Chapter Nine
ASTON
The air in Los Angeles doesn’t smell like football. It smells like exhaust and sunscreen, and the air is the dry heat of a November afternoon in Southern California.
As a linebacker, my entire purpose is predicated on precise positioning.
I have to read the guard’s hip, anticipate the tight end’s release, and put my two hundred thirty pounds of Texas muscle through the chest of whoever is carrying the ball.
It’s a brutal, mechanical rhythm that usually takes over my entire brain from the first whistle to the last.
But today, my brain is misfiring.
Because every time the whistle blows and I walk back toward the huddle, my eyes bypass the white hash marks. They bypass the coaches screaming at me from the bench. Instead, they track down the blue perimeter line until they find the black-and-gold network banner.
Eva stands near the thirty-yard line, her profile sharp against the California sun. Her hair is pulled back today in a ponytail. She’s wearing a white linen shirt and dark jeans, her headset clamped over her ears as she speaks to her cameraman. She’s completely in her element—and out of my reach.
A Rams fullback hits the B-gap on a hard inside handoff.
I see the movement a fraction of a second late, my instincts dulled by my distraction.
I throw my body into the hole, meeting his pads with a cracking collision that sends a jolt of fire straight up my neck, and he drags me two yards forward before the whistle blows.
“Griffith! Watch the cutback!” Saint barks when we’re back in the huddle, his face dripping with sweat as he slaps the side of my helmet. “You were leaning on the outside shoulder. Lock it in!”
“I got it,” I grumble.
I turn back to the line of scrimmage, my chest heaving under my jersey.
The physicality of the game is nothing compared to the mental vise of having Eva fifty feet away and knowing I can’t look her in the eye.
Can’t smile at her. I mean, I could, but then the rest of the stadium would be watching, not to mention the millions of people watching from home.
It feels like a special kind of hell, being close to her, but being forced to treat her like a colleague.
On third and short, the Rams quarterback rolls out to the right, looking for a quick slant in the flat.
I track him, my strides eating up the turf as I close the angle.
He tucks the ball, realizing too late that the lane is closed.
I launch myself forward, catching him square in the ribs just as his toes hit the boundary line.
We both go down hard, rolling into the blue-painted turf on the sideline, less than ten feet from where Eva is standing.
The stadium erupts into a deafening roar of boos from the home crowd. I push myself up onto one knee, my breath coming in rough, jagged gasps.
I don’t look up at her face. I can’t risk it. But I jump up, then hold out my hand to help the quarterback to his feet, and as I walk away, I rub the turf pellets off my red-taped hands deliberately in front of her without looking back.
By seven o’clock, the stadium is empty, bathed in the orange glow of the West Coast. The flight back to New York is booked for eight, and the team bus is already idling in the concrete tunnel under the stands.
The locker room is quiet even though we managed to pull out the win with a goal-line stand in the final thirty seconds. But my body feels like it’s been run through a timber shredder. My right shoulder is wrapped in an ice pack, and my ribs are already turning purple.
I sit on the bench in front of the locker, my street clothes half-buttoned, when my phone in my pocket vibrates.
Eva: Saw that hit on the sideline. You okay?
I let out a slow breath through my nose, my thumb moving quickly across the screen.
Aston: I’ll be fine. You looked good out there, Honeybee. It was torture not being able to pull you behind the equipment trunks.
Eva: Oh yeah? You were supposed to be looking at the fullback. I saw you looking at me after the third-down sack.
Aston: Couldn’t help it. This professional bullshit sucks. I hate treating you like a stranger.
The three dots appear on the screen, dancing for a long minute before her reply comes through.
Eva: I know. It’s hard for me too. Seeing you go down like that and having to just keep going … it’s difficult. Especially since you look like you have a low pain tolerance.
I bark out a laugh. Leave it to her to lighten her concern with an insult.
Someone yells, “You’ve got ten minutes before we board the bus. Make sure you have all your belongings ready to go. Gear is already on the bus.”
Aston: I have to board the charter in ten. I think you should come to my house for the weekend since we don’t play until Monday night. No cameras, no network. Just us.
Eva: Come to Jersey on a Friday night? Hmm…
Aston: Jersey’s where all the magic happens. Come to my fortress. I want you in my house.
I watch the screen anxiously.
Eva: You gonna cook for me?
Aston: I’ll buy the best ribeye in the state. Won’t be as good as ribeye from home, but it’ll do.
Eva: Okay, I think I can make it. Although you look like you don’t know how to grill a steak.
I shake my head, smiling, and watch the dots dance on the screen before I reply.
Eva: Just kidding, Texas. See you Friday. Have a safe flight.
I smile as I slip my phone into my pocket. I have five days of film, three practices, and then she’ll be at my place. And I already know … I won’t want her to leave.