The Ground Beneath Read online

  “One of the wives gave you a hard time?” The question comes out more serious than the almost joking way in which I’d just spoken.

  How quickly Hunter’s face can change.

  “Maybe. But it wasn’t a big deal. I could tell Sheila was used to that kind of behavior, so I figure I should get acclimated too.”

  Behind his eyes, he seems to be pondering something. “Who was it?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What wife was it… that gave you a bad time?”

  I shake my head. “Like I said, it wasn’t a big deal, Hunter.”

  “It is to me.” He’s getting very serious now. “Nobody should be treating you like that.”

  I take a moment to consider my response. Fighting my own battles was something I’d worked hard on, whether it was pushing for a story on the school paper or moving to Seattle against my parents’ wishes. But there have been other times that I’d failed miserably in defending myself.

  After weighing being truthful with Hunter versus the potential blowback if Theresa gets wind I tattled on her, I decide to tell him the truth. “It was Theresa Carmichael, but I don’t want you saying anything, not to her husband and especially not to her. It would just complicate things.”

  He tenses, his face beginning to redden.

  “I only told you because I want to be honest,” I add. “But do I need to be more careful? Is she like toxic or something?” The new world I’ve found myself in seems to be full of those types.

  He looks away from me. “She likes causing trouble. That’s all you need to know. Just stay away from her.”

  My head is going to start spinning with all of the people I’m supposed to steer clear of. “Okay, I’ll keep my distance. It won’t be hard—I don’t really like her.”

  “Good.” His eyes are on me again as he strokes his hand along the side of my face. “I want to protect you, Allison. You’ve gone through enough shit in your life, and you don’t need any more of it. If anyone gives you hassle, you tell me, okay?”

  I nod.

  “You promise?” His eyes bear into mine.

  “I promise,” I tell him, lying just a little because I plan to keep what happened with Scott to myself.

  His serious expression finally begins to melt. “How long can you stay with me before you’re missed?”

  I shrug. “Another ten or fifteen minutes? I’m supposed to be looking for Mallory, but I haven’t had any luck so far.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s stretch it out to fifteen. I kind of want to just sit here next to you, like we did on our hike. That seem weird?”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s not weird. It’s nice just to be close to you.”

  With that he smiles, his arm around me again, and I already know that fifteen minutes won’t be enough.

  Chapter Seven

  ALLISON

  I’d found Mallory in the concessions area. She’d managed to get her hands on her own bottle of wine, and had already drunk half of it down, straight from the bottle, her lips stained a purplish red.

  “I had to get away from that asshole,” she told me—she was talking about Scott of course. “I don’t ask for much, but he doesn’t have to be such a jerk… like we hadn’t spent a couple of months fucking each other’s brains out.”

  I’d comforted her the best I could, helped her wash up and sober up before bringing her back to the suite and asking Sheila not to be angry at her, that she’d only gotten lost.

  Mallory sat next to me on the flight home, next to the window while I took the aisle. I didn’t want her to have to even look at Scott if it could be helped. And he was thankfully quiet most of the flight, as was Josh, both of them with headphones on, their heads tilted back against the seat rests.

  Sheila had me working, reading more details of her client portfolios, committing birthdates, favorite alcoholic beverages and beloved family and friend names to memory. Hunter was absolutely her biggest client, but she had four others who I’d call very big fish, recognizable names in football, baseball and soccer, if not nationwide, then most definitely in Seattle.

  It was incredible to think that Sheila could manage all of these people at once, but she did with the help of several trusted lawyers and accountants at her disposal to help her handle the more intricate legal aspects. But she herself was up before dawn most mornings and always taking her work home with her, usually back in her home office once we’d sit down to a take-out dinner with Lisa and sometimes Mallory.

  When we got back to Seattle, I was hoping that Sheila and Lisa would get on better, but Sheila slept in the second guestroom Sunday night, and there was no sit down dinner on Monday.

  “Well, it seems Hunter has me by the balls,” Sheila says to me bright and early Tuesday morning. She’s leaning over the reception desk where I sit, making sure her schedule is all set for the day. “He tells me I’m not allowed to say no to you going to his volunteer event today at Children’s Hospital.”

  I open my mouth, set to tell her I’m sorry it will take me out of the office, but she beats me to it.

  “And it’s fine. Actually, it’s probably a good thing. He’s such a natural in so many ways, but the man doesn’t have a clue how to reach out to any demographic outside of hot young women or men who watch him every Sunday from their couches.”

  “I don’t have to be gone all day,” I tell her, not even trying to hide the fact that I already know about Hunter’s request. “And maybe the office calls can be forwarded to my phone?”

  She narrows her eyes at me, but not in a mean or annoyed way, more like she’s trying to figure something out about me. “I’ve got a service for that—it’s actually not a problem at all. Just make Hunter look good today.”

  I’m thankful I don’t get a lecture or a veiled threat that I’m on shaky ground, and I promise her I’ll do exactly that.

  “Oh, and Allison,” she says, having turned back to me on her way to her office, “I like the short skirts and all, but you’ll have to pick something more conservative, just for today. It is a children’s hospital after all.”

  “Of course,” I respond, completely understanding.

  Sheila gives me time to head to one of the big department stores downtown where I choose a gray pencil skirt, a red button up fitted shirt and a pair of black stylish pumps that I think even my mother would call sensible, even if the heels are a little over three inches.

  “You’re beautiful,” Hunter tells me when he picks me up, whispering it because Sheila is just down the hall in her office.

  “And you look pretty good too,” I respond, just finishing wiping down the ledge on the reception desk with a cleansing cloth and tossing it into the trash. “Give me just a sec to tell Sheila we’re going.”

  “Make me proud,” Sheila says when I peek into her office to say goodbye.

  And I tell her I will.

  Hunter had gone through the trouble of parking his car in the garage below, just so I didn’t have to come down from Sheila’s office myself. It’s a sweet gesture, as is him holding the passenger door of his Porshe open for me and then closing it when I get in.

  “I missed you.” It’s the first thing he says when he joins me in the car, when it’s just he and I and his expression conveys something like happiness edged with need.

  I’m feeling the same things, my heart racing as I warm between my legs. I barely get out, “I missed you too,” when our lips are meeting and Hunter’s big, warm hand is on the bare skin just above my knee.

  My hand is on his chest, muscular and firm underneath the cool fabric of his dress shirt. I want him to take it off, want to touch the warm skin underneath, want for him to undress me, for his hand to keep pushing up past my thigh. I want all of it and don’t care about anything else when his lips suddenly leave mine, and his hand goes toward my knees instead of my waist.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he says in a deep, low voice, turning away from me and looking forward through the windshield of the car. “I got carried away.”


  I’m still recovering from the way he’d pretty much electrified my body when I manage to say, “It’s okay. But we should probably get to the hospital, huh?”

  He smiles at me, then presses the ignition.

  I’ve fixed my lipstick by the time we get to our destination, Hunter thankfully driving like a normal human being and not some guy trying to compensate for something lacking in his life.

  In what passes for the back seat of his car are several bags full of footballs, stuffed animals, hats and jerseys that are all branded with the Seahawks logo.

  “I couldn’t come empty handed,” he tells me as he pulls the bags out. “You think they’ll like this stuff?”

  “I think they’ll love it.” I take a couple of the bags myself while he insists that he carry the largest load.

  When we get inside the hospital, we’re met by one of the administrators. She introduces herself as Judith Turner, but says, “You can just call me Judy.” She proceeds to get tongue tied whenever she’s talking to Hunter, barely able to make eye contact with him without blushing.

  It’s not like I can blame her. Hunter definitely has an effect on women.

  She gets us a cart for all of the goodies Hunter brought with him, and Hunter starts pushing it around like one of those husbands helping his wife shop at Target.

  “I hope you won’t mind,” Judy begins while she’s leading us through a long hallway, a glass doorway at the end of it, “but because we’re having such wonderful weather, we decided to have as many of the children outside as possible. We can of course have you visit with the children who couldn’t make it in their rooms later, but a lot of the parents and their kids have gathered in our courtyard—they’re so excited to see you!”

  I can see the strain appear on Hunter’s face as he continues pushing the cart. Our expectation was that we would go from room to room and visit each child separately, not be the center of attention for a large group of kids and their families. Hunter might be used to playing on a football field in front of thousands of people and millions more at home, and I’m guessing he’s nailed how to give a good interview, but I can see the worry on his face and know that this feels like an entirely different situation.

  “Is there anything in particular you’ll want Hunter to do?” I ask her, hoping to get the clarification I’m sure he’d like too.

  “Well, that’s a good question.” She turns back, briefly looking at Hunter as we move along. “If you have any stories you’d like to recount or maybe tell everyone how you made it to the NFL? Whatever you feel comfortable with I suppose.”

  “I’ll introduce you,” I say to Hunter, lightly touching his arm. “Get them warmed up,” I add on with a smile, hoping to lighten the anxiety I see building in his eyes.

  “Like an MC!” Judy says excitedly. “Yes, that would be perfect!”

  Hunter just nods, says, “Yeah, sure,” and looks as if he’d like to be pretty much anywhere else than the courtyard we’re now walking into, the faces of children and adults all turning toward us as we continue following the administrator to a space that almost looks like a small, cobblestoned stage at the back of the courtyard.

  “I’m sorry, what was your name?” Judy asks me as Hunter pushes the cart into a small alcove to get it out of the way, seeming to do whatever he can to keep from facing the group in front of us, a group that is growing louder with chatter, Hunter’s name on their lips.

  “Allison Briggs,” I tell her as confidently as I can. “I work for Hunter’s agent.”

  “Yes, that’s right. You said that when you first came in, didn’t you?” She laughs nervously. “Well, Allison Briggs, I think I’ll turn things over to you. I’ll be in the back if you need anything, all right?”

  “Okay.”

  She’s definitely light on specifics, and I can see how uncomfortable this would be for Hunter if he were alone. The only reason I’m not freaking out is because I’m used to public speaking. As editor of our school paper, I often got in front of the student body at assemblies to talk about how students could contribute to our stories and to invite them to consider joining our staff. At my dad’s church, it wasn’t rare for me to stand up at the end of a service and invite the younger people in our congregation to join our annual hayride and pumpkin carving in October or our charity gift drive in December. Granted, our school was small, as was our congregation, and I knew most of the people I was speaking in front of. But it still afforded me enough experience that I remain relaxed now, in front of all of these children and parents I don’t know.

  With Hunter’s arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted toward the ground, I clear my throat and wish everyone a good afternoon, “Or is it still morning?” I question, looking at my phone and realizing it isn’t even noon yet. The question gets a few laughs I wasn’t expecting, and so I go on. “My name is Allison, and I’m one of the many people who are fortunate enough to work with Hunter Lawrence.” I turn to look at him, and he manages to crack a smile. “Most of you probably feel like you know him pretty well, seeing him on TV or at one of his games or maybe even in one of his commercials. But you might not know that Hunter is a little on the shy side.” I look over to him again, and his smile pushes into a small chuckle. The children in front of us laugh too, as do the parents. “But I know a lot of you probably feel shy too sometimes when you’re meeting someone new, especially if you’re meeting a whole bunch of people for the first time. So, I was thinking, if you don’t mind, could we go around the courtyard and have everyone tell us their name? That way, we can all get to know each other better.”

  Hunter steps next to me, facing the crowd, and touches the small of my back, tilting his head to mine and saying, “You’re a natural at this.”

  That makes me smile.

  There are close to two-dozen children in the courtyard and more parents and caregivers at their sides. We manage to go around the courtyard quickly while making each child who speaks feel important. Some of them struggle to get words out, others unable to speak at all, and a parent or caregiver offers their name. There are children in wheelchairs, kids with missing limbs and others with heads void of hair. I attempt to commit all of their names to memory, though I know I’ll forget a few.

  And then, once the introductions are over, Hunter says, “And I’m Hunter Lawrence. Do you guys want to hear how I became a football player?”

  The kids who are able to cheer do, and Hunter goes from being uncomfortable to being right at home, beginning his story with how he’d been small as a kid. “I was tired of feeling like I couldn’t defend myself,” he says, his hands stuffed in his pockets but his eyes on the crowd in front of us. “So, I tried hanging out with my older brother. And you know how older brothers can be, don’t you?” Some in the crowd say yes, others nodding their heads. “He didn’t really like having his little brother tag along, but I wouldn’t take no for an answer, and eventually he taught me how to play footfall. I started getting bigger and faster, but it wasn’t until I was about twelve that I went into this major growth spurt. And then I went out for football in junior high, and I got better and faster and stronger, getting muscles I never knew I had. I started winning games and getting mention in our town’s paper. And then in high school, the scouts found me and got me a scholarship playing ball in college. It was something I was good at, really good at, better at football than anything else. And after college, the Seahawks wanted me, and I said sure, I’d play for them. Anything is possible if you focus on that thing you’re really good at.” He raises his brows and looks over to me for a moment before asking, “You guys have any questions for me?”

  Nearly every child’s hand goes up at once.

  What is it like to be on TV?

  Do you like any other sports?

  Does the injury you have hurt?

  Hunter does a great job at answering them, but then one comes from a young girl who is wearing a scarf to cover her hairless head, a question I know will give Hunter pause.

 
; “How did it feel when your mama died?” she rattles out in a high-pitched voice. “My daddy died, so I’m sure it was very sad.”

  It’s a well-known fact that Hunter’s mother and aunt died when he was a child. But to my knowledge, this is something Hunter rarely speaks of in public, and the media seems to know better than to press him on this very sensitive topic.

  When he swallows hard and stiffens, I think he’ll find a way to pass on answering, but he instead says, “I was really sad too. My aunt died in the same accident my mom did, so I lost two people I really loved. I think about them a lot, and I wish they could see me play.”

  “But they can see you from heaven,” the girl says. “Everyone who is good and dies goes to heaven.”

  Hunter nods, smiles at the girl but doesn’t say more.

  “Do you have a girlfriend?” a young boy in a wheelchair shouts, bringing about some laughter as well as a light scolding from the woman I’m guessing is the boy’s mother.

  Hunter’s face goes that same shade of pink I’ve seen before, and he turns to smile at me before looking back to the boy who asked the question in the first place. “I know this really amazing young woman who I’d like to be my girlfriend, but I’m not sure it’s what she wants.”

  My heart starts hammering through my chest, and I feel my face warming as well.

  Of course that’s what I want.

  Even if I’d never planned on being with another football player, and even if Sheila pretty much forbids it, I’d love nothing more than to be the person Hunter wants in his life. Just a little over two weeks from the first day I’d seen him in Sheila’s office, and I feel as though I know Hunter more than I know a lot of the people back home, that there is so much more to him than the things I’d heard about him. Any uncertainty and jealousy I still feel seems almost inconsequential.

  “Why don’t you ask her?” the boy says between giggles.