The Wall of Winnipeg and Me

“You keep saying that, but then again you’re not intimidated by anything, big guy. You run at guys the same size as you or bigger for a living.”

His eyebrows crawled up even higher on his forehead. “Fear is all in your head.”

“I hate it when people say that.”

“It’s true. What’s the worst that will happen? People won’t talk to you? They won’t like you? People who really know you like you.”

“Trevor doesn’t.”

Aiden gave me that flat, exasperated look of his. “Since when do you care what he thinks? Trevor is an idiot when it comes to anything that won’t make him money. So what if there’s a chance some people that you don’t know don’t like you? Their opinion shouldn’t matter. At the end of the day, you’re still going to be you—the you I know who would flip me off in the middle of a stadium—and no one’s opinion will change that.”

Oh brother.

This huge knot filled my throat and I couldn’t do a thing but kneel there awkwardly and look at him. To a certain extent, he was right. I didn’t usually care what other people thought. Of course, I didn’t like to be embarrassed, who did? But for Aiden “The Wall of Winnipeg” Graves, the hardest working, most dedicated person I had ever met, to think so highly of me? Well, it meant more to me than it should have.

Way more.

He finished folding the rest of my clothes and patted the stack next to him. “Am I driving you to the airport?

I really should have stayed home.

Two days later, I’d been at the convention behind my table for almost three hours. My table, which I had reserved at the last minute, was located in the furthest corner away from the entrance. My banners were set up; I had a few paperbacks propped up, and bookmarks, pins, and pens with my logo scattered across an electric pink tablecloth I had dyed over and over again in the garage until it reached the perfect shade. I’d even brought a light-up sign that Zac, who was apparently extremely handy, had helped me build over the course of the last week after we had our training runs.

I’d sent him, Aiden, and Diana all a picture text of my booth when I’d set it up that morning. Only Zac and Di had responded, which wasn’t entirely surprising I guess. But I wasn’t going to let myself worry about it too much.

I knew I wasn’t delusional thinking that my table looked pretty damn neat. Everything popped and the jewel tones of the books I’d brought and the giveaways all fit really well together. It was nice, but nice didn’t do anything when everyone seemed to smile at it and then walk right on by to get in line to get their books signed.

Even the author next to me, who had told me she only had one novel out, had people stopping by to talk to her. I thought the fact she had a semi-attractive man, who was apparently the cover model for her novel, definitely helped bring people over.

Why hadn’t I thought to ask Zac to come along?

Women loved him before he opened his mouth, but as soon as they found out he was a pro football player—well, at this point, a temporary ex-NFO player—it made them flock to him like locusts. He would have definitely pretended to be a cover model if I’d asked.

Damn it. A group of three walked by me and cast an interested glance my way before continuing onward.

I’d leave if I wouldn’t feel like such a damn wuss doing so. I’d paid a lot of money on my flight, hotel room, and all the things I’d bought for my table, on top of the fees to set up. Hell, just thinking about how much I spent made my throat dry. But you had to invest money to make money. My foster dad, who had his own successful exterminating business, used to tell me that.

I was about to reach under my table to grab a bottle of water when a movement in the crowd on the near opposite wall caught my attention. One author whose table was perpendicular to mine had a line of people about thirty people long, filling the wide aisle. But there on the other side of the line, women of all ages and colors started to shift; all of them slowly turned and twisted their heads at something.

It was the head above and behind the crowd I noticed first. Walking forward, in a faded-black hoodie I’d washed and folded countless times, was a man. A man I could have recognized even if he’d dyed his hair blond and worn a cassock. I’d recognize Aiden anywhere.

It was the way he held his broad shoulders, those long legs that carried that confident stride, and the cocky way he held his head that said more than enough. The way his arms rested at his sides and that thick neck confirmed The Wall of Winnipeg was really here.

Aiden was here.

I didn’t know why, and honestly, I wasn’t even wondering why. I couldn’t have cared.

Aiden had come.

I sucked in a breath and got to my feet, the biggest smile I’d ever made making my cheeks instantly ache.

Those brown irises raked across the room. Some part of me was fully aware that everyone within a twenty-foot parameter was focused in on him. Sure, there were quite a good amount of male models around the convention hall, but none of them were Aiden, or anywhere even remotely close to him. I hadn’t bothered giving any of the models more than a quick, curious glance, which said everything there was to know about my feelings for the big guy. Men with great bodies were awesome, sure. Friendly guys who knew how attractive they were and liked flaunting it and flirting with their fans were a magical thing.

But Aiden wasn’t smiles and coyness. He didn’t know or care that he was unforgettable. He had a confidence that went deeper than that of a man who liked what he saw in the mirror; Aiden valued the skills he’d developed through hard work. He believed in every inch of himself. He cared about what he could do and pushed himself to be better than he was the day before, not any of the external crap so many other people valued so much.