“Sure.” I shrugged.
“It’s a toss-up between chicken in biscuits and pot roast.”
So, Nate Sandler, the NFL golden boy, liked comfort food.
Do not swoon. Do not swoon. Damm it. I was swooning.
I took another long drink of water, trying to get my pulse under control.
“Okay,” I said, feeling the air stretch between us. “Where would you like to start?”
“Follow me,” he said, disappearing down a long hallway. He walked to the end of the house and led me to his home office.
There were playbooks and journals stacked on the mahogany desk. A collage of inspirational quotes on one wall and a framed jersey on the other.
“Was that your high school jersey?” I asked, pointing to the black-and-gray jersey with his name and number.
“Yep.” He nodded. “I like looking at it. It reminds me of all the hard work that brought me here. I actually had replicas made for my O-line last year for Christmas. I wanted to give something special to my guys. We all get nostalgic thinking back to our high school playing days. It was when most of us started taking the game seriously.”
“Wait, you gifted your teammates jerseys from their high school days?”
“I did. Not as exciting as a four-wheeler or big piece of jewelry, but they wear them from time to time. They thought it was cool.”
“That was a very thoughtful gift.”
“I would do anything for my guys.”
Just when I thought I had him all figured out, he would go and say something to knock whatever ideas I had sideways.
“I love that,” I said and set my recorder and notebook on the desk. “I hope you don’t mind. I brought my recorder this time. It’s easier than going through my notes and typing everything into the computer.”
He settled into the chair across from me and waved me off. “It’s fine with me.”
“Ready?” I asked as he sat with his back against the window. The afternoon light was spilling into the room, so he adjusted the shades.
“Fire away.”
I cleared my throat and pressed play. “Before we get into the heavy stuff, I want to formally thank you for the invitation to the fundraiser. It was a great turnout. I was impressed by how well organized it was.”
“I appreciate you saying that,” he said, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead. “I’m glad you could make it.”
I leaned forward, suddenly aware that the only thing separating us was a small wooden desk. I shifted in my seat, trying to block out his clean scent, which was a mixture of aftershave and soap.
“You are very active in the planning side of it. Do you see yourself being more involved after football?”
His mouth tilted into a small smile. “I guess anything is possible. I enjoy helping and organizing it. Maybe when I retire, I could become an event planner.”
I chuckled. “I’ve been told keeping your options open is smart, but I think people would be surprised by how involved you are. That leads me to my next question. What is the biggest misconception about you?”
He leaned forward, staring at the framed photos of his family. “People assume everything comes easy to me. That things automatically happen. They don’t understand the pressure, the number of hours I put into training. How much bullshit goes on behind the scenes. They have no idea of the cost of this life.”
I studied him carefully. He wasn’t giving me a rehearsed answer or a polished soundbite. This was real and genuine and exactly what I needed.
“I can understand that. Do you mind if I ask about this house?”
He leaned back, steepling his hands under his chin. “What about it?”
“Well, you have the option to live pretty much anywhere. A big mansion, a penthouse in downtown Boston. Why here? In a family-friendly neighborhood?”
