Grizz
Tribeca is buzzing when I step out of the car. In this NYC neighborhood, everyone has somewhere to be, and money to burn doing it.
After a big win in Pittsburgh, I’m back in New York and it’s finally time for the dreaded drinks with Daisy and Elias.
The restaurant Daisy picked sits on the corner of Rector Street—windows glowing, people clustered outside pretending they’re not checking the host stand through the door.
I pause for a beat before going in, tugging my jacket straight.
Not nerves but anticipation. I want to do this right for Daisy, even if I still don’t fully understand why this—drinks with her and Elias—is the hill she’s chosen.
I trust her, but I don’t love being told this is necessary before I’ve figured out how I feel about it.
Inside, the place is packed. Exposed brick, low ceilings, pretty much what I expected.
The bar is slammed, three-deep, bartenders moving fast with that efficient confidence that comes from knowing they’re good at what they do.
Conversation rolls over itself in waves—laughter, clinking glass, a Friday night that’s already found its rhythm.
I slide onto an empty stool at the corner of the bar and order a whiskey neat. As I wait, I check my phone. Nothing from Daisy yet.
The whiskey arrives and I take a sip, letting it settle, grounding myself in the burn. I’m staring absently at the shelves behind the bar when I feel someone behind me.
“Sorry,” a voice says, “but we’re having a debate and think you can settle it.”
I turn and find two women standing beside me, both striking without trying too hard. One dark-haired, green eyes, elegant coat. The other blond, softer smile, posture relaxed like she’s comfortable anywhere she lands.
“Settle what?” I ask.
The blond tilts her head. “Whether you’re actually Grizz McAvoy or just someone who looks exactly like him.”
I smile despite myself. “Depends. What’s the prize if I am?”
The brunette laughs. “Confidence points. We figured no one would fake that posture.”
“Fair,” I say. “And yes. It’s me.”
They exchange a look—not starstruck, just impressed, which tells me they’re used to being around men who matter.
“I knew it,” the brunette says. “You’re taller in person.”
“You haven’t even seen me stand yet,” I say.
“I can tell when you’re sitting. The width of your shoulders gives it away.”
They introduce themselves. I catch their names, repeat them back, making a point of actually listening. We talk about the team, about how the season’s shaping up, about how wild the city feels tonight. They’re smart—quick, curious, asking questions that aren’t straight from a press guide.
“So,” the blond says, resting her elbow lightly on the bar, “do you actually enjoy the attention, or is it just part of the job?”
I consider it. “Depends on the day.”
“Honest answer,” the brunette says approvingly. “Most guys dodge that.”
“I’m bad at dodging,” I say.
The blond laughs, closer now, her shoulder brushing my arm. “Is that why you’re sitting alone?”
I glance at my glass. “I’m waiting for a couple people.”
“Oh,” she says, not retreating. “Lucky them.”
“Very,” I say, and mean it.
The brunette studies me more closely now. “You don’t flirt like I expected.”
“Is that a complaint?” I ask.
“It’s an observation,” she says. “You’re friendly. But you’re…”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m conserving energy.”
“For the game?” the blond asks.
“For life,” I reply.
That earns another laugh. But I draw an invisible line I’m not crossing, a door I’m not opening. The flirting softens, becomes more conversational and less pointed.
“Well,” the brunette says after a moment, “it was nice proving we were right about you being…”
“Funny and witty?”
“Exactly,” she says. “Not just intimidating.”
I lift my glass slightly. “I’ll take that.”
They step away, but the blond hesitates, turning back. She reaches into her purse, pulls out a pen, scribbles something quickly on a napkin, and slides it across the bar toward me.
“Just in case,” she says, meeting my eyes.
The two women then disappear into the crowd. I take a sip as I look at the ten-digit number. I know how these scenarios have ended historically.
These days, though, I have zero interest in going down that path. I crumple the napkin up, tossing it down by my drink on the bar.
Then I feel another presence emerge, closer than usual.
Elias.
He clocks the napkin and then looks up at me with a grin that’s entirely too knowing as he approaches. “Wow,” he says, sliding onto the stool beside me. “Daisy leaves you alone for five minutes and you’re already snagging numbers from women.”
I take another sip of whiskey, ignoring the dig. He sees it crumpled up, already an afterthought in my eyes. “You’re late.”
He smiles. “You’re early.”
The bartender appears. I order another whiskey and Elias orders a gin martini. I glance at my phone again because still no Daisy and this is my version of hell to have to sit here awkwardly with this dude until she arrives.
Elias leans back, relaxed. He sips at his martini, comfortable in the silence between us, which irritates me.
On the surface, we look like we could be friends or at least friendly acquaintances.
Two men sitting shoulder to shoulder, glasses in hand, exchanging easy small talk that looks functional from the outside.
Underneath that? There’s friction—taut and unsettled.
“So,” Elias says lightly, lifting his glass. “How’s the season treating you?”
“Good,” I reply, checking my watch again. “Busy.”
“Busy is good,” he says. “Busy means purpose.”
I make a sound, sort of a humming thing that’s noncommittal and take another sip.
My eyes drift, uninvited, to his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
He’s put together in that infuriatingly effortless way—tailored coat, clean lines, the aura that doesn’t need to announce itself because it’s never been questioned.
And even in spite of this, I can’t help wondering—what the hell does Daisy see in him?
Not romantically. I know that much. But still.
I picture them in college together, him talking circles around rooms, her listening, wide-eyed and curious, already too good for half the people around her.
I try to imagine him seeing her the way I do and something in my chest becomes defensive and unwelcome.
Elias, for his part, doesn’t seem remotely intimidated by me.
Usually, people are either by my size or reputation.
But not this guy, not even by the fact that I could break him in half without spilling my drink.
He talks to me like an equal, as though we’re operating on the same plane, and I don’t know whether to respect that or resent it.
I glance at my phone. Still nothing. No text. No update or any sign of Daisy.
Elias smiles. “Oh,” he drawls. “I forgot to tell you.”
I angle toward him. “What?”
He exhales a short laugh. “Daisy’s not coming.”
The words hit me like a ton of bricks. “What do you mean she’s not coming?”
“I mean,” he says, taking another sip of his martini, “this is a setup.” Then he mutters, almost to himself, “Daisy can be calculating that way.”
I stare at him. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking,” he replies. “This is Daisy at her finest… Classic Daisy.”
That only makes it worse. “Classic how?”
Elias grins to himself, clearly amused. “She did this once sophomore year. Told me she needed backup for a dinner with this person we were friends with. Swore she’d show. Texted me the restaurant, the time, the whole thing.” He pauses. “Never showed up. Turns out she just wanted us to talk.”
I let that sink in. “She planned this,” I say flatly.
“Meticulously,” Elias confirms. “And she absolutely knew neither of us would bail.”
I look back down at my phone. I should be annoyed. Maybe I am. But under that irritation is a reluctant, almost begrudging understanding. This is Daisy.
Strategic. Thoughtful. Always three steps ahead, plotting moves before the rest of us know we’re playing by her rules.
The space between Elias and me grows more awkward, the genial surface finally cracking now that the buffer—her—has been removed. We sit there for a beat too long, two men who were never meant to be alone together, both aware of the fact that we’ve been maneuvered into this moment.
Finally, Elias breaks the silence. “For what it’s worth,” he says, turning toward me fully now, the humor fading from his expression, “I get why she likes you.”
I glance at him, wary. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” he agrees. “But I know her.”
I readjust, intrigued.
“She’s not easy,” he continues. “In any facet. Not too easy to impress or to keep. She doesn’t give her heart to people who don’t see past the surface.” He studies me for a second, thoughtful. “You make her happy.”
The words break some of the tension. “Nice of you to say.”
“I noticed it weeks ago,” he adds. “Before she admitted anything. She smiles differently when your name comes up. She’s more at ease, at peace. Less… braced.”
I don’t say anything. My grip tightens on my glass.
“All I’ve ever wanted for Daisy,” Elias says quietly, “is someone who actually appreciates her. Who challenges without diminishing her. Someone who lets her be exactly who she is.”
He pauses, then meets my eyes directly. “I think that might be you.”
I almost start liking him. Almost.
Then his next words throw me. “After all, she turned down a job in Los Angeles at an up-and-coming fashion brand for you.”
“She did what?” I ask, shocked by the revelation.
Elias shrugs. “I mean… the pay was shitty and it would require a move, but yeah… it was a great opportunity to get back into fashion, and I know she turned it down because she didn’t want to abandon whatever this is that’s starting. It means she’s committed, and you better be too.”
“I am,” I say, eyes locking onto his. It’s one of the truest admissions I’ve ever made.
“I’m rooting for you,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, his voice hardens just a touch. “But hear me clearly on this, Grizz.” I nod, indicating for him to continue. “Do not hurt her.”
The words aren’t a threat. They’re a line drawn in absolute certainty.
I look him square in his eyes. “I won’t.”