Everyone who works within the New York Warriors organization knows that star player August Fletcher refuses to talk to most people...and especially team reporters. All except Quinn Castle, that is.
Quinn doesn't know why the broody football player...
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I SPENT THE WHOLE way back to August's beach house thinking about how he didn't care about the article. My article. His article.
How could he not care about what I write about him? Thousands, if not millions, of people will undoubtedly read whatever I put together, and he doesn't care?
Sure, I never got the impression that August was too concerned about his image or his reputation. Having a relatively squeaky clean one came naturally to him. He didn't have any scandals attached to his name. He didn't make outlandish remarks that ended up circulating the internet. He was just a guy who was really fucking good at playing football.
Still, this article would be his last statement on his career. His final chance to tell his story, to help people understand his legacy and why he chose to walk away from it. He didn't care about any of that?
It bothered me. Even though my ultimate goal was to not need to write a retirement expose at all and instead convince August to come back to New York. His dismissal still made me feel insignificant and useless like he was just humoring me and my little article when this was likely the most important piece of my career.
But even more than it bothered me, it confused me.
I understood that August didn't care what other people thought of him, but to not have any interest at all? It baffled me. I wished I could be that self-assured. That dismissive of how the world viewed me.
August seemed to know that he upset me. He hadn't brought it up again, but he had been altogether too nice to me the rest of our grocery trip. I wasn't really a fan. It felt like pity...or something else disingenuous.
But my irritation only lasted until he poured me a glass of that Pinot and started rolling out pizza dough he'd made from scratch.
I hadn't even tasted his cooking yet and I was already regretting making fun of his cooking abilities. Somehow, I had a feeling that this would be the best pizza I'd ever had.
"Can I help with something?"
I didn't like feeling useless. I wanted to be more than the tag-along little reporter who followed the big-shot NFL player around. Retired NFL player, but still.
"I have a brick of parmesan in the fridge. You could grate it."
I nodded, hopping down from the barstool to walk around the kitchen island. I brushed past August as he continued working the dough and didn't miss how his body stiffened at the tiniest contact.
God, this man.
One minute he was pushing his way into my shower, and the next, he was recoiling when I so much as grazed his arm in the kitchen. This was going so well.
After getting the cheese, I looked to August, who wordlessly pointed me to a drawer on the other side of the kitchen. I followed his directions, opening the drawer to find a cheese grater sitting on top of a collection of utensils. I grabbed it before rummaging through his cupboards to find a small bowl. Then I took all the items and went to stand next to August at the counter.
