Chapter 10
Grace
When I got back to Landon’s last night, I was totally unproductive.
The only thing that my mind could carry was the weight of Johnson’s words. His vulnerability.
And the fact that he opened himself up to such an extent, being so honest and transparent with me.
Here I was avoiding this man for most of the last year, making too many assumptions. But so much had changed over our last few meetings.
And my plan to keep the meeting impersonal? Well, it didn’t last long, because once he said he wanted to be friends and started sharing such intimate parts of his life, I wanted to dig in with him. Understand more. Help him.
Touch him. There were a couple of times I had to fight the urge to reach over to him in comfort.
I’d forced myself to push those impulses away before I followed through.
I fall asleep confused and conflicted. Can we really be friends? Or should I try to minimize our contact and take all these bewildering dynamics off the table? Could I even do that if I wanted to?
I don’t have an answer when I wake up. I’m just as uncertain, maybe more so.
There’s one thing that will put me in a better mood—a run before my mid-morning class.
Only the typical run around Landon’s neighborhood doesn’t appeal right now. There’s another option, my inner voice pokes at me. One that’s snuck into my mind a few times lately.
The Tolliver University track.
Before I get too much in my head about that alternative, I act on it. Driving to the Tolliver campus early, I veer off to the athletic field area. After parking my car, I get out and walk towards the track.
It’s a beautiful morning—pale blues in the sky, wispy clouds, an open expanse in every direction.
Florida skies are so different from ones in New Jersey, where the views are often gray and feel more boxed in.
The punishing Florida summer heat that the day promises to bring soon is still at bay this early too.
I change into my running shoes once I reach the track, and throw the small bag with my water bottle and snacks against a bench.
A track used to be my happy place. Any track. I’d always loved the steady surface, the predictable distance, the ability to internalize my next objective without worrying too much about external forces—bumps in the road, stop signs, cars, traffic lights.
Until the track became where I stopped believing in myself.
I put on my earbuds, line up at the start, and begin checking off my laps—400 meters each time—at a moderate pace. I’ve never run here before, so it’s not familiar to me.
There are a handful of other people around. Some running laps, some on the field stretching. Nothing organized, just people getting their early workouts in, largely in solitude.
Two laps, three laps, four…
Maybe because it’s a new track to me, it feels like a fresh start. And a reprieve from fretting about Johnson.
Five laps, six laps, seven…
My endorphins are surging by the time I finish my second mile, my body feeling like its purpose is being met.
And a reawakened awareness settles in that nothing feels as right to me as this.
Two days later, I’m back at Tolliver, this time just for class. Today’s surprise is…a text from Johnson.
JOHNSON: Hey, have an update for you. The defensive backs are going to offer to wash someone’s car.
Okay, so we’re texting now?
GRACE: HAHA. Thanks, Johnson, that’s great.
JOHNSON: Nothing like a bunch of 250-pound dudes coming to your house to sud up your vehicle.
I put a laughing emoji on his comment but don’t reply.
The week takes a turn on Thursday, when some unfortunate info hits the media about Landon. He’d had a paternity scare last year after sleeping with an influencer, who ended up getting pregnant. Tests eventually showed it wasn’t his baby, and he’d managed to keep the whole thing secret—until now.
It’s still stressful for Landon that it leaked. Rori and he are close to going public about their relationship. Landon messaged me that he’s worried the leak has soured Rori on the idea.
It’s hard not being able to support Landon during the mess, with him being stuck at training camp, and at night, the team hotel.
When he doesn’t respond to my latest message on Friday afternoon, I can’t help but feel a nagging concern.
Then I remember, one person does have ready access to him—and now we’re texting.
GRACE: Sorry to ask, but I’m worried. How’s Landon doing? It’s hard to tell from his messages.
About five minutes later, a response comes through.
JOHNSON: Okay in terms of the media junk. It’s already calming down after a day, he said at lunch. But apparently Rori’s stressing about it still? I didn’t get the whole story.
GRACE: Thanks, I’ll try to call him tonight.
When I finally reach Landon that night, the baby drama seems to be quieting down, like Johnson said.
“There’s no real news,” Landon explains. “Because I’m not the dad.”
“Well, that’s a relief. I definitely see it less on social media already.”
He sighs. “The media loves these kinds of BS scandals. Loves to cause a bunch of chaos, and then fade away to mess with the next person.”
It’s not like Landon to sound so dejected over a fleeting press issue, so my sister antennae go up.
“And Rori? How are things going there?”
“She says we’re fine…” he pauses. “But she doesn’t know if she wants to go to the gala now. Or go public at all.”
The gala, which includes my auction of course, was potentially going to be their debut as a couple to the media, so this is a pretty big turn of events.
“Oh, Landon, I’m sorry.”
I try to cheer him up with some pictures of Grover after we hang up. That dog is his true bestie.
My brother’s challenges aside, the week continues to go well, especially with our auction planning efforts.
Part of that stems from my new texting situation with Johnson, whose next message comes in Saturday morning.
JOHNSON: Nailed a big one for you. Flash Fuel’s giving a donation of a year’s supply of the flavor of the bidder’s choice.
GRACE: WOW! That’s so awesome!
He sends me two more messages on Sunday about smaller donations from players.
JOHNSON: Our kicker gave me his sneakers from last season—the ones he used to kick a bunch of field goals. (They kind of smell though, not sure if you care.)
JOHNSON: This one might be better or at least less smelly. Got a (NEW) Waves t-shirt signed by all the offensive starters.
It’s fun. It feels like we’re in this together, and every new item he scores is a win, like another point on the board.
So after all my fretting just one week ago about Johnson, one thing is now clear—I don’t want to shut down what feels like a new friendship developing.
Beyond Johnson’s contributions, I’m feeling good about the list of items I’m adding to the bidding options. I’d been able to leverage my Princeton connections to get a local alum to donate an all-expenses paid tropical vacation, one of those sizzle items I was looking for.
And when Sarah gets back to me, she confirms the Surge front office will donate season tickets for the next year. They’re one of the hottest teams in the WNBA right now, so I know that’ll be a big draw as well.
SARAH: I hope the auction raises a ton of money! I’m just sorry I can’t make it with our game that day.
Even if Sarah can’t join us, the RSVPs are otherwise rolling in. So when I walk into the Waves building for my first co-chairs meeting, I’m excited to report on all the progress.
As I step into the meeting room on the executive hall, four well-coiffed heads swivel my way.
“Hi, Grace. Come in, come in,” Susie says. I head to the meeting room table and take an open seat next to her. “Grace, this is Robyn Blunt, Margaret Houston, and Laurel Sayer. This year’s co-chairs.”
All three of them, really four of them if you include Susie, are impeccably dressed and have every piece of hair accounted for, no flyaways in the house.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say. I’m grateful I wore my favorite suit today, a peach combo with three-quarter length sleeves and an A-line skirt. One that my mother bought for me on a shopping trip together two years ago.
“Aren’t you lovely?” Mrs. Blunt says.
“And a Princeton graduate at Tolliver Business School now,” Susie interjects. “We’re lucky to have her.”
The other ladies nod and hum in approval.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” Susie hands out a sheet with all the RSVPs to-date. Our agenda is to report on the responses and then turn to the donations.
Suddenly, behind me, I hear the sound of the meeting room door opening. And a familiar voice follows.
“Good morning, ladies. I’m sorry I’m late.”
I turn fully around, and there’s Johnson.
Looking every bit like the NFL star that has girls screaming in excitement to see him.
His thick hair is damp like he just took a shower, his Waves t-shirt shows off his every muscle, and his athletic shorts have the perfect fit, allowing me to admire his strong legs, thigh to calf.
A buzz of anticipation shoots through me, like an electrical wire just flipped on.
Whoa. Did he change my body chemistry during our conversation last week?
As soon as that thought passes over me, his eyes hit mine, a light shining through. And I try to accept my body’s response to him instead of fighting it.
“Hi, Grace.” He waits for a beat, eyes stuck on me, and then walks in.
Susie stands up as he enters the room. “Johnson, I didn’t expect you to come. But we’re glad you’re here.”
He tilts his head in her direction, taking the empty seat next to me. “Grace’s been working hard, and I know it’s her first meeting. I wanted to come to support.”
I notice the ladies look at each other with a mix of glee and suspicion. Uh oh. What’s going through their minds?
“Well, that’s awful nice of you to want to come and—support—Grace,” Mrs. Blunt says and then smiles at me.
Susie, thankfully, doesn’t let the meeting get sidetracked by Johnson’s arrival. “Indeed. Okay, let’s start reviewing the VIPs who have RSVP’d. Grace, can you go through them?”