Page 73 of Hard Count
He did not celebrate, the pain was too extreme. He walked off the field, helmet in one hand, the offensive line forming around him, and he let them celebrate the moment.
Denver scored once more in garbage time. He took a knee twice.
He shook the hands he was supposed to shake.
Final score: L.A. 23, Denver 17.
He won in extreme pain, which was sort of his style.
***
Back in the locker room, Rihanna’sBitch Better Have My Moneyblasted over the speakers. Piper sat near his locker feeling defeated regardless of the win.
The room around him was like every locker room after every road win. Loud and full of life, but Piper hollow.
Then he got up to shower.
His phone buzzed. It was Noah. Hey sexy, nice game, is your rib ok? I know you are currently ignoring me but I will be in L.A. for a shoot with some shitty pizza company. Would love to see you and kiss that rib better.
Piper stared at his phone.
Fuck, Joan, I NEED to see him.
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Seattle to Los Angeles
Noah hated Los Angeles, but that was before Piper.
It was Seattle’s bye week. He had three days for other jobs. The other jobs were standing next to products nobody needed.
The air was warm for the late fall, everything was polished trash. Los Angeles always looked like it was trying too hard.
He walked past a pack of gay men at the airport that all looked like they had the same plastic surgeon who did not know how to say no.
***
The town car dropped him at the Beverly Hills Hotel just after noon. Carmen had booked it. A side entrance off the valet circle. Noah took the key from a hotel manager that met him at the door, took the elevator, set his Louis Vuitton duffle bag and roller down in a suite only a multibillion-dollar pizza brand could afford.
The shoot was at three the following day. Pizza chain, big-game tie-in, a thirty-second spot that would cost the brand eight million to air it once during the World Championship game. Noah knew the drill. Wardrobe, touch-up, hit the mark, read the line that was most likely written by AI and then keep doing it until some brand manager named Tiffany gave the director a thumbs up.
The set was a faked-up backyard lit too brightly. A food stylist was rotating a slice of shitty pizza every twenty minutes so it stayed photogenic and held on to a blow torch to keep the cheese melted. A stagehand put a piñata donkey up behind Noah.
“Hold up, I need a second, where is my fucking agent?” Noah said politely to the director as Carmen appeared out of thin air.
“Noah, I need you to be okay with the fucking piñata,” she calmly said to him.
“I don’t want to be that diva, but why do I need Mexican props? Tell Tiffany, the piñata goes or I walk, we are selling pizza, not stereotypes,” Noah replied with a smile.
“Tif, give me five, now!” Carmen yelled to the group of brand staff sitting to the side of the director.
Nobody fucked with Carmen Vale, and a brand manager from Orange County was not going to start.
The piñata was gone in less than thirty seconds.
Noah read it cold the first time.
“I may not be Italian, but I do love pizza…”
“Cut, Noah, dude, less newscaster and more friendly guy you want to have a beer with.”
