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It’s Derek—calling almost as if he knew I was dreaming about him.
Please tell me this man isn’t calling in the dead of night to ask me for something.
“It’s not the dead of night,” he says, because apparently I said that out loud.
I roll over onto my back. “I can’t be held responsible for anything I say at the hour of”—Ipull my phone away to look at the time—“foura.m.? Are you freaking kidding me, Derek?”
I swear I hear a devious smile in his voice when he says, “Not a joke. I need you to meet me in my gym in an hour.”
I want to cry. In fact, I might be already. Tears are quite possibly melting down my cheeks. “It’s too early! What could you possibly need me to do for you at the gym? It’s been ten years since I’ve attempted a push-up.”
“That’s not good. Building muscle is important for your overall health.”
“Know what else is important for your overall health? Sleep!”
“There’s a lot of complaining coming from my agent who’s needed to film my workout for social media.”
Okay, I’m torn. In one regard, I’m happy to hear him actually doing something for his career—because so far, the last few days (after fettuccine Alfredo night) Derek has had me doing nothing but running back-to-back errands for him and cleaning out his truck. Not aThank youorGood jobin sight. So the prospect of doing something that actually pertains to his career is tempting. Derek desperately needs to be focusing on building a strong positive narrative around his name for the upcoming season. He needs to be giving interviews, taking endorsement deals, and showing up to the events he’s invited to. And he needs a good agent to be leading the parade of his success, but I’ll never get to be that for him if he won’t let me do my real job.
So yes, I want him to film his workouts for social media. The issue arises in that my bed is oh so warm and cozy.
“Can you set your phone up on a tripod or something? Film it all and then I’d be happy to edit and post it for you later.”
“No thanks,” he says while definitely smiling. “It’ll be better if you do it. My agent.”
“Listen. I’m going to level with you in my moment of weakness, Dere-Bear. I only went to bed three hours ago.”
“Why?”He sounds appalled but not sympathetic.
I hesitate to tell him it’s because I’ve been staying up late putting in extra hours doing actual work on his behalf. This week, I’ve reviewed all of his contracts and put a plan in place for future re-negotiations on a few bad deals I spotted, as well as been in contact with his financial advisor, familiarizing myself with where all of his money is going to ensure that he has a good long-term strategy for when his income doesn’t stem from football anymore. But last night, I learned something startling:
Derek is a founder of one of the biggest foundations that helps struggling single moms pay their rent or mortgage, but he funds it anonymously. When I read that email, my heart stopped. Because I happen to know that Derek does not have a single mom. In fact, he comes from a family with a mom and dad very much in support of each other. But I was raised by a single mom…and Derek knows this. He knows it because I talked to him repeatedly about how much I admired my mom and all she sacrificed for me. That I wished there were more funding for single moms to lessen their financial burdens so my mom could have been working toward her own dreams while also trying so hard to make mine possible.
I told my silly heart not to look too deeply into this. But it won’t stop jumping to assumptions that he did this forme.For other women like my mom. I can’t ask him about it, though, because then he’d know I’ve been working extra hours. And if he knows that, he might start finding a way to keep me busy at night too.
My stomach clenches at the thought.
Not busy like that, you traitorous body!
“I couldn’t sleep because I was too busy expunging all the bad press about you from the Internet to sleep.” I deliver the over-the-top lie to distract him from the truth.
He laughs for maybe the first time since I’ve seen him again and my heart leaps. I wish more than anything I were there to see his smile paired with that laugh. “If that were true—you’d still be working. Get your ass up and meet me at the gym, rookie.” He pauses for a minute, and when I don’t respond, he prompts, “Nora?”
I breathe in sharply through my nose. “Hm?”
“You went back to sleep, didn’t you?”
“No,” I whimper pitifully. My eye sockets hurt. I want to slip right back into dreamland. The dreamland where I get to go to work at a normal hour. Work with a normal athlete who lets me do normal sports-related work instead of this monster who seems hell-bent on making my life a living nightmare. Or maybe not a nightmare, but definitely on an annoying loop where my talents are wasted, and I’m made to do chores 24/7 like Cinderella before she became fabulous.
“Better sit up so you don’t fall asleep again.”
“You’re mean,” I say, reluctantly tossing off the covers and throwing my legs over the side of the bed. The sun is not even close to perky yet. It’s still snug as a bug in a rug.
“If you’re so miserable, feel free to quit. Or would you rather go back to sleep and have me fire you? I’m content with either option.” He’s enjoying this way too much.
“Monster,” I say.
“What’s that?” He definitely heard me the first time.
