“You know, I’m not sure I like you anymore.” I almost roll my eyes at her, but like a small child, I wither under her warning glare.
“Mhmm.” She lifts her drink to her lips, looking at me with bloodshot eyes over the rim of her glass. “Just like you don’t like Quinton? It’s hard to like the person shoving a mirror in your face.”
I want to respond with something good. A snappy comeback that will make Vonnie question if she was right or missed the mark completely.
But instead, her lawyerly instincts have left me on the witness stand broken and battered.
See. This is why I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Help one person and they try and help you back.
Rude.
Twenty-five
After Vonnie went into the bathroom and fixed her face—her words, not mine—she came back out and we pledged not to discuss any more heavy shit for the rest of the day. Preferably, the rest of our lives.
What I didn’t know was that soon, Brynn was going to bless my soul with the most wondrous, enchanting woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.
Ever.
In life.
“Greer, do you want a cocktail?” I offer, even though Brynn is here and obviously makes way better drinks than I do. But it’s the thought, you know?
“Oh, thank you for offering, but I only drink if it’s organic,” she says. I can’t tell if she’s being serious or not, because I’ve literally never heard such a thing, but by the exaggerated roll of Vonnie’s eyes, I realize that she is indeed serious.
I’m not sure why this surprises me.
Greer Francis—wife to Darren, the second-string safety—is basically a living, breathing, motivational Instagram account. When she walked into the suite, she deemed that our energy was off and rolled us with whatever essential oil blend she carries in her purse before reciting her quote of the day. Her long, ash-brown hair falls down her back with loose curls. It’s the kind of hair that convinces me she’s worn a flower crown more than once in her life. Wearing ripped-at-the-knee jeans with a checkered button-up beneath a chunky sweater and distressed loafers that she for sure bought that way, I can guarantee she’s ordered at least five pumpkin spice lattes this fall.
And that’s not me being a hater. Because I’m a fan of ALL of it.
Being the most basic person ever is on my vision board . . . if I had a vision board. But that’s just one more thing I’m sure Greer has that I’m here for.
“Really? Are there a lot of organic alcohol brands out there?” I ask because now I am truly curious.
The trip when I was chased by a squirrel through Central Park, I also went to the Church of Scientology. It was during the height of Tom Cruise and his crusade for his one true religion . . . it also had air-conditioning on a hot and humid day. When I sat down to stay for the movie they offered about the church, the eyes of the woman who worked there—maybe worked? Maybe volunteered? Who knows?—lit up like she finally caught a fresh one. And now, Greer has that same gleam in her eyes.
“There are!” She bounces in her probably vegan leather loafers. “I eliminated all GMO foods from my diet years ago. I did a ton of research and realized that even though my food was clean, my drinks weren’t. People think all of the bad stuff is burned off when alcohol is distilled, but that’s not the case. I just try to be very mindful of everything I put in my body and how it affects not only my health, but the environment as well.”
“That’s great.” I nod, trying to remember the last time I was purposefully mindful of anything. “I had a Diet Coke and donut for breakfast.”
This could be why Greer has skin that glows like the sun while mine is a confused mash-up of random breakouts and wrinkles.
“Diet Coke was the hardest thing for me to give up, but you can do it. If you want, I can send you the list of affirmations I told myself while I was quitting.” She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling before I answer, but honestly, I’m not sure I could say no to this offer no matter what. Now that I know such a list exists, I need to know what anti–diet soda affirmations consist of.
Brynn shakes her head vigorously behind Greer, mouthing, “Don’t encourage her.”
This only makes me more interested in what she’s selling.
“Thanks, I can’t wait to see it,” I tell her with complete sincerity. Brynn’s consequent glare is merely the icing on the sugarless, organic cake.
Jack’s—he’s the announcer—voice has slightly less impact behind the glass wall of the suite as his voice drawls out through the stadium. They’re introducing defense this week, so while the Lamar boys are chomping at the bit to see their dad, and Brynn is drooling to get a close-up of Maxwell, I stay inside to load up my plate with chips and guac and top off my drink.
Marie would be pissed if she saw me now, taking my time on snacks and ignoring the entrance I rushed her through the concessions to watch.
I do make sure to hurry out in time for the national anthem. Purely for work reasons.
Obviously.
Since his launch, Quinton has donated to a total of eight charities. He has given millions of dollars to these charities, but beyond that, he has introduced them to the public in a way that wouldn’t have happened without him. He has opened up possibilities that they could’ve only dreamt of before. It’s been amazing to witness. The foundation is doing what he and I wanted it to, but he’s still taking a knee on the field and covering up the logo on his jersey.
I have set up hundreds of interviews and press conferences—that is only
