He’s even more intrigued by Aria now that he’s gotten a glimpse of the special shine that comes only from being up close and in person. Admittedly, most of the world also believes that Aria is special, begetting the continued chart toppers and sold-out concerts, but what Griffin noticed the night before was not all of that. It was the wit in the words she threw his way onstage. The sharpness softened by her playfulness. The warmth and generosity in the way she pulled him, a stranger thrust upon her by the PR crew, into her moment. Griffin can’t help but suspect that there is more to this woman than her public image.
“Eh. I think the Aria thing is just going to fade out of internet relevance from here. I mean, how long does any viral moment keep up its momentum these days?” Griffin says.
Despite his interest in Aria being piqued—admittedly the woman is gorgeous—Griffin wouldn’t mind taking a reprieve from being the subject of internet obsessions.
“Fair enough.” Elliott pulls off his jersey, grabs his water bottle, and sits on the bench. “I’m going to grab a shower. Wonder what they’ve got for dinner.”
Attached to the locker room is a space where the team is catered dinner after every game. The Wardens are militaristic about making sure their players stay well fed.
“I’ve got to ice before anything.” Griffin doesn’t say it, but it’s mostly for his knee. “Depending on what they’ve got, I might eat back at the condo.”
Griffin loves his penthouse condo, and even more so atnight. His floor-to-ceiling windows allow him a dazzling city view, and at night the lights look like a sea of stars. The guys gave him a hard time when he hired an interior designer to help him outfit the place, but he took it on the shoulder. It’s no secret that he’s a homebody, so why wouldn’t he hire a professional to make the space comfortable like he wants it?
“I swear if you could play the game at your condo, you might never leave.”
Griffin laughs. “Football will always be worth stepping out for.”
Elliott hops up and stows his water bottle back in his locker. “All right, I’m hitting the showers. See you tomorrow at practice.”
Griffin waves a hand. “Night, man.”
On his way to the recovery room, Griffin stops to chat with some teammates, congratulating them for their performances, hyping them up for the next game, commiserating over a fumble. Eventually he enters the recovery area where there are high benches for massage and chiropractic services or physical therapy. A couple of ice baths are set up, as well as an open area for stretching.
Charlie, one of Griffin’s favorite athletic trainers, stands by as he enters. “Hey, Griff. Great game. Want any assistance getting a good stretch?”
Griffin pauses. “Thanks, but I think I’m just going to ice.”
Griffin takes a dip in the ice bath, then heads to the shower to warm back up. When he returns to his locker, his muscles feel slightly better, tension released, and he’s ready to get dressed and head home. He’s got his favorite chicken, vegetables, and rice meal prepped at home—thanks to his nutritionist’s plan—and he’ll take that over the catered meal any day.
Just as he’s about to get toweled off, Griffin’s phone starts buzzing on the metal shelf of his locker, sounding more like a pesky mechanical issue in an industrial engine than a small electronic device. He snatches it up to stop the sound.
Mike, his agent’s name, appears on the screen.
Griffin brings the phone to his ear. “A game day call means something’s happening. Good or bad?”
Mike’s slow, deep laugh fills the space. “You don’t miss a thing, do you? It’s good news today, so no need to worry.”
Griffin turns around and leans back on the locker. He took his time in recovery and the shower, so by now only a few of his teammates remain, many of whom are in the process of making an exit, gathering belongings, slamming lockers, and heading out.
“Lay it on me.”
“Aria Wilder.”
Griffin’s heart does a small leap. “Yes?”
“Her team wants to keep this thing between you guys going.”
“What thing?”
“You know, the staged friendship. The fans love it, and when the two of you come together you get major attention online. It’s a win-win for both of you. Great press. Shows your human side. And for you, Griff, there’s nothing better than showing your fandom of a pop star to reach a new audience. People who have never watched professional football a day in their lives are following you online, waiting for your next Aria Wilder pop-up.”
“Hmm.” Griffin chews on his lip. He can’t argue that attention from new fans isn’t objectively a good thing in this business—in any business—but this sort of attention is so far from his thing.He can take the spotlight on the field. There he has a job, and he knows how to do it well. He prepares and trains. There are timers and buzzers, plays and plans, and when all of that runs out, he can hit the showers and head home for a quiet night. Being pulled onstage or secretly filmed is not something he’s practiced for.
Sure, the concerts have been a blast. And Aria is electric, but is continuing this—and in the context of a fabricated friendship—really a good idea?
“What do you think?”
Griffin chuckles. “I think you can probably guess that this isdefinitelynot my cup of tea.”
