Page 5 of Red Zone Realizations
I come up short on food, and when I glance back up to see if the light has turned green, I see a familiar face approaching the man. Holy crap. With seven-million people, what are the chances of me being at this light, at this exact moment, when I just left that tall drink of water at yoga?
Hot Yoga Guy, whom I now know is Noah.
They shake hands and Noah sits on the concrete barrier next to him. They make small talk.Oh my God. He’s hot, athletic,and a humanitarian?They’re obviously familiar with each other, judging by the ease of Noah’s posture.
Noah must live close enough to walk to class.I could never do that. I’m so exhausted by the end I can barely get myself in my car. Does he live really that close? Or is he trying to erase his carbon footprint by walking as much as he can?
As I’m taking him in, my phone rings through my speakers. I click the answer button on the dash.
“This is Audrey.”
“It’s Shelby. I’m calling to see if you had a chance to respond to my email from this morning?” I have to refrain from rolling my eyes. That email barely hit my inbox before noon today, but of course it wasthis morning.
“I did. I’m still waiting to hear back from the brand about the payment details of the sponsorship. You told me your financial expectations, and I intend to have them met.” She already knows this because we discussed it two weeks ago. The sound of my professional voice grates in my ears.
“I can’t wait to see what they say.”
I want to say,obviously, but instead I say, “That’s great! Thanks so much for your patience. I’ll chat with you later.” I click the end button before she can ask more questions.
When I started my own social media management firm, I thought filling this niche would be easy. My shiny business degree would say I’m qualified, but they don’t teach entrepreneurship at Houston University. Marketing, taxes, fees, all that you have to learn on your own. And I’m proud of myself for doing it. When I called off my engagement to Hunter, it was easy to throw myself into my work even more. A business owner’s to-do list is never complete, but now that I’ve had all this extra time on my hands, I’ve been even more focused.
I pull into my driveway, and I know that I have work to do, but I can’t help that my mind drifts back to Hot Yoga Guy. Noah… That’s a great name for him. Google tells me it means “rest” and “repose.” I can see that. He has a calmness about him, a sure-footedness. Maybe that’s because I’ve only ever seen him at yoga. He’s obviously some kind of athlete. I would never have considered a pro athlete to be so… salt of the earth. Maybe he’s in a minor league? That’s entirely possible. Houston is full of sports teams.
The second I step foot in my house I’m on my phone pulling up Google. I typeNoah professional athlete Houstonin the search bar. I hesitate before I hit search. Is this stalker behavior? Or am I simply fulfilling my natural curiosity? I decide it’s completely natural to wonder and hit the search button.
The first two results are for a guy named Noah who currently runs track at the university downtown, so that’s not him. The next one down is a player page for the Hurricanes, Houston’s NFL team. I click the link and I’m looking at Noah’s headshot. He looks almost the same as he did in yoga today; his hair is just a bit longer in the photo. He’s number forty-nine, tight end. It has a bunch of stats listed, but I don’t know what any of them mean. That doesn’t matter. It’s enough that I’ve confirmed my suspicions and hushed my curiosity.
I leave that there for tonight. Or I try anyway, but when I finally collapse into bed, I lay there for hours staring at the ceiling, thinking about Noah, about what life as an NFL player might be like and what brings him to a tiny yoga studio in the Heights.
Chapter Four
NOAH
JULY
How a team performs in the red zone will make or break them. It’s where the biggest decisions and the biggest mistakes are made. Slinging it from the twenty-yard line of your opponent’s end zone is either high scoring or high turnover. You can walk away with a touchdown or screw it up and give the other team a safety. That’s why we practice red zone drills—specific plays to manage our time starting off at the twenty-yard line.
Under a partly cloudy sky we walk through shoot routes with the corner over the top. I run a deep out route, and we practice them against different possible zone defenses.
Wyatt saunters over to me. “We look good this season.”
I nod as I watch Wyatt, our defensive lineman, slide through the cracks in the defensive line and run into the end zone. “I agree. Wouldn’t it be crazy to win big in your first season here?” I look over to him, using my hand to shield the sun from my eyes, but he doesn’t meet my gaze. He just stands, hands on his hips, looking out at the other men on thefield. There’s a reservation to his face that I don’t understand. He just came from Green Bay on a trade, and I feel like the team has been welcoming, but I get a sense that this team wasn’t what he wanted. Like he’s making the best of the hand of cards he’s been dealt. After our field time, Jaden lets loose a huge belch as we get dressed in the locker room.
Man, it’s good to be back.
Sixty-five men are here fighting for a spot on the fifty-three-man roster. Not me, thank God. I’m in the last year of my rookie contract. Every time it’s a crazy three weeks. The most recent memories I have of the Houston Hurricanes’ facilities aren’t great. They mostly involved ice baths and physical therapy. A long summer of workouts with Colin, our quarterback and my best friend, have kept me in shape, but not game ready.
I stack my binders one on top of the other and shove them in my backpack. I’ll organize them later. I’m running late as it is.
On my way out of the building, I walk under the Hurricane chandelier. Ninety-four, long glass poles hang from the tall ceiling over the main entrance. Each pole represents a season of the Hurricanes, the year detailed on the bottom. They’re color coded to the outcome of each season. White for a winning season, navy for a losing season, and red for a Super Bowl year. In nearly a century of football, only one red pole hangs.
I intend to change that this year. We’re ready.
I normally take my time leaving, stopping to chat with coaches and teammates, but I’ve got to get across town to catch one last yoga class before football is in full swing—before my contract says I can’t.
My regular attire is workout gear, so no need to change. Ipull into the parking lot of Big Power Yoga and fling my door open. I grab my mat, towel, and water, and jog toward the door. I push through with my shoulder, my mind solely on making it up the stairs in time.
Putting one foot through the door, I hear a surprisedoomph, followed by the sound of the door hitting something. Full contact is kind of my deal, but this isn’t good. I glance up, an apology on the tip of my tongue, and I’m shocked.
