Page 55 of Lessons in Forgiving
“No worries,” he’d said to the receptionist.Mandy. He told me he’d planned to be at the stadium by 11:30 anyway, and I just grabbed my interview essentials before we were back in Andy’s SUV.
I had no idea how Henry calculated New York City traffic into his schedule, but we arrived on the dot. Of course we would.
“Your punctuality needs to be studied,” I muttered in slight disbelief, slipping my phone back into my pocket when we got to the back entrance of the arena. The one reserved for players, friends and family only.
He nodded in sarcastic agreement. “One of my many talents.”
“Another one must be humility?”
“Precisely.” He held the door open for me, which led into a hallway stretching to both sides. As soon as it fell shut behind us, a semi-familiar voice echoed off the white walls.Marty.
Henry seemed to have expected his manager. And unlike the last time, he did not seem opposed to his presence. He even sported a polite smile, and initiated their back-pat-hug.
“Paula,” Marty said by way of a greeting when he turned to me. The harsh light from the ceiling bounced off his bald head. “So good to see you decided to come.” And the lingering glance at Henry told me how big of a deal this must’ve been.
For Marty, because his newest addition to the roster was supposed to sign his final contracts this weekend. Because he’d see Henry in the team colors and had me here to write a stellar profile that would hopefully sell to bigger press. PR was more important than ever in the big sports leagues.
And for Henry because this would be his home stadium for at least a year, and the idea was probably settling in now. Confirming that he’d worked hard for what he’d wanted and had gotten it. That our breakup must’ve been worth it because in a way, it had gotten him drafted by an MSL team. He’d made it.
“Team’s out for camp,” Marty continued, eyes flicking back to me. “So he’s got the whole thing to himself. I’m sure you’ll get some good stuff. Are you taking pictures?”
I shook my head, unsure.Was I supposed to?
“I was told they’d be provided.”
“Perfect.” Marty clapped his hands together in delight before one found itself on Henry’s back, and the other on my own. TheBlue Eagles’ manager nudged us along, around a corner that revealed the soccer pitch.
It smelled like freshly trimmed grass, its dark green contrasting the white lines on it perfectly. Like they’d been freshly painted on just this morning. A few more steps, and I could see the blue seats of the stadium, all empty. Only for a girl to jump into view and scatter my focus so much, I flinched.
Henry glanced at me in worry, and she scowled in confusion.
“Hi!” The woman held her hand out for me to shake, then Henry. “I’m Hallie.” Her dark braids were tied into a high ponytail, and she wore casual jeans and a T-shirt that made it impossible to miss the camera around her neck.
“The Blue Eagles’ photographer,” Marty offered in explanation. “She’s getting some shots of Henry for the website and everything today, anyway. So, if you want, she can take some candid ones on the field, too. Get them to you—”
Hallie cut him off. “Thank you, Marty!” she said cheerily, when what she seemed to want to say was more along the lines of,I can speak for myself, thank you very much.She turned back to me. “I won’t be in your hair for long at all. Twenty minutes, tops. Then you’ve got him all to yourself.”
Her attention flicked to Henry, who’d been treated like a second thought so far. By the look on his face, and the smile when he looked at me, he seemed content with that. “And you’ve got the pitch, of course.”
I felt a little like I’d just been rolled over by a truckload full of information. So, all I said was, “That would be lovely, thank you,” and hoped it sounded as polite as I’d intended it to.
CHAPTER 23
NOW
The blue jersey looked good on him. In it, Henry contrasted with the green of the grass and matched the blue of the seats as he dribbled left and right, then broke into a sprint until he was still an impressive distance away from the goal. He delivered the ball into the net with awhooshthat echoed through the empty stadium, and my hands fell away from my keyboard to clap.
Again, the sound echoed.
Amd again.
He repeated the same drill a hundred times more. Dribble, sprint, score. Dribble, sprint, score. And my intention really had been to focus on writing, on the blank pages on my screen and how I could fill them.
But the sweatier he got, the harder it was. My eyes kept drifting to him, watching him stretch, and run, and use the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead. Just the sliver of midsection it revealed, had me squirm in my seat at what marveled beneath the jersey.
My gaze snapped back to him again—and unfortunately connected right with his.
“How’s writing going?” he asked sheepishly, jogging the last few feet toward the would-be VIP section above the sideline, where I’d gotten comfortable.
