Chapter Seventeen Los Angeles
The rivalry had become a content category. The fans were eating up everything the machine fed them like food-deprived lions.
Piper felt it the second he walked into the facility. His face beside Noah’s on every mounted television. Split screens with graphics crawling underneath. THE RIVALRY DEFINING A GENERATION. He kept his eyes forward like he was not aware he was on the television.
Tank was already there, half leaning over the table with a tablet in one hand and a protein shake in the other.
“You see the circus yet? What happened to your hand?”
“Chopping accident.”
“You don’t cook.” Tank gave him a look.
Tank flipped his tablet around to show Piper. On the screen was a graphic of Piper and Noah. Looking less like quarterbacks in play and more like a perfume ad. “Hour special tonight about you guys.”
“About what?”
“Bro, use your imagination.”
Piper dropped his bag and sat. “That seems excessive.”
Tank leaned closer.
“You two better keep winning.”
“Why?”
“Because the second one of you starts losing, the media turns this from romance to tragedy real fast.”
“Romance,” Piper said the word flat.
Tank smiled as he took a sip of his Starbucks. “You really haven’t looked at the internet, Piper?”
“No.”
“Smart, it’s fucking terrible for your mental health.”
Coach Ramirez walked in with an iPad under one arm, Starbucks in hand. He set both on the table and looked around the room with a piercing gaze.
“Children, phones fucking down!”
Tank slid the tablet away. Ramirez clicked the remote and the screen switched to game film that ran defensive fronts, coverage shells, motion tendencies.
For thirty minutes the room belonged to route combinations and blitz indicators. Piper was happy to get a break from himself.
Then Ramirez clicked to a new cut-up of Seattle. Noah on coaches’ tape, bare-bones, ugly angles, the mechanics you wouldn’t see on television. The moments when Noah’s feet got too wide, and the times he trusted his arm more than the design of the play.
On the tape, Noah ripped a throw, his body torquing through the impact. Sweat dripping down his face in buckets, his stomach pulled tight.
Ramirez let the clip run twice. “What do you see?”
A backup started to answer, but Ramirez cut him off with a look and pointed at Piper. “Ashton!”
“He climbs too late against interior pressure. He gets away with it because his release is fast.”
“What else?”
“He trusts deep windows he shouldn’t, because they are the size of a fucking asshole,” Piper replied as the room erupted in laughter.
“Cute, and why does that matter?”
“Because eventually one of those turns into a turnover.”
“Good.”
Beside him, Tank muttered into his coffee. “You sound like you’ve been thinking about him all week.”
Piper stayed put. “Tank, not fucking today. Do you think coach feels like I’m distracted or something else?”
“He is thinking something about you that’s for fucking sure,” Tank replied.
Piper headed toward the training room and found Vivienne leaning against the wall outside in Manolo Blahnik heels expensive enough to hurt, and Prada sunglasses.
“You’re avoiding me, and that is never a good idea.”
“I’m on my way to treatment.”
“Excellent. We can multitask.”
She walked beside him, her heels striking the concrete floor.
“There’s a Reddit thread popping off. The title is Enemies on the field.
Something else off it? I’m not going to make you read it.
I just need you to know it exists. I couldn't care less about Reddit swamp trash, but it’s already circulating in group chats with the people who sign both our checks. ”
“Is there a point to this?”
“Yes. You are now a storyline, not a person. Congratulations. I need you not to do anything stupid, or I’ll have to start billing you for emotional damages on top of my usual percentage.”
Piper kept walking. She kept up.
“I’m serious, Piper.”
“I know.”
“You have dinner tomorrow with the luxury watch people. Please say less than you want to. Do not freelance, Piper, and if anyone asks about Noah, your official answer is, ‘He throws a nice ball.’”
“I never freelance.”
“Girl, that sounded dishonest.”
“Now I’m ‘girl’?” Piper laughed.
She stopped walking. “Practice in the mirror tonight with feeling.”
“Bye, girl,” Piper replied with a wink.
***
Seattle
Seattle was not just wet but colder than it should be as Noah got out of meetings.
He walked into the team lounge, scanning the room. Darius was standing in front of the lounge TV.
“You need to see this.”
“No, I don’t,” Noah replied.
“Yes. You really do,” Darius said as he grabbed Noah and pulled him on the couch. Darius grabbed his phone and hit play. About thirty seconds in, some fully employed commentator said, with total seriousness, “There’s an intimacy to the competition.”
“An intimacy.”
“I didn’t say it. A man on television said it.”
Darius thumbed to the next segment. Fan reactions, edits, a post with five million followers calling them Brokeback Mountain in shoulder pads. He nearly dropped the remote, laughing. “This country is broken.”
Noah took the remote and muted the TV. “You spend too much time online.”
“No. The internet spends too much time on you.”
He didn’t have a counter.
“You good?” Darius asked.
“Yeah.”
“Liar.”
Noah smiled faintly. “You trying to be my shrink again?”
“Support implies emotional labor. I’m just nosy as fuck.”
Darius glanced from the screen to Noah, voice softer. “Is there something there?”
Noah looked at the screen. He could have lied and he almost did. “There’s enough there that I should probably shut up.”
Darius nodded. No shock, no crisis, just one practical nod. “Cool.”
“Cool.”
“You still throw touchdowns, I still have rent, life goes on.”
He stood, stretching. “Also, if this turns into a public disaster, I expect details after.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“That’s friendship.”
He headed for the door and glanced back. “And maybe don’t let the media figure it out before you do.”
When he was gone, Noah pulled out his phone. You watch any of that nonsense? The reply came in less than a minute. No. I prefer living in denial.
Smart. They called us intimate competitors. That sounds fucking ridiculous.
Noah let his head fall back. He missed Piper’s touch, the Four Seasons had been a while back and he was tired of waiting.
The dots appeared, disappeared, then reappeared. Let’s try not to get distracted. We still have to get to the fucking playoffs, against each other for that matter! Piper texted.
Another pause. Focus on your next game.
Yes, coach, Noah replied.
Piper’s phone buzzed. It was Jayson. Dinner. 8:30 PM. Tomorrow @ Delilah. Confirm. No excuses.
Fuck Joan, we in danger girl.