Chapter 5
ROOKIES RISING
GRYFF
Iwoke up to silence.
Not the comfortable quiet of sleeping in after a game day, but the kind of absolute silence that made me question whether I'd gone deaf overnight.
No Everett practicing guitar at six a.m., no Flynn arguing with someone on the phone about protein powder, no Jules singing off-key in the shower. Just... nothing.
Okay, maybe not nothing. The house Chris had bought me was fan-fucking-tastic and in a great location with a big backyard just like at home.
But the birds here chirped an unfamiliar song, the sound of the cars outside wasn't the same, and even the ocean breeze sounded different than the mountain winds.
I had floor-to-ceiling windows, but without the mountains to the west, I had no idea which way I was facing anyway.
The smell of coffee drifted up from downstairs, and the tightness in my chest loosened. Artie was up.
I found her in the kitchen wearing one of my old Denver State shirts, which had me pausing in the doorway a minute and staring.
She was reading something on her tablet while a piece of toast hung half out of her mouth.
Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, and she had that focused look she got when she was deep in thought about something.
“Your coffee's ready,” she said without looking up. “Made extra strong because you're about to get your ass handed to you by actual League players today.”
“You know it.” I poured myself a mug and settled into the chair across from her. “I'm counting on it. Nothing says welcome to the pros like getting pancaked by a three-hundred-pound defensive tackle.”
“Pictures or it didn't happen.”
“I'm sure there will be plenty of highlight reels of rookies getting squashed into the grass on all the sports channels later.” I'm sure Isak would find every single clip of me and Flynn making fools out of ourselves today and put out a viral highlights reel.
That's what he was good at. “What are you studying? It better not have anything to do with accounting. We graduated, remember?”
She finally looked up and grinned. “I may have impulse-bought a dozen throw pillows online because this place is too fancy and needs more personality, and I warned you that I was going to.”
The kitchen already looked more lived-in than it had yesterday. Artie's reusable water bottles lined up by the sink with mine, her vitamins scattered across the counter, a stack of books on the island. Little signs that someone actually lived here.
“What kind of throw pillows?” My brand new game night pillow did look a little lonely all by itself on the enormous couch in the living room.
“You'll see when they arrive. But I'm warning you now, they're aggressively cute.”
Asking her to move in with me had been the best decision I'd made in months.
Not just because the house felt less like a museum with her stuff scattered around, but because she made everything feel normal.
Like we were just two people starting a new adventure instead of me freaking out about every little thing.
“You nervous about your first day?” she asked, studying my face.
“About getting destroyed by guys who've been doing this professionally for years?” I shrugged.
“Nah. I mean, that's literally the point of rookie camp, right?
Wipe the floor with the newbies until they either quit or figure out how to play at this level.
I'm planning to be in the figure it out category, but I expect plenty of floor-wiping between now and then.”
“You do belong here,” she said firmly. “The Bandits drafted you because they saw something special. That doesn't just disappear because you changed time zones.”
Yep. I knew I had the goods to be here, but it was going to be a whole new experience.
My whole life I'd been a big fish, regardless of the size of the football shaped pond.
But today there was going to be hooks, and fisherman, and nets, and probably some of those crazeballs guys who reach into the water and grabbed fish out of their little fishy caves.
Plus, it was all going to be filmed. Mac Jerry had set this up weeks ago, part of his strategy to build our brand during our rookie season.
FlixNChill's Rookie Rising series had been following incoming League players for three seasons, and the Kingman twins were supposed to be a big draw for this year.
It meant a shit ton of exposure, which would mean other sponsorships and endorsements would be coming down the pipe. It also meant every move, good or bad, would be on film for the world to see.
“I got you something for your first day.” From the other side of the kitchen island, she pulled out a football bedecked birthday style bag with ribbons and tissue paper sticking out the top.
“I think you might have a shopping addiction. No more one-clicking for you.” I pulled the tissue out of the top of the bag and threw it at her head.
“You can take my one-click shopping from my cold dead hands.” She grasped her tablet like I was going to take it from her. “Now open your present, butt face.”
“Is this... did you buy me a LA Bandits lunchbox?” I held the tin vintage lunch box up and twirled it around.
“It'll be good luck.” She smiled. “And a conversation starter you can use to make new friends at school today.”
God, she was so fucking adorable.
An hour later, I was walking into the training facility with Flynn, both of us putting a little extra swagger into our step so everyone else knew we belonged there.
We'd seen the facilities when we came out for a visit with the team before we'd been drafted and again for mini-camp, but neither of those times had it been filled with players who were ready and willing to smash our asses into the grass.
“We're not in Colorado anymore, Dorothy,” Flynn muttered under his breath as we walked into the locker room.
“Linemen, and tight ends, and B-backs, oh my,” I said automatically, which made him snort.
First up was our first official meeting with the FlixNChill documentary crew.
They were already set up in one of the meeting rooms when Flynn and I arrived.
Professional cameras, boom mics, the works.
At the center of it all was a woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties with perfectly styled blonde hair and the kind of energy that made everyone around her feel important.
“Gryffen and Flynn Kingman,” she said, standing up to shake our hands with a warm, professional smile. “I'm Sloane Mitchell, producer for Rookie Rising. We are so excited to have you both as part of this season.”
She had the kind of enthusiasm that made the project feel genuinely exciting, and I could see why she'd gotten this job. Professional but approachable, with what seemed like real passion for following rookie stories.
“You don't have to worry about us too much today.
We'll mostly just be filming. I may pop in to ask you a question or two if we see a great moment.” She grinned.
“We'll get you both a schedule for our planned filming sessions and home interviews.
Nothing too intrusive. And just give us a heads-up when you have events or nights out planned so we can capture some of that authentic LA lifestyle content.
Just try to forget we're there and be yourselves.”
Flynn and I nodded.
“Perfect. Harry here will get you mic'd up and then you're good to join the rest of the rookies.”
The rookie orientation was a blur of paperwork, facility tours, and meetings with coaches who looked at us like they were trying to decide if we were worth their time.
Hayes had warned us that the first few weeks would be about proving ourselves all over again but hearing it and living it were two different things.
We didn't get to suit up until that afternoon. Finally something I knew how to do. Which I did not say out loud.
I followed the other offensive linemen onto the field, immediately recognizing the hierarchy.
Veterans clustered together, talking in low voices and barely acknowledging the rookies.
Second- and third-year players formed their own group, trying to look like they belonged with the vets.
And then there were the rookies, all of us trying to figure out where we fit.
“Hey, Kingman,” a voice said beside me. I turned to find a good-looking guy about my height with dark skin that made his hazel eyes really pop. Tyson and I had been at mini-camp together last month, which felt like preschool compared to today.
“Freeman, good to see you, man.” I shook his hand, grateful for the friendly face. Maybe I should show him my lunchbox later. Because I was that dork.
“Yeah, you too. This is some intimidating shit.” Tyson looked around the field, taking in the same scene of upcoming death and destruction we knew was coming out way.
Before I could respond, the offensive line coach blew his whistle and the real work began.
The first drill was simple. Snap the ball, execute the play, don't screw up.
I'd done this thousands of times in college.
But the moment I took my position and looked across the line at the Bandits' starting defensive tackle, a six-foot-six monster named DeMarcus Clay who'd been to three Pro Bowls, I realized I wasn't in college anymore.
I thought I'd be practicing across from other rookies. Looked like Coach was testing me already.
The snap count felt different. The speed was different. Everything was faster, harder, more precise than anything I'd experienced. DeMarcus ate me alive on the first play, spinning around me like I was standing still and sacking our quarterback before I'd even processed what was happening.
“Again,” Coach called out.
Again, DeMarcus destroyed me. But this time I saw it coming a split second earlier.
“Again.”
By the time practice ended two hours later, I was exhausted in the best possible way.
DeMarcus had thoroughly schooled me for two straight hours, but each rep I'd gotten a little bit better at reading his moves.
This was exactly the kind of challenge I'd been hoping for.
The chance to learn from guys who'd been perfecting their craft for years.
Tyson looked just as beat up as I felt, but he was grinning.
“Well,” he said as we trudged toward the locker room, “that was fucking incredible.”
“Right? I mean, I got destroyed, but holy shit, did you see some of those plays?” I was already replaying the best moments, the ones where I'd actually managed to slow DeMarcus down for half a second.
Flynn appeared at my elbow, looking energized despite being covered in grass stains. “How'd the offense go?”
“It was beautiful. Painful, but beautiful. You?”
“Same. These guys are on a completely different level. I can't wait to get back out there tomorrow.”
We showered and changed, both of us still buzzing with adrenaline from the intensity of practice. This wasn't like college, where our talent and family name had carried us. This was the real deal, and every rep was going to make us better.
The drive home felt shorter than it should have, my mind racing with everything I'd learned. I kept thinking about the way DeMarcus had read my footwork, how I could adjust my stance to give myself better leverage. There was so much to work on, so much room to improve.
The documentary crew had been pretty unobtrusive too. Sloane seemed to know what she was doing, professional but not pushy. Maybe this whole filming thing wouldn't be as weird as I'd worried about.
When I walked into the house and found Artie on the couch with takeout containers spread across the coffee table, I was still riding the high from practice.
The sight of her curled up there, completely at home in our space, made something warm settle in my chest. She was still wearing one of my old Denver State shirts, and something about seeing her in my clothes sent a flutter through me that I wasn't quite ready to examine too closely.
Not when we were both still adjusting to everything, new city, new careers, new living situation.
Better to focus on getting settled first before worrying about anything else.
“Thai food,” she announced without looking up from her tablet. “Because you look like you just went fifteen rounds with a heavyweight boxer, and I figured you'd want to celebrate surviving your first day with actual League players.”
I collapsed onto the couch beside her, accepting the container she handed me. “Best decision ever. I'm starving.”
“So? How was it? Did you do anything embarrassing for the cameras? Are you besties with DeMarcus Clay now?”
“Only if letting DeMarcus squash me like a pancake a hundred times in a row counts for both,” I said, digging into the pad thai. “That guy is an artist. A terrifying, three-hundred-pound artist who just taught me everything I don't know about protecting my quarterback.”
She looked up from her tablet, studying my face. “You're grinning.”
“Am I?” I reached up to touch my face. “Artie, it was incredible. I mean, I got absolutely destroyed for two hours straight, but I learned more today than I did in my entire senior season. These guys are on a level I didn't even know existed.”
“And I'll get to watch it all on repeat when Rookie Rising hits FlixNChill,” she said, settling back against the cushions. “You know, most people would be traumatized by getting pancaked by a Pro Bowl defensive tackle. You're treating it like Christmas morning.”
I tried not to think about how much I liked the way she said “I'll get to watch” like she was genuinely excited to see me succeed.
Like she was proud of me in a way that went beyond friendship.
But that was dangerous territory, and we had enough to figure out without me making things weird between us.