Chapter 12
Grizzly
Paxton held the door open for me when we left the diner. It was a small thing. I knew that.
And yet I still had to physically redirect my attention to the sidewalk ahead of us rather than standing there making too much of it. My cheeks burned with how much the move affected me.
The warm afternoon air settled over us as we walked back. Bellport in the spring had a way of starting cool and then remembering where it was by midday.
I had my jacket folded over my arm, which was probably the more sensible option than wearing it. I’d grabbed it on the way out of the office more out of habit than need.
Paxton walked beside me with his hands in his pockets, his steps unhurried as if he was letting me set the pace.
He had the ability to just be somewhere without drawing attention to himself.
He didn't talk for the sake of talking, and he didn't let silence loom like a dark cloud.
He just existed in it comfortably, which was rare in my experience.
After the first block he said, "Can I ask you something?"
"You can."
"How did you end up being an agent? You obviously know sports well enough. Did you ever want to play?"
It was a question I'd been asked before, though usually in a way that carried some implication of failure underneath it. Like the assumption was that I had wanted to play and hadn't made it, and the agenting was a consolation.
Paxton’s question sounded more like curiosity. He was making conversation, but he was also interested to know the truth.
"When I was younger, I had no real interest in playing. My parents wanted me to. They’d force me to join teams, then would tear me down when I didn’t perform at an elite level.
I found a love for the various sports they made me try.
Just not the way they’d hoped. Seeing the guys I played with work so hard to make it pro made me want to help them. ”
He laughed. "And so you became an agent instead?"
"I realized pretty quickly that I wasn't built for that kind of competition.
Not because I couldn't play, but because—" I paused, wondering if maybe I was being too truthful.
"I don't love conflict. The aggressive side of competitive sports, the noise and the ego of it, never appealed to me the way it does to some people.
I could do it. I was just never going to love doing it. "
He was quiet for a moment. "So what did appeal to you?"
"The quieter parts of it. The work that happened off the field. The relationships and the negotiations and figuring out what someone needed to get to where they wanted to go. That felt more like me."
"Soft and strategic." His voice accentuated the words in a complimentary way.
I glanced at him. He was looking ahead at the street, like he was lost in his own head.
"Something like that," I agreed.
"There's nothing wrong with that, you know. Most people act like you have to be aggressive to be successful. Like caring about the gentle side of it is somehow less. That's not true."
I thought about how to respond to that. I thought about the conversations I’d gotten used to having over the years when people learned what I did and what I was built like.
They pictured me differently every single time.
The raised eyebrows. The comments that were meant to be jokes but weren’t funny to me at all.
Shrugging, I said, "It's not always a popular perspective.”
"Popular is overrated." He glanced over at me briefly. "I prefer genuine."
We walked another half block in silence. It was, for lack of a better word, comfortable. Which made no sense given how short of a time we’d known each other.
"What about you?" I asked. "The advocacy part of it, the work with kids, all of that—was that always part of the plan or did it come later?"
"Always. I knew pretty early that if I made it where I wanted to go, I didn't want it to just be about me.
I've had a lot of people in my corner my whole life.
It doesn't feel right not to pass that forward.
" He shrugged like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
"Besides, kids are good for you. They're honest. They don't care what your stats are. "
"No, they don't." I smiled as I pictured him running around with a bunch of little T-ball players at practice. He’d make a great coach one day.
We reached the office building, and he held the door again. “See you soon, Grizzly.”
I turned to face him, my mind reeling as unease shot through me. I didn’t want him to leave. I didn’t want to stop this connection that was forming between us.
But instead of saying any of that, I waved and whispered, “Bye, Paxton.”
Cheyenne and Moseley were waiting. Of course they were.
That was perhaps too gentle a way to describe it. More accurately, they were poised, like two predators ready to strike their prey. Moseley was standing up from his desk before I had fully cleared the threshold.
"How was it?" he asked. Then, before I could answer: "Was it good? Did you talk? What did you talk about? Did you eat? Was the food good? Did you—"
"Moseley." Cheyenne cut him off. "Breathe."
He took a slow, deep breath, then tried again. "How was lunch?"
"It was good," I said as I moved toward my office.
Cheyenne stepped into my path with a raised brow. "Come on. Give us more than that."
"There isn't more than that. We had gumbo and talked about the city. It was a nice lunch."
"You were gone for two hours," Moseley whined, his eyes wide.
I shrugged. "The service was slow."
"Grizzly." Their pleading voices synced together.
I sighed. They weren’t going to let this go without at least a short rundown of the meal.
I leaned against the doorframe of my office and looked at the two of them.
"It was good. He was easy to talk to. We had a normal lunch like two normal people and then we came back. We said goodbye. That's all."
Cheyenne tilted her head. "And how did it feel? Being around him, now that the business part is handled."
"Professional," I said quickly.
She gave me a look that communicated very clearly she didn’t believe me.
"It felt fine," I tried again. "He asked some solid questions, and he listened well."
"He's attentive," Moseley commented. "I noticed that when he was here before too. The way he just locks onto whoever's talking. Some people do that and it's weird, but when he does it, it just feels—"
"Important," Cheyenne supplied.
Moseley pointed at her. "Yeah. That's it."
I didn’t confirm or deny that. Confirming it would open a door I wasn’t fully ready to walk through in the middle of the afternoon when there was work to be done. Denying would have them asking even more questions until I caved. It was a lose-lose situation.
"He's going to be a good client," I said, which was true.
Cheyenne folded her arms. "He's good for you. You know that, right?"
"You've mentioned it."
"I'll keep mentioning it until I see evidence that it's registered.
I'm not saying you have to do anything about it right now. All I’m pointing out is how good of a person he is.
I could hear from out here how thoughtfully he handled every part of the contract discussion earlier.
" She was insistent. I loved it when it came to work, not so much my personal life.
"Cheyenne—"
"I know you, Grizzly. I know what you're like when something scares you.
You stuff all the feelings away and focus on work.
" She gave me an exasperated look. "He's not going to hurt you.
And even if he doesn't end up being everything you want him to be…
Actually, I think he's going to be exactly what you want. I bet if you dig down deep, you’ll see it too. "
Silence enveloped the space as we all processed Cheyenne’s words.
Moseley cleared his throat. "What she's trying to say is that you deserve to be taken care of too. Not just the other way around."
I looked at him. He had the grace to look slightly uncertain about whether he'd overstepped, but he held my gaze anyway.
With a sigh, I dropped my arms. "I know. I appreciate you both. More than I say out loud."
"You could say it more," Moseley teased.
"Don't push it." I said it without any real edge.
We shared a laugh, then the phone rang and Moseley rushed to answer it.
"I have calls to return," I said. "Let me go do that."
Cheyenne stepped aside, which meant she was done pressing for now. I knew she would come back to it. That was fine. Right then, I just needed a few minutes of quiet to put my head back into work mode.
I settled into my chair, eyes not focusing on anything in particular. As much as I needed to get done, my thoughts kept coming back to the menu at the diner.
It was such a small moment in the grand scheme of everything. He had seen me struggle, then offered help. Though really he didn’t offer in the traditional sense. It was as if he knew I’d be stubborn and turn him down.
He’d said what are you in the mood for like nothing was wrong.
He didn't know. That was the part I kept landing on. He didn't know about the diagnosis or the timeline or what my eyes were already struggling with, yet he’d still done that.
Maybe, I thought. Then I stopped myself, because I was a bit scared of even thinking the words. I tried again, more carefully.
Maybe the way he handled something as small as a menu was similar to how he would handle the bigger things. Maybe a person who responded to need with that kind of attention could sit with the harder truths too.
The ones I was still figuring out how to carry myself.
I’d spent a long time believing that the parts of me that needed tending to were too much. Too complicated. Too far from what anyone would want to take on willingly. My Little side, yes, but also my vision loss and the years of being told in one way or another that I was too soft for this world.
Learning to present only the pieces of myself that were useful, how to fit cleanly into a professional context, was pivotal in how I navigated life. Paxton Wells had sat across from me and obliterated my defenses.
Maybe he'll accept every part of me.
After a few more minutes of thinking it through, I picked up the phone to start returning calls. You could only sit with your feelings for so long before you had to get up and keep going.