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)
When I moved here a month and a half ago, I immediately found a coffee shop around the corner from my condo. I’m a bit of a coffee addict and somewhat snobbish, so The Grind became my go-to place for my shots of caffeine.
I hit it religiously every morning when I’m in town, and it fortuitously opens at six a.m. for the super early risers.
When I enter at six thirty, my eyes immediately land on Ava. She sits at her regular corner table with an iPad propped up on a Bluetooth keyboard and a stack of papers beside it. She chews on the corner of her pen—something she does when she’s concentrating—and makes entries on the keyboard after perusing a sheet of paper.
There’s only one person in front of me in line, and the young barista accepts his money for a cappuccino. He moves off to the side to wait for it.
The girl behind the counter beams at me. “Hi, Cannon. The usual?”
Yeah, I come in here a lot. “Please. And add a shot of espresso.”
“Late night?” she surmises with an empathetic look.
“Nothing your coffee won’t cure.” She laughs, I laugh, and I tap my credit card on the reader.
I move down to the pickup counter. The customer before me has his head bent over his phone. He glances up, looks back down at his phone, and then his eyes snap back up in slight recognition. But I can tell he’s not sure if he really knows who I am.
Yes, as the Titans’ new head coach, I had a lot of press coverage when I joined the team, but our faces aren’t as recognizable as the players’, unless you’re a diehard hockey fan. I am wearing Titans’ gear. My normal work outfit on non-game days is a pair of khakis and a polo with the team logo. If it’s chilly, like today, I wear a jacket or coat, also embroidered with the team logo.
The amount of team gear I get is outrageous, but it wouldn’t necessarily point me out as a member of the organization. At least one out of every five people I pass wears some sort of Pittsburgh team gear, whether it be baseball, football, or hockey. Pittsburgh is sports crazy.
I offer a smile, but before he can say anything, they’re calling his name. He grabs his coffee and walks out the door, giving me a nod as he passes. I bet later he’ll tell someone, “Dude… I think I was in line next to Cannon West, but I couldn’t be sure. He had a hat on, but he was wearing a Titans’ jacket. Maybe it was him.”
Truthfully, I prefer the anonymity of being a coach versus the stardom of being a player. It makes doing simple things like grabbing coffee a lot easier.
A young guy slides my coffee across the counter. “Here you go, Cannon.”
Now the people who work here… I don’t know if they know who I am. They’ve never once asked over the weeks I’ve been coming in—they just know me by my first name, which is written on my cup in black Sharpie. They don’t act weird, and they haven’t asked for autographs. I don’t see them whispering to each other when they think I’m not looking, and there are no subversive glances. It’s another reason I like this place. I can just be myself here.
As is my usual habit, I move to the table next to Ava’s. I take her in as her head stays bent over her work. Her dark hair is pulled back into a high ponytail, and she wears the same navy visor cap as the other baristas with the business logo on the front. Her uniform includes a navy polo shirt with the store logo over the left breast and a pair of khaki pants and tennis shoes. Her name tag is pinned over her other breast, and under it, printed in smaller letters, reads Assistant Manager.
“You’re not doing anything good for my ego by ignoring me,” I say as I settle into my chair.
She doesn’t lift her head, but I can see a smile curving. “You don’t have an ego.”
“True, but you could at least say, Hello, Cannon, how is your morning going?”
Ava looks up, and as I was on the first day we met right here at these tables, I’m momentarily knocked silly by how beautiful she is. It’s her eyes, first and foremost, a bright green that I’ve never seen on any other person in my life. My own hazel eyes have striations of green in them, but the tone is more matte than the jewel-like nature that makes up the entirety of her irises.
Her smile reveals straight white teeth as she mimics me. “Hello, Cannon. How is your morning going?”
“Much better now that you’ve acknowledged me and soothed my ego,” I quip.