realize now that I made things worse.”
God, I was so embarrassed.
He exhaled slowly, like he was giving himself a minute to process this latest development. “You lied about having a boyfriend because I make you nervous?”
I looked down at my lap, unable to meet his eyes. “When you say it like that, it sounds crazy and immature.”
Surprisingly, he didn’t seem annoyed or mad. “I’m sorry. I feel awful.”
His expression softened. “No need to apologize.”
A sense of relief spread through my chest. “I don’t like lying.”
That earned me a real smile. “Becca, stop beating yourself up. You felt the need to draw a line, so you drew one. If saying you had a boyfriend made you feel safer and keep things contained and where they should be, then I get it.”
“Thanks for being so understanding about this,” I said, ready to move on from this conversation and get the interview back on track.
He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because I lied and you probably think I’m unprofessional.”
“You did what you thought was best. I think we can both acknowledge that we should keep things work-related.”
He wasn’t very convincing. Or maybe I was overthinking it.
He stood and stretched his arms over his head. It was completely innocent and normal, but it definitely wasn’t making the situation easier. His muscles were defined, and his skin was tanned. It was doing nothing to help my focus.
I cleared my throat, wondering how the hell I was supposed to make it through these next few sessions. “I think we’ve got enough for today.”
That was a lie. I didn’t get half of what I needed, but after my confession and how he reacted, I needed some space to regroup.
He lowered his arms and leaned forward. “Okay.”
I started gathering my things. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. “Good luck with the game, not that you’ll need it.”
That earned me another smile. “Wow. A compliment coming from you. I’ll take it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
I turned for the door, but his voice stopped me in my tracks. “Becca, wait.”
I turned. “Yes?”
He stepped around the desk, allowing his gaze to linger one last time. “For what it’s worth, you were right to draw the line.”
If this were us setting boundaries, I wasn’t sure we were doing it very well.
I thought I would feel better once I told him the truth. Instead, I might have made things ten times more complicated.