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I spent two hours being poked and prodded when I needed to be focused and controlled. I needed calm and serenity. The closed quarters were enough, but that woman got under my skin. She seemed to know exactly where to stick the needle and pry. Under different circumstances, I might have been annoyed as hell.
I’m not used to people seeing anything beyond the pro-athlete persona I glue on, but she made me feel transparent and vulnerable. My skin literally feels like it’s been scraped off, leaving me raw and defenseless, and I cannot step out onto the field in this condition.
The locker room is empty. I change quickly and get on the field to do what I can with the minimal time left, hoping it will help my frame of mind. I’ve been preparing for today for months, just as I have every season before. I need my mind and body aligned so I can do my job.
Instead, my head is still spinning, and my body is fatigued with everything that happened in the last two hours. Ironically, it might be fitting, given my attempt to rediscover my priorities and rearrange my life to reflect something more meaningful–more real.
I wake up each day with everything a man could dream of: the dream job, the massive house, the supermodel girlfriend, the car, the fame. I have it all, and what I don’t have, I can buy. But there’s a fear surfacing even with it all, I have nothing I actually need–nothing that really matters.
So it’s fitting, after these past weeks spent recovering from an injury and examining my life, that when I’m supposed to step back out on the field good as new and ready to kick ass, I get stuck in an elevator of all places…with someone. A woman, I’m certain, could give any man a run for his money.
On the field, I’m unable to get my mental state to cooperate and ready itself for the battle ahead. I knew I should’ve just sat there and not engaged. I know better than to open my big mouth to a stranger who will probably blow up the internet with some nonsense about me, which may or may not be true.
It’s not like I confessed anything, but people will take liberty in pulling anything out of context. Being trapped in an elevator with the wrong person could be a full-blown catastrophe. If portions of our time alone together make it to the internet, my agent will have a mountain of damage control to undertake.
It was evident by her incessant witty banter that she assumed I’m some cocky, chauvinistic baller who thinks the world revolves around me. I can be cocky, and I’m good at what I do. But I know with one hundred percent certainty that the world would go on just fine without me. In fact, what I’m struggling with, which no one seems to understand, is what happens when you have the whole world but feel like you're losing your soul.
Trying to center myself, I slowly take a deep breath, hold it for three seconds, then let it out. Then, I do it again while my teammates move around me, pumped and ready.
With each deep breath, I try to let it all go. Only time will tell the level of danger I encountered with the woman and her smart mouth, but at least it provided a really nice distraction.
I thought if I stayed quiet, she’d follow my lead, but that was not the case. The only thing I have going for me is that she seemed sincere in having no idea who I am, and it was clear she didn’t care.
I stretch for another minute before a trainer throws me a ball, and I sprint a few yards, trying my best to get my body warmed up while my mind has other plans.
Time runs out, and I’m back in the locker room listening to Coach’s pregame pep talk. Without my routine, I’m feeling off and uncomfortable. My body is stiff and tense, and I try toconcentrate, but that freakingHappysong has infiltrated my brain.
When Coach finishes, I stand and attempt to shake myself loose. My buddy, Tyrell, bumps my shoulder.
“I heard you got trapped with some chick. Was it like in the movies? Did she freak out and get all starry-eyed when she realized she was locked in with the one and only Sean Greyson?”
I huff. “Quite the opposite. She didn’t have any idea who I was.”
He snickers. “Just wait until she tells all her friends. Then she’ll be selling elaborate and steamy stories to the highest bidder.”
I frown, thinking back through our time in the elevator again. “I don’t think she’s like that. I’m pretty sure she didn’t like me all that well.” I could tell him that she said I looked constipated, but I decide to keep that little jab to myself.
“Right.” He slaps me on the back, walking away.
My hands fist at his disbelieving tone, and I’m feeling a little more ready to get out on the field.
Padded up and jersey on, I make my way down the corralled hallway to wait in the tunnel with the rest of my team. My body finally shifts into game mode. I feel a little more amped up and ready to go, but my mind wanders to the woman about to sing.
I realize I don’t know her name. I wonder what her voice will sound like and whether or not she’ll be nervous up there alone in front of all these people. She said she was here because she won a competition, but what if her voice isn’t good? What if she’s terrible? I cringe at memories of people trying to hit that high note and not quite making it.
The guys in front of me jump around, getting hyped up, when I hear some shuffling behind us. Then I see her. She’s being led off to the side, listening to instructions. She looks different, but not in an unrecognizable way.
Instead of jeans and a t-shirt, she has on a short dress partially covered by a black leather jacket and silver shoes. Something about them makes me smile. It’s fitting–the spice under all that misleading innocence. She’s carrying an insulated cup and catches me staring.
Like we didn’t spend two hours locked in an elevator earlier, she stares back blankly. Her spirited green eyes are even brighter now with dark eye makeup, but not the kind that makes a woman look like a raccoon. It’s subtle. Her dark curls frame her face, and her soft pink lips turn up into a slight smile as she stops on the other side of the metal fencing in front of me. She’s still strikingly beautiful in a natural way, and I have a strong suspicion there’s nothing fake about her.
We’re caught in some sort of staring contest as she stands, the metal barrier between us. She’s petite, and even in heels, I lower my chin to match her gaze. She doesn’t move as Miranda lingers beside her, tapping away on a tablet.
“Hey, roomie. Glad to see you made it.” One sparkly eye squints just slightly in amusement.
“You ready for your big break?”
She shrugs and steps away like it’s a joke. She takes a sip of her drink, almost backing into the team owner. I’m surprised to see him down here. He’s a nice man with a generous heart, but he takes the game seriously, and we don’t usually find him down here before games.
