Page 16 of Red Zone Realizations
He’s certainly not like the influencers I’ve worked with. He wasn’t wearing any flashy clothes or name-brand jewelry. Not even a nice watch. From my experience with influencers, it has to do with the fact that staying relevant and garnering attention is what makes them famous. I think as an NFL player, eyes are on you no matter what, but you’re not worried about that. You’re worried about the game, the next play, your teammates. You’re an athlete first, and whatever else comes with that is second.
Now, we’re standing outside The Lush, my phone in hand ready to call an Uber home. I’m about to thank Noah for a nice dinner and tell him that I’m excited to have a friend in class when he speaks up, hand behind his head. “Would you want to go to a bar? I would ask you to go for a walk, but it's hot as hell out here tonight.” July in Houston is a slowly broiling oven. The breeze blows my hair off my shoulders but there’s no cooling effect. It’s just hot air moving the heat around.
“That sounds good.” What do I have to get home to anyway? The girls will be fine for a while longer, and myinbox can wait until tomorrow. I would say Monday, but who am I kidding? I will definitely be checking it before then.
“We could take my car there, if you’re comfortable with that? You can Uber home from there.” He hands his ticket to the man behind the valet podium, who hands it to a younger man who takes off toward the parking lot.
“Okay, cool. Where are you thinking?”
“Have you ever been to Bobcat Teddy’s?”
“No, I haven’t. That’s kind of a funny name though.”
“It’s kind of a funny bar.” I see a black Audi A8 coming up the circle driveway and Noah walks toward it. “This is me.”
He opens the car door for me as the valet gets out of the driver's seat. He thanks the man, palms him a tip, and slides into the car. The leather interior is smooth, and the car isn’t as hot as you would expect it after baking in the sun. It’s nine-thirty and the sun has just barely set, the last of the light dancing behind the clouds casting a golden glow over Noah, highlighting the perfect planes of his face. I feel my heart beating faster so I glance at the dash, focusing on what song is playing so I can distract myself.
He sees me looking and hands me his unlocked phone. “Here, play whatever you want.”
What kind of man just hands you his unlocked phone? Some men are so secretive about phones, and on the first night we’re getting to know each other he just hands me his? I open his music app and scroll through his playlists.
It’s eclectic, more modern. Some rap, some pop, some Texas country. I select the Texas country playlist and Parker McCollum croons through the speakers. He might be big time now, but he grew up in Conroe, which is about fifty miles from here.
“I love Parker McCollum. I saw him when he was so smallhe was opening up for the Josh Abbott Band at White Oak Music Hall.”
He takes his eyes off the road to look at me for just a split second. “No way. I was at that concert too. Colin is a big Texas country fan, and he insisted we all go.”
“That’s so crazy. I swear to God, Houston is the smallest big city.”
“When he did the acoustic rendition of ‘Wasn’t that Drunk’, Colin went crazy.”
“I can’t believe Josh Abbott’s never played the rodeo. It’s like he’s never gotten any bigger than he is right now.”
Noah shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t want to be bigger. Maybe he’s happy playing medium-sized venues and selling them out.”
“Yeah, maybe. His wife was with him that night, too, which must be nice.”
“Now you’ve been through my playlists, tell me what yours are like.”
I laugh, slightly embarrassed. “I tragically never outgrew the music I grew up with. My Old Jams playlist is my most played music. I love stuff like Blink-182 and Ke$ha. Old Taylor Swift too. I drop off of her stuff right around theLoveralbum. Music back then just had more energy to it. Maybe I’m just attached to nostalgia, but there’s something about it. That feeling of hearing a familiar song and remembering what it was like to be young… well, younger.”
He nods as if that makes total sense to him. “I still remember the songs we warmed up to when I played middle school basketball. Sometimes I still play them just to remember what it was like before sports were serious.” And I guess it does make sense. We both like music that transports us back to simpler times.
The Parker song ends and “Wasn’t that Drunk” starts up. “Oh my God,” I breathe. “What a coincidence. We were just talking about this song. It’s kismet.”
The drive to the bar is shorter than I would have liked it to be. Between the company, the music, and the air conditioning, it’s hard to want it to end.
He pulls into a parking lot across the street. The sign says ten dollars. He gets out and hustles to my side of the car while I gather my purse and phone to open my car door.
“Thank you,” I say as I step out.
“You’re welcome. I’m going to go pay.”
I stand beside him as he slides a card into the reader. It noisily prints a ticket and he takes it, sliding it into his pocket.
He gestures in the direction we should head and I follow him. Weaving through the cars, I say, “The fact that you can’t walk anywhere in Houston, but there’s also such limited parking, is mind boggling. It’s like it’s not a walking city, but it’s not a driving city either.”
He chuffs, amused. “Wyatt’s in his first season here and he drives a big ol’ truck. He’s now taken to having me pick him up to go places ’cause fitting his truck in these little parking spots is such a pain.”
