Aria:Ha! I know.
Griffin holds the phone before him and drops onto the bench that runs behind the lockers. Teammates mill around him, some slapping his shoulder in greeting as they pass, others laughing together as they pull on their compression shirts.
On the screen, three dots scroll, and Griffin holds his breath in anticipation for Aria’s message.
The phone buzzes in his palm as the message arrives.
Aria:I also realized I forgot to thank you. For getting me out of drinking it.
Griffin:I was happy to. I don’t mind the stuff, and I know you have to do plenty of stuff you’d rather not.
He thinks about the album situation. It’s surprising that Aria’s team isn’t pushing back harder on the studio’s demands, but maybe they all want the same thing: for Aria to continue pumping out chart-topping hits. Every one of them benefits from it.
Not that it’s his place to push, but the more he gets to know Aria, her ability to pivot, her quick-wittedness, he becomes more certain that she could meld the more introspective lyrics she wants to write with the popular beats and melodies the fans love. In fact, her fans would likely lap up a new twist.
Aria:I know. But you didn’t have to, and you went out of your way.
Griffin:It was nothing. Writing any songs today?
Three dots scroll.
Aria:Ugh. Yes. And no. I have one song that’s coming together.
Griffin:Just let me know if my backup vocals could come in handy.
Aria:Such a helpful guy. Speaking of which, did you see that someone leaked a clip of us on the field after the shoot yesterday?
Griffin:Huh? Looking now.
Griffin types their names into the browser, and sure enough, there they are, lying on their backs on the Wardens playing field, arms flung out to the sides. His chest tightens slightly. That was a private moment, a special one, a momenthe was really hoping to keep as something only between him and Aria.
He navigates back to their text thread and types.
Griffin:Can’t do anything without paparazzi, am I right?
Aria:No truer words. I guess it’s another good image for the campaign, though.
Griffin stops. When they started this arrangement, itwasa setup. He was an Aria Wilder fan with a surface-level crush; she reached even wider audiences when tied to professional sports. But now? It doesn’t feel right to call it a campaign or a setup. They’re texting like actual friends.
He types out a response:
Griffin:For sure. We’re such great actors since we hate each other so much.
Aria:Ha ha. Fair point. This whole thing is a cakewalk now that you turned out to be not half bad.
Griffin:I’ll take that as a compliment.
Aria:One of the highest regards coming from me.
Griffin smiles as he types his reply.
Griffin:And the same to you: You’re not half bad either.
The three dots begin to scroll when Elliott’s voice pulls Griffin from the exchange on the screen. “Hey! Griff! You in la-la land, man? We’re due on the field in sixty seconds.”
Griffin leaps to his feet, suddenly panicked—and surprised—at how he lost track of time. He’s normally so regimented, it never crossed his mind that he wouldn’t be five minutes early on the field like his high school coach instilled in him. Like he is at every practice.
Before Aria can reply, he rapid fires a text, hits Send, and tosses the phone into the locker.
