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Chapter 5
Brady
“Mr. Thomas, Ms. Williams will see you now. Sorry for the delay.”
I place the issue of Sports Illustrated I was flipping through down and check my watch.
Eight minutes.
Eight long minutes.
Anyone who knows me know that I don’t like waiting, nor do I expect to wait. Not to brag, but I’ve stopped waiting in lines five seasons ago.
I toss the copy of the magazine on the receptionist’s desk, who looks up at me with frightened Bambi eyes.
“You know, if you were gonna make me wait so long, you could’ve at least had the Swimsuit Edition.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Her soft voice is so fragile, it could break in half.
I grab a peppermint from the candy jar on her desk.
“Don’t sweat it.” I wink at her as I pop the mint in my mouth. Walking away, I can see her from the corner of my eye melting into a puddle.
As I walk into the main office, I see a blonde-haired woman sitting at a desk covered with folders. She doesn’t even notice me when I walk in. Annoyed, I knock on her door, which snaps her back to reality.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Thomas.” She takes her glasses off and stands up, smoothing down the creases in her sweater.
I notice right away that she has long, slender legs poking from the slit of her skirt. I start feeling pretty excited—until I remember that stupid morality clause, and now I’m just back to feeling annoyed.
“Please, sit down.” With a skinny arm, she motions me to sit in the black armchair positioned in front of her desk.
“What is this, a therapy session?”
As I walk toward the chair, I notice Miss Blonde Lady taking a cautious step back. Does she think I’m gonna bite or something? I plop down in the chair and raise my hands up, showing her my palms.
See? Harmless.
The lady takes a deep breath before sitting down. As she scoots into her desk, I get a better view of her face—anddamn. Definitely the best-looking woman I’ve seen since I’ve been here.
Not like I can do anything about that, though.
“Okay, so Coach McGoy tells me you’ve never had a diet plan before.” She starts stacking papers on her desk and grabbing a file with my name on it. She’s all business.
“I need to figure out what your current caloric intake is on a daily basis before I start building a plan for you. What kind of food do you normally eat?”
I think of my fridge back in my rented apartment that’s just full of beer, ketchup, and pizza crusts.
“Mostly kale.”
She looks up from her computer, her face all stony and serious. Maybe she’s not the humorous type.
“Can you just answer the question honestly, please?”
“What? You don’t think I eat kale? Well, that’s awfully judgmental of you.”
She gives me another scrutinizing look, this one so severe, I decide to just let her win this round.
“Fine.Mostly takeout. Pizza, burgers, Chinese food. Anything, really. I have an iron stomach.”
