Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83461 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Oh, I know very well the importance of this game. Cannon’s been hyperfocused on the team the last few days since we returned from Houston where the Titans took a significant loss. I didn’t actually get to see the game as my flight back to Pittsburgh was that day, but I made it home in time to watch it on TV. Surprisingly, Cannon called me about an hour after the game was over, and I had no clue what to expect when I answered. I didn’t know how personally he’d take the loss.
Turns out I wasn’t able to get a good read on him. The only reason he called was to make sure I’d made it home safely and to wish me good night. I was so stunned that his thoughts were of me and not on the loss that I wasn’t quite sure what to say. It was moot since he didn’t have time to talk as they were getting ready to leave for the airport.
Before he hung up, he asked, “Are you up for an early breakfast before I head into the arena? I’ll come by and pick you up.”
I immediately said yes because I missed him after only one day and this would be logged into our diary of stolen moments. I felt guilty he’d come all the way to me, which was very much out of the way, but he wouldn’t have offered if he didn’t want to and very much had the time to do it.
At breakfast, I asked him how he felt about the loss, and he was so pragmatic. “It’s part of my job as a coach to take the losses and learn from them.”
Didn’t mean he wasn’t upset.
Didn’t mean he wasn’t driven to do better the next game.
It just meant he has a healthy check on his emotions when it comes to failure, and he most certainly takes the loss squarely upon his shoulders.
Cannon West might be the most grounded person I’ve ever met, and I admire him so much for that.
He’s also turning into one of the sweetest men I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. This morning, I woke up in his bed with a Pittsburgh Titans’ jersey on top of me. Cannon wasn’t beside me—I later found him cooking breakfast—but I was touched that he bought me a jersey.
I was astounded when I found out that he’d had it custom made by their merchandising department with his name on the back. It’s one of a kind and no one else has one, although he admitted he was probably going to get one for his mom and sister for Christmas.
Of course, I’m proudly wearing it tonight and hope I’m not too casually dressed. When Brienne reached out to me through Cannon to confirm I was accepting her invitation to join her in the box, she passed along there’d be some executives from two companies here in Pittsburgh that have minor ownership interests in the arena.
The usher who met Sophie and I at will call leads us to a set of mahogany double doors with a brass plaque next to it that simply reads “Norcross.”
He opens the door on the left and motions us in.
At first, I’m boggled by the number of people in the suite. I don’t take the time to count, but I’d guess close to forty or fifty. Most of them are in business suits or dresses. I see only a handful in jerseys.
“Eesh,” Sophie says softly as she tightens her arm in mine. “There weren’t this many people the last time I was here.”
She’s talking about two weeks ago when Baden proposed and she was sitting up here. I’d learned that Brienne was heavily involved in pulling that off, which makes her even cooler in my opinion.
“There you two are.” Brienne appears through the crowd, walking our way with a big smile on her face. She’s dressed in a camel-colored skirt and matching jacket, taupe high-heeled boots that I bet cost a fortune, and a beautiful purple and gray scarf—Titans’ colors, of course—hanging diagonally over her shoulder.
She reaches me and Sophie and gives us brief hugs, whispering, “Thank God you’re here. There’s far too much testosterone and they all want to talk about corporate mergers and shit. I just want to watch the damn game.”
I giggle and follow Brienne as she takes my wrist and pulls me through the crowd. Sophie follows, and we end up in front of a bar. “What do you two want to drink?”
Sophie and I both get beers, and Brienne orders a glass of red wine, then she ushers us right down to the front row where three seats bear a “Reserved” sign. We’re motioned down into the plush leather chairs with Brienne on the inside. The players are on the ice warming up, but the coaches aren’t out there, so I can’t shamelessly stare at Cannon just yet.