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—and damn. 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.”

She makes a note of it on her computer.

“And what about alcohol?”

On her desk I see a framed photo of her and what looks like her parents. I pick it up, admiring the frozen smiling faces.

“Um, Mr. Thomas, can you just answer the—”

“Are these your parents?”

“Yes, but—”

“They seem nice. Where are they from?”

She looks visibly flustered. Her stony demeanor drops as she squirms in her seat. It’s kinda adorable. Nothing wrong with a little harmless teasing, right?

“Mr. Thomas, we don’t have much time—”

“Call me Brady.”

She stops and glares at me with her piercing eyes.

“Okay, Brady.” She reaches across the desk and yanks the frame from my hand. “We have work to do, okay? So how much alcohol do you drink?”

“A shit ton.” I grab another frame from her desk. Hey, I can play this game all day. “Who’s this?”

The photo shows her pushing a young boy in a swing. A little brother, perhaps? She seems way too young to be a mother, and I don’t see a ring on her finger…

Suddenly, Blondie stands up and yanks the photo out of my hand.

“There.” She roughly places the photo face down on her desk. “Now you’re not distracted.”

Feeling a weird tightness in my throat, I sit up in my seat. I guess I took it too far. But why would she care so much about some dumb picture of her kid brother?

After that tense moment, it’s right back to business as usual. She asks me every possible question one could have about my diet, from how much I’m eating per meal to how many times I eat.

How many ounces of alcohol? Too many to count.

How long do I exercise on a daily basis? Honestly, not enough.

Do I have any injuries, issues, allergies or other issues that need attention? Not that I know of.

Honestly, it feels like a dietary interrogation.

Throughout the whole process, Blondie is typing it all in her computer and then marking things off in some secret folder. There’s something kind of sweet and innocent about her, as if she’s from somewhere smaller than San Antonio.

“Did you just move here or something?” I ask her. “You seem…different.”

She stops typing and looks over at me, her eyes traveling across my face before stopping and going back to her computer.

“Actually, yes. I just moved here.”

“Yeah? Where from?”

For some reason, this question makes her nervous, and she’s back to Business Mode.

“It’s a long story, and I don’t have time to tell it. So anyway…do you have any religious or dietary preferences?”

I give her a strange look.

“Uh, sure. In my religion, not eating Chick-fil-A every day for lunch and dinner is considered a sin.”

She starts jabbing at her keyboard violently, probably while imagining the keys are my eyeballs.

“And what’s the name of that religion again?”

“Uh…” You know, girls have always found me funny, but I’d be lying if I said I was clever. “Bradyism?”

For a split second, I think I see a tiny smirk on her face, but it disappears so quickly, it’s like it was a figment of my imagination.

“I’m asking this question because one of your teammates is a vegan—one of the linebackers—so it’s important for me to know if you, too, have any strict requirements.”

“Nah, sorry.” I look at the framed photo on her desk that’s now faced down, the mystery of it still nipping at me. “I love meat too damn much.”

Blondie click-clacks on her computer a bit more before making a conclusive “Ah!” sound and swiveling her chair around towards me.

“Okay, so this is how it works.” Her eyes are glistening. This must truly be her passion. It’s the least annoyed she’s looked all day.

“So, I’m splitting the team up in two groups: Group A and Group B. In Group A, their diets will be targeting their needs to pack on lean muscle. In Group B, their diets will target their needs to lose fat. Every day when you have team meals, everything will be labeled accordingly so that you know which group you’re in. Sounds good?”

I nod my head, but honestly, she lost me about halfway through the conversation. It’s hard paying attention to someone who’s so damn cute.

“Yeah, easy peasy.” I stand up, stretching my legs. “Can’t wait to eat some dietary grub.”

Blondie smiles but looks a little too eager to get me out the door.

“Thanks for your time, Brady.”

I look her over up and down, trying to figure her out. What’s going on inside her head? Not to sound cocky, but most women can’t resist the ol’ Brady charm, but Miss Blondie here seems immune, as if she took an anti-Brady vaccine before our meeting.

“So, hey, since we’re on first name basis and all,” I say, leaning against her door so that she can’t push me out. “Is there a name you like to be called?”

She jerks her head back, confused by the question.

“You can call me Ms. Williams.”

I scoff and roll my eyes.

“Oh, come on, lighten up. We’re gonna be working together closely for the rest of the season. Isn’t it a little awkward for me to be addressing you like a schoolteacher?”

She doesn’t seem sold on the idea of us being on a first-name basis. Without saying anything, she leans around me to open the door. As her arm brushes against my torso, I feel her recoil a bit, back to her safe spot closer to her desk.

After scrutinizing her for a bit, I shrug. Hey, I guess I can’t win ‘em all, right?

“Catch you later, Ms. Williams.”

As I head out the door, she suddenly calls after me.

“Izzie. Just call me Izzie.”