Grayson
ShouldI have gone to the restroom to change my shirt?
In the sportsworld everyone has seen me bare chested. Top-half naked. Team staff, photographers, fans after a game.
Then why is she staring at me like this is highly inappropriate?
Or like she's a woman who likes what she sees.
But there's no way that blush could be from seeing my pecs. I mean, I'm much older than she is. It's like playing in two different leagues.
I pause, realizing again that I’m not exactly on top form this morning, shuddering at what she must think I’m insinuating. “That’s not—I don’t mean it like that. Hold on.”
I turn halfway toward the wardrobe built into the wall, pulling the shirt off my shoulders. The air against my bare skin is a shock, cooler than I expect.
And I can feel her stare boring into my shoulder blades.
I clear my throat, reach for one of the spare shirts hanging neatly in a row. “You can breathe,” I say, keeping my tone even. “This isn’t a disciplinary meeting. I’m not telling you off and I’m certainly not expecting anything from you.”
“I—okay.” Her voice comes out too thin.
I slip my arms into clean sleeves, buttoning the shirt as I turn back toward her. She’s still standing near the door like she’s one wrong move from bolting, fingers white-knuckled around the cup. “Right.” I nod at the chairs in front of my desk. “Have a seat.”
She hesitates, then obeys, perching on the very edge of the nearest chair like she doesn’t trust it not to eject her.
I finish with the buttons, tug the shirt straight, and circle around to lean a hip against the edge of my desk instead of sitting behind it. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” I say.
She makes a wounded noise. “Has Jared told you I’ve been late a few times? I’m sorry, I’ve been?—”
“Stop thinking I’m going to tell you off,” I cut in, taking a deep breath to give myself a scrap of patience. “You’re fine. This isn’t a warning. Take a deep breath and calm down.”
She blinks at me, clearly not following directions.
I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair once. “I wanted to talk to you about the board meeting last week,” I say. “Your work, specifically.”
Her spine straightens a fraction. “My work?”
“Jared presented the tennis athleisure capsule,” I remind her. “He was clear it was yours. The line cohesion, the color stories,the way you were thinking about people actually living in the pieces. That all came from you.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. “Oh. That.”
“That,” I echo, because she says it like it was nothing.
I push off the desk and move to my credenza, grabbing the folder I pulled last night in anticipation of this conversation, the same one I’d pored over after the meeting. I flip it open and spread her sketches out on the desk in front of her — bold lines, clean silhouettes, subtle details that only show up if you’re looking.
“This is strong work,” I say. “The strongest we’ve had in-house in a while.”
Her eyes dart over the pages like she’s seeing them for the first time. “Thank you,” she says softly. “That means a lot.”
“It should.” I lean my hip against the desk again, trying to look somewhat relaxed. “We’re about to step into a bigger arena. The NFL wants to partner with us.”
Her head snaps up. “The NFL?”
I nod. “We’ve been in talks for a while. The offer came through last week. If this goes ahead, we’ll be doing more than regional collegiate gear when it comes to the football side of things. We’d be on every field, in every fan shop, on every broadcast.”
Her eyes are huge now. “That’s… massive.”
“It is. And it means we need someone leading design who sees it all the way you do.”
