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Yeah.Can you make my life any more complicated?
“No, that’s it,” I sigh. “I’ll call you next week to see how the fumigation’s going.”
I hang up before he can say anything back.
Next week? The house will be eaten up by then. The termite guys will show up and only see a pile of wood and a bunch of fat termites.
Well, if I’m going to be around Brady so closely over the next few weeks, I should probably finish up his diet plan already.
I spend a few hours typing it all up and then email it to Brady.
But as I sit at my desk, I’m starting to feel apprehensive, and I’m not sure why.
Does Brady even check his email? I bet he doesn’t. It just seems very like him to avoid important emails like that. And he is never a big fan of the idea of me forcing some diet on him.
I mean, I’m pretty much his new roommate now, so I’ll see him later. I can just give it to him then.
But…I don’t know. Should I be mixing work with our personal relationship? Ew, did I just say relationship?
Honestly, if Brady’s already out on the field, it makes sense for me to just hand-deliver it to him now. That way, he knows what to eat for lunch and can head to the grocery store after work to plan for dinner.
I print out his diet plan and head out of the office.
On my way there, I stop and stare at my reflection in a glass window.
I have my hair up and instinctively take it down for some reason. I give it a little shake, which makes it look even messier than the crazy bun I had before, but somehow, it works. I then head out onto the field.
From a distance, I can see Brady. He has his helmet on, but his number is unmistakable.
He’s running with the football in his hand, and he throws it to the wide receiver, who makes an embarrassing fumble. You would think the ball was coated in butter with the way he caught it.
The coach blows his whistle as Brady takes off his helmet and throws it on the ground. He runs up to the wide receiver and screams something. The wide receiver yells something back.
It’s probably all very tense on the field, but from where I’m standing, it just looks like uniforms chest-bumping each other. The coach blows his whistle again, and the two break it up.
Brady walks away with his hands on his hips, his torso slightly in view and beaded with sweat. I swear, they could make a mold of his abs and frame it in a museum. They’rethatperfect.
Honestly, watching him in practice reminds me why he’s one of the best quarterbacks right now. He’s actually amazing at this. Not that I didn’t know, it’s just that I haven’t taken the time to sit and seriously watch him in his element—he’s incredible.
You can tell right away that he plays differently than his other teammates. The other players are good but hesitant, never fully committing to a pass or to a throw. You can tell with the way they raise the ball over their head and look around wildly, like they’re looking for permission what to do next.
Brady’s the opposite. He commands that field with confidence, and there’s nothing you can tell him—a true star.
Why have I never noticed before?
As Brady plays, I notice he’s staring at someone behind me. I look around, and don’t see anyone, but that’s when I realize he’s looking at me. I’ve been standing here so long that I’ve forgotten I was even visible.
Brady waves at me, and I shyly wave back. Although he’s far away, I clearly notice his smile. It’s beaming and bright, like he’s genuinely happy to see me.
For whatever horrible, awful reason, this makes me happy, too. I suddenly feel myself smiling along with him, which I quickly stop and replace with my usualcold and professionalmask.
But, it’s too late. That weird, tingly feeling starts ricocheting through my stomach, and I can barely stand it.
I panic and rush off the field before Brady can talk to me.
I crumble up the diet plan and stick in the trash can.
As I pass by my reflection in the mirror, I put my hair back up in my messy bun.
