Chapter 3
Chapter Three
AUDREY
I’m sitting in the left-hand turn lane on my way home from class.
I switch on my blinker as I wait to cross over Waugh Bridge.
In two hours, two-hundred-fifty-thousand bats will emerge from under the bridge and fly off into the night in search of food.
Almost every night a small crowd gathers to watch.
I see an older man out of the corner of my eye.
Houston has seven-million people in its metro area, so it’s not unusual to see unhoused people near the highways.
This gentleman has a beard, jeans, and is in a wheelchair.
I undo my center console to dig around for random protein bars I keep in there.
I come up short on food, and when I glance back up to see if the light has turned green, I see a familiar face approaching the man. Holy crap. With seven-million people, what are the chances of me being at this light, at this exact moment, when I just left that tall drink of water at yoga?
Hot Yoga Guy, whom I now know is Noah.
They shake hands and Noah sits on the concrete barrier next to him. They make small talk. Oh my God. He’s hot, athletic, and a humanitarian? They’re obviously familiar with each other, judging by the ease of Noah’s posture.
Noah must live close enough to walk to class. I could never do that. I’m so exhausted by the end I can barely get myself in my car. Does he live really that close? Or is he trying to erase his carbon footprint by walking as much as he can?
As I’m taking him in, my phone rings through my speakers. I click the answer button on the dash.
“This is Audrey.”
“It’s Shelby. I’m calling to see if you had a chance to respond to my email from this morning?” I have to refrain from rolling my eyes. That email barely hit my inbox before noon today, but of course it was this morning.
“I did. I’m still waiting to hear back from the brand about the payment details of the sponsorship. You told me your financial expectations, and I intend to have them met.” She already knows this because we discussed it two weeks ago. The sound of my professional voice grates in my ears.
“I can’t wait to see what they say.”
I want to say, obviously, but instead I say, “That’s great! Thanks so much for your patience. I’ll chat with you later.” I click the end button before she can ask more questions.
When I started my own social media management firm, I thought filling this niche would be easy.
My shiny business degree would say I’m qualified, but they don’t teach entrepreneurship at Houston University.
Marketing, taxes, fees, all that you have to learn on your own.
And I’m proud of myself for doing it. When I called off my engagement to Hunter, it was easy to throw myself into my work even more.
A business owner’s to-do list is never complete, but now that I’ve had all this extra time on my hands, I’ve been even more focused.
I pull into my driveway, and I know that I have work to do, but I can’t help that my mind drifts back to Hot Yoga Guy.
Noah… That’s a great name for him. Google tells me it means “rest” and “repose.” I can see that.
He has a calmness about him, a sure-footedness.
Maybe that’s because I’ve only ever seen him at yoga.
He’s obviously some kind of athlete. I would never have considered a pro athlete to be so…
salt of the earth. Maybe he’s in a minor league?
That’s entirely possible. Houston is full of sports teams.
The second I step foot in my house I’m on my phone pulling up Google.
I type Noah professional athlete Houston in the search bar.
I hesitate before I hit search. Is this stalker behavior?
Or am I simply fulfilling my natural curiosity?
I decide it’s completely natural to wonder and hit the search button.
The first two results are for a guy named Noah who currently runs track at the university downtown, so that’s not him.
The next one down is a player page for the Hurricanes, Houston’s NFL team.
I click the link and I’m looking at Noah’s headshot.
He looks almost the same as he did in yoga today; his hair is just a bit longer in the photo.
He’s number forty-nine, tight end. It has a bunch of stats listed, but I don’t know what any of them mean.
That doesn’t matter. It’s enough that I’ve confirmed my suspicions and hushed my curiosity.
I leave that there for tonight. Or I try anyway, but when I finally collapse into bed, I lay there for hours staring at the ceiling, thinking about Noah, about what life as an NFL player might be like and what brings him to a tiny yoga studio in the Heights.